I nod. “Would have to be. After his sons . . . after all of that, he withdrew from everything, pretty much disappeared.”
“So that means what? This was recorded sometime around when you got the first of your mom’s interviews?”
My stomach squeezes. “Probably. It was the same night Bay announced his intention to run for office again.”
Somewhere outside, a woman laughs and we both stiffen. There are two slams and a car engine starts. Not good. We need to get moving. Leave, meet Bren, and make a plan.
What a joke. What kind of plan do you come up with for this? I want to put my head between my knees.
“What are you thinking?” Griff asks.
I drag my attention to him. “Nothing. Everything. It’s a lot to take in. . . . Milo planted that bomb evidence at Carson’s storage unit. He said he did it as payback for me. What if he was really doing it just to get Carson out of the way?”
“It worked. He’s definitely hosed.”
“Just like Bay. Carson was determined to bring him down, kept saying how Bay was corrupt.” I’m staring at the stain on the garage floor again. The car and the laughing woman are long gone, and in the silence, I keep hearing my father say: “It’s a matter of knowing people’s pressure points. You can bring down someone far more powerful than you are—if you know where to hit.”
“Hart and Norcut,” I say slowly. “They knew where to hit Bay. They couldn’t have anticipated Ian and Jason, but what if they knew there was a secret? What if they knew by pushing it, they would make Bay’s takedown look natural?”
“No. No way. That’s a huge stretch.”
“True, but still . . . it feels like there’s something there.”
“No one anticipated Ian Bay and Jason Baines trying to kill their father for Ian’s inheritance.”
“For an inheritance or for money Bay already had access to because he was an owner?” We’ll never know the truth—Ian’s still in jail and Jason’s dead—but if they knew anything about the kind of money Bay might have had access to as an owner . . .
I study the file listing, opening the first few Excel documents. They’re filled with Looking Glass information—customer accounts, billable hours. If this is true, Norcut and Hart were bringing down millions.
Or they were until my sister helped herself to some of them.
I pass the phone to Griff, watch him grimace as he scrolls through the same information.
“All of this is about money,” I say. “Carson told me he knew the judge was dirty. He said taking Bay down would be a public service. Maybe that’s how he justified it to himself. But, bottom line, Hart and Norcut sicced Carson on Bay. They knew where to hit the judge and then they knew where to hit Carson. When Milo planted those explosives, it was never about me. It was about Looking Glass. It was about making sure Carson didn’t get up again. Bay was a problem and then so was Carson.”
Griff’s gaze lifts, meets mine. “And now you are.”
37
Outside, the wind blows harder and the side door presses against the jam, smothering the sole source of fresh air and making the garage’s heat even more unbearable. In a heartbeat, everything goes even more stagnant, smelling of dust and dirt and . . . copper.
Something smells metallic.
“Wick?”
I didn’t even realize I was moving until Griff spoke. I pick my way carefully across the garage, toward the door, toward the stain. My tennis shoes stick to it and I have to hold my breath as I crouch, touch my fingertips to the concrete. They come away tacky and rust-colored and I gag. That’s not paint.
That’s blood.
“Griff.” I shoot to my feet so quickly my head goes woozy. “Someone was hurt here.”
“What?”
“This is blood. When we came in, I thought it was paint, but it’s blood.” I turn to him and stop. Griff’s gone pale, almost gray, but he’s not looking me. He’s looking at his cell again.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s Carson again. He should be here by now, but . . .” His gaze flicks past me and lingers on the stain. In the dusty half-light, his eyes are antifreeze green. “But why would Carson send me this?”
He holds the phone toward me and I cross the garage to take a closer look.
There’s a single text on the screen:
Did she find my present?
The back of my skull prickles and I pass Griff the phone. “Is he talking about the drive?”
Griff shakes his head. “He wouldn’t want you to have that drive. He doesn’t gain anything from showing us this. If anything, it makes us less inclined to help him and he told me he needed us.”
“Griff . . . how do we know it’s Carson on the other end? What if someone took his phone? That’s a big stain. What if it’s Carson’s blood?”
“No. No way. He’s more useful alive . . . I think.”