“Money gives you power I can’t compete with, and Cruise doubled my rate if I stay on, so I guess I’m with you.”
Too fucking easy. My father was right about one thing—anything and anyone can be bought. But I’m not lowering my guard just yet. I’m well aware it’s not my money that keeps him here. It’s the thrill of the hunt, the intrigue of the mystery, and a little brunette with blue eyes that captivated him like she did me many years ago. He holds out his hand, and I set aside my thoughts on the matter in an effort to make this work, because Cruise says we need him. Fuck.
When I accept his handshake, he says, “This is a gentleman’s agreement among thieves. No matter what goes down, I’ll have your back.”
“Good to know. And if you keep your promise . . .” We stand close, our hands bound by more than a job. I turn suddenly and start for the door. “I’ll have yours as well.”
Cruise looks up from his monitor when I walk inside. “I was already coming up with an alibi.”
“For what?” I ask, heading to the fridge.
“When one of you got tossed over.”
“Oh ye of little faith.” I grab an energy drink and crack the top off.
Jason walks in. “Grab me one while you’re there,” he says, eyeing my drink.
He doesn’t warrant a response. I might have had an alibi or two running through my mind as well out on that balcony. We may have come to an agreement, but we aren’t friends.
Maneuvering behind Cruise, I look over his shoulder at the monitor. “What have you found?”
“Remember the guys from the alley? The ones we got a tip from the Kingwood ex-exec?”
“Yeah. They dented my bike and beat the shit out of us. They’re kind of hard to forget,” I reply, grabbing Chad’s chair and pulling it out. Cruise goes quiet as I stand there wondering the same thing—do I honor Chad by not sitting in it or pay homage to him by using it?
I sit.
This is our new normal. “They don’t only have ties to Kingwood Enterprises, but to O’Hare. O’Hare paid them for the beat down we were on the receiving end of. Fucker.”
“But if they had ties to O’Hare, they had ties to Johnson.” I roll closer, staring at the monitor. “Is that a deposit on the day Sara Jane was attacked?”
“Looks like Johnson made a lofty one to an offshore account the same night.”
“Fucker is right. One hundred K. That’s all her life meant to them.”
“And Chad’s.” He dips his head and rubs his brow. “Their lives meant nothing but a dollar sign. Fuck them all the way to hell.”
“The question remains, what else did O’Hare and Johnson have ties to?”
“It’s not what, but who? Who was paying them?”
“Who?”
He types something and then points at the screen. “Your mother.”
19
Sara Jane
I almost prefer the periods of pain to the drug-induced fog. Teetering between the two, I start to deny my meds at certain times of the day, trying to wean myself. I sent the nurse home today. I have to do things on my own.
I struggle more today though. The pain goes off like an alarm clock, causing me to bend, cradling my side like the baby I will never hold. Tears follow shortly after, not from the pain, but from the loss.
It’s times like these I want Alexander to hold me and tell me anything that will take my mind off the one thing I struggle to forget. The memories of that day soak me like my blood soaked the ground. “Alexander?”
Why? Why did he promise to be here? Why bring me back here? Every time I need him he’s gone. I don’t want to go back to the hospital, but it feels as cold here as it did there. Empty.
I can’t call Shelly.
I can’t talk to Jason like I did when I needed a friend a mere week ago. It feels as though a threadbare blanket called trust drapes over us. Although Alexander doesn’t seem to be affected.
I can’t bear the loneliness of this room or to feel the barren space in my stomach. My skin crawls, my fingers tremble to scratch an invisible itch I can’t reach. Reaching to the nightstand for my phone, I pick it up and find it’s dead.
Ugh!
Getting out of bed, I grab my robe and swing it around my shoulders. I’m frustrated and need to find Alexander. Padding down the hall, I can tell I’m gaining some of my old strength back. One positive.
Thankfully April isn’t in the formal living room. I don’t want to see her. I just want Alexander.
I weave through the overstuffed leather chairs and down the wood-paneled hall. The office door is closed, and no sounds come from inside. I raise my hand, but hesitate. Something feels off, something in my gut tells me to open the door—the element of surprise is a weapon. Opening the door, I feel frustrated.
No Alexander.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing, but stale particles floating inside the intrusive sunshine.
I glance to the desk but nothing catches my attention. I shut the door and walk back with a lot less pep in my step.
“Alexander?” The name echoes around the vast room with its high ceilings. I’m reminded of the night his father hosted the party when I was set up to find Alexander with that woman, Carinna. Seeing her again at 3:00 a.m. serving his father Scotch on the rocks after they had sex still haunts me—his devious grin, the baritone voice that commanded attention, and his words that were both daring and repulsive. Carinna was insulted when he told her to go. His tone was salt on her wound when he replied, “It was good. It wasn’t good enough for me to want you to stay.”
“Alexander?” My voice is softer this time, not wanting to wake any more demons of the manor.
Neely appears under the archway to the dining room. “May I help you with something, Sara Jane?” I’m so glad it’s Neely and not April. I feel off. Spooked somehow, and Neely’s friendly face brings tears to my eyes.
“Have you seen Alexander?”
“No, not in a few hours.”
My disappointment comes in a loud sigh. “I was hoping to see him.”
“I don’t think he’s been home since you were down earlier.”
“Oh,” I reply, my lips twisting in irritation. “I wanted to talk to him.”
She shrugs with a tight expression. “We have a landline if you’d like to call him.”
“Sad thing is, I don’t know his number by heart anymore. Another side effect of almost dying. I used to know it, but my brain can’t seem to grasp the little things sometimes.”
“I never know anyone’s, so don’t worry about it.” I follow her to the kitchen while she’s talking, “We’re so spoiled with convenience. It’s just not necessary to know those things anymore, but we have a number for anyone whoever’s come into the manor.”
Behind what I once thought was a pantry door is a small table with a two-drawer filing cabinet beneath it. “Is this your desk?”
“I don’t need much,” she says, turning away as if she’s embarrassed. “I’m usually cooking or directing others.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, touching her arm. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was judging. I wasn’t. I thought this was a pantry.”