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When I'm finished, I check in with the HR department about the Christmas party Friday night to make sure they have everything under control. We've rented a banquet hall at The Four Seasons and booked a live band. It will be a formal event with an open bar, lots of prizes, games, and celebrations. We wanted it to be something employees look forward to every year, not an awkward event they have to suffer through.
My phone rings with a number I immediately recognize. I pick up.
“Hi sweetheart, it's Catherine Adalwulf. Do you have a few minutes to chat?”
I glance toward Brick’s shut door. “Actually, yes. This is a good time for me.”
“Is Brick there?”
I don't answer her question because it would be inappropriate for me to share any personal information related to my boss with anyone who calls, even his mother. “What can I do for you?” I ask politely instead.
“Madi, I’ll be frank with you. You saw today how awful things are between my side of the family and my children.”
“Yes.”
“Brick blames me for the takeover, and I've never had a chance to explain what really happened. He won't take my calls. He won't meet with me. He wouldn’t speak to me at Thanksgiving. I've tried writing letters, but they go unanswered. I have to assume he doesn't read them. I'm just wondering…sweetheart, I want to make things right with him. I want to have a chance to heal this wound between us, so we can hopefully find forgiveness and form some kind of relationship together going forward. I'm not out to hurt him. I hope you believe that.”
I make a non-committal sound. I'm the type who reserves judgment, but I do tend to believe her. Of course, it's not my place to take sides or judge anyone for anything that happened in their past. This is none of my business. I’m just the assistant. Or so I keep trying to believe.
“I'm not asking you to advocate for me or take my side in any way. I just want to get Brick alone for fifteen or twenty minutes. I haven't been able to do that in all the years since his father died.”
“I see.” Now I know exactly where this is going.
“Madi, is there any way you could arrange something? I know you’re in charge of his schedule. He wouldn’t agree to meet with me, but could you set up an appointment he won’t question? He will refuse it if he knows it's me, so it would have to be under the radar.”
Tension tugs in my solar plexus. I do want to help her, actually. Well, no, I want to help Blackthroat, and in this case, that might mean going against his wishes. She's right about the situation needing to be healed. My boss is in pain, and if a meeting with his mom could help stop his suffering, then I should help make it happen. My job is to make his life easier. Wouldn't it be easier if he healed his relationship with his mother?
Ugh. I'm not sure. This is a slippery slope.
I click open Blackthroat’s electronic calendar and scan through his appointments for the week.
“He's out of the office for an appointment Monday. You could come here and wait in his office to talk to him when he gets back.”
“Oh, honey, that would be great.” Relief and appreciation sound in her voice.
“Okay, be here around one o’clock.”
“I will. Thank you Madi.”
I hang up and a coil of anxiety twists behind my belly button.
I hope I didn’t just make a huge mistake.
Chapter Seven
Billy
I drive to Williamsburg, the Brooklyn neighborhood where Madison Evans lives, and find valet parking in a hotel nearby. The private investigators I hired gave me the full scoop on her, including a dossier on her roommate, Aubrey Cook. The two apparently grew up in the same apartment building in Jersey.
It’s Aubrey I’m hunting down today. There’s not a logical reason–nothing I think I can glean from her that my private investigators probably couldn't ferret out. But my instincts told me to visit her in person, and a wolf trusts his instincts.
I stare at the photo of a beautiful young woman with dark skin and a froth of wild brown curls highlighted in gold and crimson. Her skin is smooth, her cheekbones high, and her pierced nose is adorned with a thin gold hoop. She’s pleasing to the eye, but I hate everything about her. I can just tell she’s a screaming liberal. She has a wild and carefree look that puts my teeth on edge. The photo was taken from her social media, and in it, she’s wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a crop top that reads, “Eat the Rich.” As if by rejecting money, she might actually hold some kind of power, when of course, the opposite is always true.
I leave the folder with her information in the car, along with my necktie, and walk to La Résistance, the cafe where she’ll be working this evening.
Why a cafe would be open at night is beyond me. Shouldn’t coffee places close after dark? It speaks of a business that doesn’t really know who or what it is. My opinion is confirmed when I arrive at the establishment. The wall outside is painted with a giant mural depicting an Occupy Wall Street protest. Inside, I find an arty, activist sort of place with a bulletin board covered in flyers advertising everything from social protest events to art openings and open mics.
I see my prey behind the counter. Her hair is in braids now that cascade over her shoulders and swing and shift with each movement. She wears a tight, cinnamon-colored crop top with a heart cut-out above her breasts in the style her roommate Madi likes to wear to torment Brick. The curves of her ass are clearly delineated in a tight pair of jeans.
