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ChapterThirty
Dominik
The office was quiet and deserted as I charged through the main lobby. I didn’t stop until I swiped my keycard to activate the private elevator that took me all the way up to my office. I tossed my bag onto the couch in the corner of my office. I soared toward my desk, toggling the mouse and slamming my fingertips against the keyboard.
And as I printed off every shred of information regarding Eden’s family, I taped it up on tinted window behind my desk that showcased my personal view of L.A.
“There has to be something here,” I grumbled.
I took a step back and surveyed everything at once. All the pictures, and the pieces of information, and the police reports that had been pulled. I raked my hands through my hair, trying to make sense of the bullshit that had been dropped into my lap.
I had pictures of Mr. Rochere meeting with men in trench coats and black suits. I had a picture of him fucking strangling someone in their own damn house. I had surveillance pictures of him in his young adult years, constantly looking over his shoulder as if he were on the lookout for something.
“What is your secret?” I whispered to myself.
The Rocheres were only half of the story, though. So, I rushed back to my desktop. I printed out the little bit of information my team had been able to dig up on the Beauregards and I taped them into the empty crevices on the window. By the time I was done, only one slivered portion of the window remained untouched. The rest was covered with mountains of information that, while incredible, didn’t seem to thread together.
“I know you’re in there,” I murmured.
I knew the answer was right in front of me. I knew that I was staring at it, but my brain simply couldn’t put it all together. I tugged at my hair before I raked my hands down my face. My eyes kept darting from pictures of Lila to pictures of that boy at the banquet. But, every single time, I kept coming back to those pictures of Eden’s father.
What in the absolute fuck had he gotten himself into as a young man?
I knew that was the key. The key to linking all of it together was figuring out why in the hell that man looked so damn paranoid in all of his pictures. I needed answers. I needed a conclusion. I needed this god damn nightmare to end so that I could be rid of it for good. Somehow, I had allowed it to consume me. Somehow, I had allowed this mystery to halt any sort of progress I had made within the past year to keep myself on track with business as usual.
And it infuriated me.
“Come on!” I bellowed.
As I slammed my fists against my wooden desk, a thought occurred to me. If I deciphered the mystery—if it was as juicy as I knew it would eventually be—it had the potential to be massive for my company. I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. I cracked my neck and eased myself into my office chair, taking a load off to see if that would help. There was a reason this mystery was constantly nagging me in the back of my mind. The last time I had been this consumed with a project, it had netted me one of the largest paychecks I had ever received.
“I have to figure this out,” I whispered.
Just as I went to stand and give everything another once-over, my desk phone rang. I paused, watching as the red light flickered with the pulse of the ringing. My gaze darted to the clock on my computer and my heart stopped in my chest. Who in the absolute hell was calling me at nine in the evening?
At my damn desk?
I slowly reached for the phone before snatching it up to my ear. “This is Dominik.”
The nameless voice snickered. “We told you to leave it alone, Mr. Drake.”
The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end. “Who the fuck is this? Tell me who you are!”
But, when I heard the telltale click of that voice hanging up on me, I slammed my phone back down into its dock so hard that the outer plastic casing cracked.
“God fucking damn it!” I roared.
I picked the phone up and slammed it back down. Over and over, listening to the plastic give way beneath my anger. I started whacking the God-forsaken thing against the edge of my desk until I picked up the entire thing—dock and all—and ripped it from my desk. The cord came flying out of the wall as I launched it in front of me, watching it shatter against my bookcase.
And as I flopped back down into my chair, I put my face in my hands.
“What is happening to me?” I whispered desperately.
The company depends on me figuring this out.
At that point, it wasn’t a matter of money, or fame, or notoriety. This was bigger than my ego about some stupid banquet, or some rich-ass family wanting to bury a few peasants for something that had been pulled by a nameless catering company. Something was very, very wrong.
And my company had been roped into it.
