I sigh. “Ned liked to gamble but . . .” I tell Sebastian about the hundred thousand against the building and his empty accounts. “Do you think that’s what it’s about?”
“Could be. Or something he knew about that he shouldn’t. Did he say anything about any of his clients lately? Maybe someone told him something that they shouldn’t have?”
I frown. “No. Nothing he mentioned to me, at least. I told you, he wasn’t exactly the warmest guy. I have a hard time imagining someone spilling their deep, dark secrets to him.”
After a long pause, Sebastian offers, “Well, then it could be nothing.” His face is unreadable. “People in the neighborhood would have heard about your uncle’s death, and unfortunately that means that thieves would assume the house is an easy target.”
I study his face. “But you don’t actually believe that, do you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because they tore the place to shreds and smashed the flat-screen—the only thing worth stealing in there.”
He sighs, his gaze drifting out the window. “Could have been jacked up on drugs. Could have been pissed off that there was nothing there to take. Whatever the reason, you’re not stepping foot in that house without me again for now. Understood?”
“For now? What does that mean?”
He slides the key into the ignition and cranks the engine, but doesn’t answer.
I guess the bodyguard who showed his protective head last night is here to stay. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“No one said you did.”
“I’m serious. I’m not paying you to do this. I can’t afford it.”
He snorts. “I never asked you to.”
Then why are you still here? “Don’t you have things you need to do? People to see?” Maybe that’s the issue. Maybe he has nobody else to fill his time with. Maybe he’s a complete loner, married to his job, with no friends or family. I really don’t know him at all.
He turns to level me with a look. “Do you want me to have something else to do today?”
I hesitate, before admitting casually, “Well, not necessarily, but—”
“Then shut up and stop trying to get rid of me.” He pulls out of Dakota’s driveway.
I press my lips together to keep from smiling.
“I would reco white. A nice, crisp one, like . . .” Fausto, a thirty-something-year-old guy with slicked black hair hiding beneath a baseball cap and a heavy New York accent, pulls out a deck of paint colors, fanning them out on the dirty floor in front of me. “. . . Ghost or Ice.”
“White for Black Rabbit?” I don’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice. I spin slowly around, taking in the main room. Without all the clutter to hide the dinginess, this place looks atrocious at best. As a customer, I’d take one look in here and turn around, with thoughts of hep C screaming inside my head. Fair enough.
But white?
“As a starting off point, yeah. You can weave in some bold colors—a nice jammy red over on that wall there, an indigo or peacock blue over here. Maybe hammered-bronze ceiling tiles. Tons of possibilities. I’ll help you make your shop stand out.”
“We’re selling this place,” I’m quick to say.
He shrugs. “All right. Fine. Then leave it as a blank canvas for whoever comes in, because everyone has their own spin. Just get rid of this black. The grunge look is dead. People want a nice, clean environment.”
I chew my lip in thought. I’m always so sure of colors and design when it comes to my sketchbook and a skin canvas, but for some reason I can’t see past Ned’s version of his shop. He’d be rolling in his grave over this.
“But, hey, if you don’t want to listen to someone who actually knows what he’s talking about, then, sure, we can go with your plan and you guys can lose a boatload of money,” Fausto adds.
He’s a cocky bastard.