“She’s worried,” I reply. “But she understands.”
He nods. He doesn’t say anything else. He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb.
The house fades into the dark behind us.
Neither of us looks back.
Chapter 53
Grant fastens the last button of his shirt and rolls his shoulders as if testing the fit. The bedroom mirror bends his reflection, but the distortion doesn’t bother him. He smooths his hair back into place and adjusts his cufflinks with steady hands.
The bed behind him is ruined. The sheets are twisted into knots. Blood stains the headboard and trails across the wall in uneven arcs. He studies the pattern with mild irritation, already calculating what the cleaner will charge.
He lets his gaze rest on her for a moment longer than necessary.
She almost had the right look. Dark hair. The same stubborn glare Brooke carries when she refuses to yield. That resemblance was the reason he kept her longer than usual.
Almost.
Brooke would've fought with purpose. Brooke would've understood that fear is a currency.
Grant exhales slowly as an older memory surfaces. Richard had always preferred to turn the end into theater. After they were caught, he liked to make it a contest of chance. He would load a single round, spin the cylinder, and slide the barrel inside them. The sound of the chamber clicking into place used to make them tremble harder than anything else. Richard enjoyed the suspense. He enjoyed watching hope rise and collapse in the space of a breath.
Grant never cares for suspense.
He believes in control. He believes in deciding when something ends instead of letting probability toy with him. Grant likes to watch them scream in agony.
He glances at the blood again, then checks his watch. Elliot’s party should be ending soon. If the trap works, Brooke and Seth are already dead.
He pulls out his phone and leaves a voicemail.
“Sorry I missed the party. I was having a bit of fun.”
A pause, faintly amused at himself.
“How’d it go? Did they take the bait?”
He picks up his jacket and drapes it over his arm.
“I should be able to make the after party if you’ve got them secured. Things got a little messy here. You know gunplay gone wrong… for her at least…Call me back.”
He slips the phone back into his pocket.
Grant turns off the light and closes the door behind him without another glance at the bed.
His secure phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks the screen and sees the flag he assigned to Elliot’s events.
Multiple shots fired at a private party. Several fatalities are confirmed. Witnesses evacuated. Security feeds interrupted. Host currently unaccounted for.
Grant reads the message twice. The elevator doors open onto the lobby while his brain adds implications. He replies with a demand for clarity, fingers tight around the device. The answer arrives before he reaches the car.
Private cameras cut mid event. On-site storage drives corrupted. No verified footage of final minutes. Elliot not seen leaving by any exit.
Grant tries Elliot’s personal phone. Then the burner, then the phone he uses for women. Then the one he uses for deliveries. All four drop straight into dead silence. Either powered off or buried somewhere signal can’t reach.
He spends the next two hours hunting.
By two in the morning his office sits dark, city light bleeding along the windows and leaving most of the room in shadow. Files and maps lie open across his desk, dotted with routes, accounts, and names that mean nothing without the idiot who should be answering his calls.
