“The press,” I say. “Right. Of course.”
He lingers a moment more and then turns away. I stand there, waiting for him to leave, and then I dart forward, but instead of going upstairs, I cross the living area and enter the office, shutting the door behind me. I need the resources to do some research on Mike Rogers. But for a moment I lean against the door, trying to think of why Mike would have set this up today. To make the company look lost and in need of his guidance? The smoke, I think. Brandon Senior. To hurt Brandon Senior? To kill him? It’s a crazy idea. I mean, what would that solve? Shane would still have control of the company. Another thought hits me hard. What if the goal was to create some kind a situation where Maggie could contest Brandon Senior’s will? Oh God. Did Maggie and Mike plan to kill her husband? Is Derek in on it? And why, monster that he is, do I think he’s not capable of such a thing?
All these questions lead me to the one I dread the most: How am I going to even begin to tell Shane my suspicions about his mother?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EMILY
I am not sure how long I lean against the office door, but my mind replays my encounters with Maggie, trying to give her an excuse for what I overhead. You should have warned me about today. Those words are fairly damning. I don’t think I can go through with this. Those even more so. Without any question, she’s up to some kind of trouble. But what? I pray her obvious hesitation to carry out her planned actions is about the love I still see in her eyes for Brandon Senior and that it will prevail. I want to believe this. I do, but it’s hard to trust anyone except Shane right now. And Jessica. I trust Jessica.
Pushing off the door, I walk to Shane’s desk and sit down, keying the computer to life. I then type in in Mike Rogers’s name, wondering how this man is ever present in our lives yet never present at all. First things first though, I remove my phone from my purse, set it on the desk, and then slip my purse over my head. Opening a drawer, I intend to set my purse inside, but instead find myself staring down at a stack of eight-by-ten photos. I pick them up, staring at an image of Shane shaking hands with who I think is the mayor of New York. I thumb through another shot, and find him with one of the old-school New York Yankees, which I know because my father was an incessantly talkative baseball fan. There are more shots, at least five, all with prominent people. All of which most people would frame and put on the wall, but not Shane. They’re his memories, not his bragging rights, which speak to me about his capacity to self-motivate his actions. It’s a comforting realization. He’ll remain true to himself. He won’t become someone he isn’t, when it seems, perhaps, that’s what happened to Derek, who, by Shane’s account, is far from the man of his past.
I flip through to the next photo, and a stack of smaller shots tumble from my hands and scatter onto the ground. I bend down to pick them up, finding there are about a dozen images now under the desk. Kicking off my high heels, I settle on my knees and begin picking them up, quite aware of my missing panties in this position but quickly distracted as the photos prove to be of Shane’s college graduation, all of which include him and his family. One particular image, of Shane, Derek, and his father sitting at a table, holding whiskey glasses up for a toast, draws me in. They’re laughing and smiling, even Brandon Senior, and you’d think that is what I’d linger on, but instead I’m struck by the absence of Maggie. Most likely it’s a meaningless observation, as logically she’s holding the camera, but somehow her anywhere but with her family feels quite profound right now. I shut the drawer and lean against it, dragging the skirt of my black dress over my knees, and staring at that same photo, feeling an inescapable sense of it trying to talk to me, but I just can’t hear what it’s saying.
The sound of the door opening freezes me in place. Brandon Senior’s coughing follows, and my instincts have me recoiling under the desk, acting before I can even think. Seeking a shelter where I do not have to be subjected to Brandon Senior barking a list of commands at me, when all I want to do right now is talk to Shane, I sink back against the interior wall in the cubbyhole meant only for my legs, inside the darkness.
“What the hell happened back there at the building?” I hear him demand, assuming he’s on the phone.
The door shuts with a thud. “Martina happened,” Shane says, his voice delivering both relief and regret. I’m under the desk. I’m eavesdropping when that was not my intent. I want to get up. I should get up. I scoot forward, and Brandon Senior says, “In case you forgot, son, I’m headed to Germany, with a lot to do in advance. Save me the effort of leading questions and summarize.”
“Gladly,” Shane states. “Martina and his group of legit investors want to insert their illegal drug into a drug study and get it approved by the FDA. They don’t, however, want to stop pushing it illegally through our operation, unless we corrupt a competitor and help them do so, in which case we’re tied to it anyway. I drew a line in the sand. Without question, today’s events amount to his answer.”
Brandon Senior laughs. “A bomb threat and smoke are his answer. Sounds like Adrian is still playing frat-boy games. I don’t see the problem here. Get rid of him.”
“Says the man who wasn’t around when the smoke cleared,” Shane bites out, his voice tight, his anger palpable even to me. “Adrian left us a gift in that smoke. A crate holding my missing security person, who was naked, beaten, and missing a finger. A man with a family and kids.”
I cover my mouth, forcing myself not to gasp, my lashes lowering with the effort. I can’t even process what I’ve just heard, but Brandon Senior seems to have no trouble. “Now that we know the real story, what are we going to tell the press, our staff and stockholders, and your mother?”
I blink. That’s all? I’m angry with Martina. I’m scared over what he might do next. I’m guilty for being the person Ted was guarding. And all Brandon Senior does is brush past it?
“That’s all?” Shane demands, clearly agreeing with me. “A man with a wife and kids who was protecting us lost his finger and damn near his life, and you have nothing more to say?”
“Let me make myself perfectly clear to you, son,” Brandon Senior states. “I’m not dying. I’m retaining control of this company, and overreactive, emotional responses are not productive and, in fact, most often, are destructive. Now, what is our cover story?”