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“Nothing?” he scoffs, nettled and morose. “How about this one?” He yanks the drawer open again and slaps another picture before me.
It’s me, walking into Whispering Pines Stables with Liam. Due to the grainy quality, I’d say it was extracted from the security cameras at the stables. But there’s no mistaking that it’s me. That was the day of our first kiss. My heart kicks my sternum in protest, my eyes stinging with resentment. I hate that this douchebag has any part of my beginning with Liam, but I don’t allow my demeanor to reveal that.
When I don’t respond, he flings another—Ty and Liam flanking me in a restaurant parking lot for our Valentine’s Day dinner. He hurls several others at me after that. In most of them, I’m barely recognizable. After the two that are clear, that probably doesn’t matter though. But there aren’t any from my date with Scott Filmore. That’s mildly reassuring.
“Look, Miss Carver. This guy right here”—he pecks at Liam’s face with his middle finger—“has quite a few identities. Not sure which one he uses with you. Let’s take a gander at the list. Pick one.” He lobs a piece of paper with a half-dozen names on it. Apparently, they’re all Liam.
Marshall Graham
Owen Bates
Liam Graves
Randy Patton
Richard Long (aka Dick)
Samson Cane
My hand smacks over my mouth as I smother a giggle. “Is this for real? Am I being punked? Richard Long—aka Dick?”
That is so Liam. Screwing with people and always a smart-ass. I’d love to know what he did with that identity.
Colehorn grunts, but there is the briefest hint of amusement there. I wonder if investigators ever get attached to the people they’re chasing, marveling at how smart they are. Liam is impressive. No one could deny that.
Colehorn tilts his head. “This guy has balls. I’ll give him that much. But he’s a con artist, as are the others you’ve been staying with.” One of his brows jumps for the drop-down ceiling. “Yeah. We know about that. These aren’t casual associations of yours, which means you’ve got insider information. If you can’t bear to turn on Dick—pun intended—squeal on his associates. That’s what it’s going to take. Your father has done some evil shit. And your mother knew about it. I can put them away for life without even working to build a case. But these guys are as despicable as it gets—that’s who we want.”
At the moment, silence is to my utmost advantage, so I say nothing.
Irritated by my wide-eyed gape, he leaps to his feet, the chair screeching out a complaint against the worn tiled floor. But I remain stoic while internally sickened.
He paces, a murderous rage emanating from him. “We know your father has only been following orders trickling down from a much larger organization. He’s probably got no choice at this point. I could be persuaded to be sympathetic, keep the sentence light. These guys are at the top of that pyramid. We take them down, and the whole goddamn group folds like a house of fucking cards.” He leans on the table, his fingers blanching, jaw pulsing, neck vein throbbing. “I’m not in the habit of making deals for murderers, so this is a brief gift I’m offering.”
He claims he knows I’m staying with them, but there isn’t a single picture of the house. He doesn’t seem to have any idea what name Liam is currently using or know his original name, Jason Petrovsky—that’s stuck in my head from when Ivy did her research last year. And he also hasn’t mentioned the specific organizations. Not The Order or KORT or either of the Mafia families. He’s fishing. It makes me wonder what he even has on my father.
I call bullshit. He’s bluffing.
“What kind of deal are we talking?” I ask.
That immediately calms him, like a sedative shot into an IV. He settles back into the chair across from me. “We can discuss details after I know how much you have to offer.”
Is this guy fucking serious? I am drenched. Freezing. Trapped in this drab room—which has an insane asylum vibe—with the world’s worst bluffer while my parents are threatened with who knows what—the death penalty? Didn’t sleep a wink last night because the love of my life is MIA. And now, I discover he’s wanted by the FBI, as are the rest of the men I call family. Not to mention that they’re possibly in possession of a book that could serve as evidence for the allegations they’re slinging at my father.
I start laughing, howling actually, maniacally. This is an end-of-my-rope breakdown. Nope. Worse. The rope is fully unraveled. I’m sure I look utterly crazy, which fits this day, this room, this current situation perfectly. Eventually, I resort to clamping my lips together until I can control myself. The absurdity of this interrogation, on top of the absurdity that is my life, is too much.
“I don’t know about you, Agent Colehorn, but I don’t usually ante up a buy-in before I’m assured of what the prize is.”
Planting an astonished gape on me, he chews his lip. I’m guessing that’s his tell. He’s worried. Fretting over his next move. “That’s right. You were a chess champion as a teen. I saw that in your file.” He bobs his head, like he’s grabbed my attention. “Yep. We’ve got a file on you too. And if you aren’t careful, you might get all tangled up in these charges.”
What a ridiculous card to throw in a bluff. Anyone with internet access would know that I was a chess champion at fifteen. How is that supposed to rattle me?
“Is that what you’re resorting to?” I crinkle my brow line as though I’m embarrassed for him. “An empty threat? Really? We both know you have nothing on me.”
I’m certainly not innocent, but if he knew about Scott Filmore or had anything at all to use against me, he’d have already mentioned it. That would be the smackdown to get me to comply—not that it would work. I’m not worried about myself. It’s clear my indiscretions are amateur hour in their endeavors.
He bends forward, his body shadowing my family collage. “What I have is you associating with criminals far worse than your father, which is saying something. Make no mistake, I will take them down. And when I do, you’re going down with them, darling. But maybe you’ll feel right at home. It will be a family reunion.”
On the word reunion, my father’s attorney flings the door open, immediately holding a halting palm up to me, instructing me to be quiet. He glares at Colehorn. “Have you or do you intend to charge Miss Carver with something?”
