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LIAM
“I respectfully disagree,” I retort, which is absolute bullshit. There is very little respect in my disagreement. Make that none. Zilch. They can all piss the hell off.
“And your reasoning?” Payne Logan asks, regarding the mutinous approach to how I handled my assignment.
My reasoning is twofold: I do things my own fucking way, and I’ve got enough leverage to buy my way out of this.
I go with the latter. “We’ve got fingerprints, emails that inadvertently spell out a plan and confession, eyewitnesses, and evidence out the wazoo, all pointing to Oliver Jensen. Not only that, but we’ve also planted irrefutable proof that Jensen was working with Russell Filmore to commit these murders. Handling the executions swiftly so the evidence was available for framing was the only stratagem that supported that. Working outside the proposed scenario was necessary.”
Courtesy of that black ledger, I discovered that Oliver Jensen—the presidential candidate whom Ivy felt had a dark aura—murdered a guy about twenty-five years ago. Whom did he murder? The only guy in Harvard Law with a GPA above his. Yeah. Sick fuck. That’s the reason he was so hell-bent on finding that book, enough to hire the Skulls and authorize them to do whatever necessary to retrieve it.
The Harvard chap is not the murder—or murders—Jensen is going down for, but the Devil probably doesn’t care which body you burned. Any old one—or two—will gain you entrance.
And Russell Filmore? That’s Scott’s daddy, who set all the balls in motion for my girl to be taken, acting as the liaison between his son and Jensen and Grandpa Carver—who is totally innocent and simply picks evil psychos as friends.
Daddy Filmore is going down, just like his spawn’s chopper.
I could have killed them, too, but this way, I’ll get to enjoy watching their terror unfold for years. We have so many resources at our disposal; it wasn’t even that complicated to pull off. Two beloved politicians—deranged wolves in sheep’s clothing who fucked with the wrong girl—taking the fall for the black souls I slaughtered.
Poetic justice.
“Status on the bodies?” Jared Austen probes.
These questions are grating on me.
“Processed and ready,” I answer.
Johnny Balzano quirks an eyebrow at me. “What about the book?”
Dipping my chin, I extend the most authentic expression I can muster. “We’re performing a thorough vetting of the information.”
“Fine,” he snarls. “And the other matter?”
My molars grind ever so slightly. “All wrapped up with a pretty bow.”
“Very well,” Logan nods. “You have five minutes.”
CELESTE
I rip my arms away from my father and Rex, itching to bolt, but my rage won’t permit me. “Seriously? You’ve got no fucking answer as to why you’re both leaving me on the steps of this horror house?”
An ear-splitting creak slices through the silent night.
“There she is,” a familiar voice rasps through a crack in the cathedral door—my favorite voice. My golden god. “I’ve got her from here, guys. Thanks.”
Liam snakes an arm around my waist and drags me inside, shoving me against the wall. His long suit-clad limbs crowd me, his warm ski-lodge scent warring with the aroma of the sacred incense attempting to slither between us.
Frankincense and myrrh. Funerals and confessionals. I gave quite a few blow jobs in the confessional—my form of rebellion after Ben’s death. That was the place to unveil our indiscretions, so it seemed efficient to let them transpire there.
I always lit a candle afterward. Based on the current house of worship scorning me, it appears that wasn’t adequate atonement.
“Liam,” I whimper, trembling in his embrace. “You’re here. No matter how dark. It was a fucking blackout.”
“That’s right, Ace. The goddamn sunrise.”
“I’ve been twisted in knots.” My voice shakes as tears well in my eyes. “So much has happened. Are you okay?”
“Shh, baby girl,” he coos in my ear as his thumb grazes my cheekbone. “Jesus, I missed you. I’m okay now that you’re here, but we only have about five minutes. I need you to listen.”
