“Need to pace myself,” he says with a wry chuckle.
I set the bottle back down and resume pacing my office. As I walk around, I feel like a caged animal. A caged animal with a big target on its back. And that irritates me. It irritates me to no end, actually. All because of Brittany. The more I think about it, the more I realize what she has done and is doing to my life, the angrier I get.
“I swear to God, when this is over and I'm in the clear,” I say through gritted teeth, “I'm going to rain hell down upon that woman. She is going to pay for this.”
“I wouldn't want to be in her shoes.”
I stop and turn to Adam. “No,” I say. “You wouldn't.”
He takes another sip of his drink and looks at me. “There's one thing we're not looking at here though. Something I think is actually kind of important.”
“What's that?”
“Well, we know the line from Waltham runs straight to Brittany,” he says. “Simple point A to point B. Or rather, point C to point B if you want to be more accurate.”
I cock my head and look at him. “I'm not following.”
“We know Brittany put Waltham on you in that alley. Simple deduction,” he says. “But the question I keep asking myself is this – who put Brittany on you? How did she know to track you down at Grady's? I mean, I'm assuming you didn't call her.”
I shake my head, as the full impact of what he's saying starts to sink in. “No, I didn't call her.”
“So, who did?” he asks. “Who told her you were there? If Waltham is point C and Brittany is point B, then who is the point A that completes that line?”
Draining the last of my drink, I walk over and pour myself another. It's a damn good question and one that never even occurred to me. Ordinarily, if my head wasn't so filled with fluff and chaos, it would have been one of the first questions I asked myself.
But, I've been so consumed with Paige lately that what should be obvious, fails to dawn on me. And it makes me want to kick my own ass.
“That's a damn good question, Adam,” I say. “A damn good question. And I want the answer to that.”
He drains the last of his drink and stands up. “Let me do a little more digging,” he says. “I'll find you the answers you want.”
“You do that, I'll bring in a case of that just for you,” I say, pointing to the scotch.
A broad smile crosses his face. “Done,” he says. “Don't think that gets you out of my normal fee though.”
I laugh as he turns and walks out of my office, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Chapter Nineteen
Paige
The Daily Cuppa is busier than ever and full of faces both familiar and unfamiliar. A booming business day should be a good sign for Mrs. Brenton. Something she'd probably be happy with. Unfortunately, I know that before long, Mrs. B. is going to move on and my favorite little coffee shop will be gone before too long – replaced by a Starbucks or one of the other ridiculously overpriced chain shops. Just another reminder of the slow death of the town I know and love. Well, mostly love.
For now, though, as long as it still stands, I'm content to enjoy my coffee and brunch in a familiar atmosphere – where I don't have to pay five bucks for burnt coffee. Of course, the place is already starting to be overrun by hipsters and yuppies – who are the bane of my existence for what they're doing to my hometown.
But, for the moment, it's still my familiar breakfast spot and no flannel-wearing asshole with a handlebar mustache or lumberjack beard is going to run me out of the joint. At least, not until the doors are shuttered for good.
I do my best to shut it all out. To shut them all out. I lock myself away in my own little world and take a sip of my coffee, relishing the scent of Mrs. B.'s freshly ground coffee beans. Of course, the dark thoughts just have to intrude on my little moment of Zen by reminding me it's something I won't be able to experience for much longer.
Dammit. I can't even give myself a moment's peace from my irritation with these people.
I'm sitting in my usual spot near the back of the shop, tucked away in a quiet little corner with my book in hand when the door jingles and I look up. I groan to myself as Mayor Goodrich and Damon Moore, the predatory developer, walk in.
I cover my face quickly, lifting my book a little bit higher, hiding behind it. The last thing I want, or need is the for the mayor and his pet developer – or is it the developer and his pet mayor – to see me. I know if they do, they'll both walk over like they own the place and try to browbeat me into selling again. That's just what they do. And I have zero desire to deal with that. Not while I'm trying to enjoy my brunch.
Thankfully they somehow don't notice me as they take a seat in the booth next to me, ordering their beverages when the young barista swings by. The backs of the booths are naturally a bit high and we're separated by a large plant, which, along with the book I have over my face, gives me just enough cover.
I hear them start talking in somewhat hushed tones, which automatically makes me perk up. They're speaking so low, it seems to me that they don't want anyone overhearing what they're saying. I know it's wrong, but I can't help but listen in. Call me morbidly curious, but I want to know what they have planned for my precious town – what it is that they don't want anybody else hearing.
Most of it is boring shop talk – financial information, along with who has sold and who is still holding out. My name, of course, comes up briefly, which doesn't surprise me. I've been a thorn in their side and will continue to be as long as I possibly can. The last thing I plan on doing is making anything easy for these two.
They, of course, call me a few colorful names but don't really say anything that I already didn't already know. Just that I was being stubborn. I snort quietly and shake my head.
Oh, please. They haven't seen me at my most stubborn yet, I think to myself.
Then another name comes up in their conversation – one that I wasn't expecting to hear…
“What about this guy – Liam Anderson? I assume you know him, right?” Goodrich asks. “What's his play here? Is he thinking about jumping into the middle of the gold rush?”
Damon laughs, but it's not a friendly sound – at all. If I have to call it something, I would have called it menacing. Almost like a caricature of an evil villain's laugh. I fully expect, that if I peeked over the booth, I'd see him with an evil grin on his face as he rubs his hands together.
“Yeah, I know the prick,” he says. “Look, don't worry about Liam Anderson. I know he's in town, but I don't know what his plans are. It doesn't matter anyway. I've got it all under control already.”
“Oh?” Goodrich asks.
“Yeah, you don't need to know the details,” he replies. “Just take comfort in knowing that Liam Anderson and ADE will not be getting a piece of the Port Safira pie.”
“You're sure of that?” he says. “I mean if he starts working deals –”
“I'm positive of that,” Damon says. “He's not going to be a problem for us. Trust me on this, Brian.”
Goodrich lowers his voice, and I have to lean closer to the edge of the booth to hear what he's saying. Even then, it's not easy to make out every word. I lean even closer – which means I'm practically sitting in the plant because I figure it has to be important if he's being so secretive about it.
“He better not be,” Goodrich hisses “This deal is between you and me, and if another player enters the game now – we're both going to lose in the end.”
Damon nearly growls in response. “Like I said. I've got it under control, Brian,” he snaps. “It's not a problem. I'm going to take care of him and make sure he doesn't get a seat at the table.”