Marcel’s POV
“Well, that explains it… how he got in the first place,” Michael said, his tone grim as we watched the footage from the day of Hope’s showcase.
The bastard who shot me — was me.
Or rather, the man pretending to be me.
He walked into my building, my office, driving a car that looked exactly like mine. No one questioned him…. Of course they didn’t — they thought it was me.
He shot me in my own space and still managed to walk out like he owned the damn place.
The pen in my hand snapped clean in two.
“Dude,” Michael said, his gaze dropping to the ink spilling across my fingers. I tossed the pen aside and wiped my hand on some tissue papers , jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.
“He’s just one man,” I said through clenched teeth. “How hard is it to find one man?”
Michael did
