Up in Smoke (King #8)

I find my rhythm and glance up at the screens at the visual music I’m creating.

“He spent his whole useless life helping those who buy and sell people. Hiding their monetary transactions so they wouldn’t get caught. HE was the real monster. THIS,” I wave my hands at the computer system I spent years perfecting. “is my monster.”

“What the fuck,” Smoke says. I spin around in my chair and he looks from me to the screens, still flashing.

“Frankie, you said you were taking me to your old man,” he growls.

“And I said I did,” I argue.

Smoke looks around. “Then where the fuck is he?” He asks between gritted teeth. “Don’t fucking toy with me.”

“He’s over there,” I point to the darkened corner of the basement where only the bottom of a large blue rectangular freezer can be seen peeking out from under a blue roof tarp.

Smoke rips the tarp away.

He turns and storms over to me. His heavy feet thudding against the cement floor. He’s furious and aggressive and fucking beautiful all at the same time. My heart and head are pounding. I’m afraid for both myself and for Smoke. He grabs my chair, hands on both of the arm rests and leans in, his face in mine. I see the anger burning in his dark eyes, but I also see hurt, so much hurt my chest pangs despite the position I’m in with my feet dangling above the floor. He thinks I’ve betrayed him.

“Where—” he snarls.

I don’t take my eyes off his. “My father. Frank Helburn is there. He’s IN the cooler.”

Smoke pushes off the chair and stands. “What?”

I meet his eyes. “He’s in the cooler. He’s dead. My father’s dead. He’s been dead.”



Smoke

My ears are fucking ringing. Dead. The motherfucker I’d been looking for all this time is DEAD.

I cross the room to the corner where the dusty blue cooler sits caddy corner underneath a section of dropped ceiling.

I pull on the padlock, but it doesn’t budge. I look around and spot a pair of bolt cutters hanging from the wall. I grab them, snapping the lock off after several blood-vessel-bursting tries.

I need to see for myself that the bastard is dead. I can’t decide if I’m happy or pissed off I didn’t get a chance to do it myself, but I’ll work that out later.

The lid of the cooler doesn’t move when I try to raise it. I bend at the knees and use my back strength. It finally it gives. The ice lining the lid breaks off and shatters around the floor, bouncing around like tiny diamonds as they catch the light from Frankie’s monitors.

Inside is yet another blue tarp which I hastily rip to the side revealing the frozen open-mouthed corpse of Frank Helburn.

Fuck.

Frankie stands beside me, looking down at her dead old man. I think she’s emotionless when it comes to seeing his dead body but then I see it out of the corner of my eye. She’s shaking. And not with despair either. I raise my eyes to hers and sure enough she’s staring down at him with so much hatred burning in her eyes I’m surprised the ice doesn’t melt. “For how long?” I ask.

She meets my eyes.

“Five years.”





Chapter Forty-Two





“Five years. That’s not possible,” I say. “Morgan died a year ago and your old man killed her. So, you’re wrong, or you’re lying.”

“Please sit,” Frankie pleads, with a hurt on her face that makes me pause to take a breath.

I shake my head. “Truth first. What the fuck is going on here?” She’s just told me that the man I want to take out my revenge on is fucking dead. There’s no way I could be calm. Not now.

Maybe, not fucking ever.

“Okay.” She sits back down on the chair, and her fingers move so fast over the keyboard they blur together. “I’ll start at the beginning, if that’s okay?” she asks without looking back at me.

It’s so unlike her to ask me before she does something. I’m not sure if I love it or hate it.

She sees me nod in the reflection of one of the screens. She inhales a shaky breath. "I never saw my father much,” she starts. “But you know that already.”

“Keep going,” I urge her on.

She’s pulling up security feed for Aestro, and I recognize it as a company that does high-end systems for…well, people like me.

“I spent my time in the house, and my father spent his down here. He ate down here. He had a cot down here that he slept on most nights. I always thought he was just a really hard worker. He told me he designed websites for the government.” She chuckles and looks up at the elaborate computer system. “I used to show my friends at school the White House website and brag that my father was the one who built it.” She glances at me. “The only meaningful time we ever spent together was when he was showing me how to use computers. I could type before I could write with a pencil. I could write in code better than I could write my ABC’s. Occasionally, he showed me a few tricks. I think he was showing off. It was the only thing he was ever really proud of. And it was all fucking bullshit.”

“Like what kind of tricks?” I ask.

“Like how to hack into the school mainframe and set off the fire sprinklers on prank day,” she says with a laugh. “Other tricks I picked up by watching him. I’d sneak down here and sit on the step that was covered the most by the shadows. He never heard me, but I watched him working. I can tell you I never saw a single picture of the White House on any of his screens.”

Frankie was downright graceful. She barely blinked as she moved from one screen to the next, and the fact that she could talk to me while doing it made me realize she was on an entirely different level of smart then the rest of the population.

“And then one day,” she continued. “I’d learned enough from watching him and doing my own research that I realized what he was really doing.”

“Hacking?”

“Not just hacking. Trafficking. People. Women,” she grates, the anger in her words floods into me, and I can feel my blood boiling for her, which makes sense, because she’s a part of me.

The sounds of the keyboard clicks grow louder as she pounds on them with a lot more pressure than needed.

Frankie shakes her head. “He was a facilitator, a closer. He was responsible for the deaths of thousands of women around the world. I was so disgusted when I first found out that I didn’t eat for weeks.”

Frankie’s fingers slow. “I was going to call the cops, but I wanted to confront him about it. So one day, I gathered all my courage and all my evidence against him. I stormed down here ready to be jury and judge only to find him slumped over his keyboard, dead.”

“How did he die?” I ask, curious as to all the details surrounding the death of the man I missed the opportunity to kill.

Frankie shook her head. “He was always really unhealthy. Never slept. Ate all the wrong things. Chain smoked sixteen hours a day. I think his heart just finally gave out.”