I tried to sound nice, but firm, deathly curious about the details. Cindy was old enough to be my mother, and she was always very kind, organized, and chirpy. But I had a very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“T-the Nightcrawlers, Miss Moretti. I’m sorry. Their office burned down last night. And one of their crew was killed. One of the informants.”
I stared at her, stoic, but shaking inside. Wow. A lot had changed since my phone call with Alex yesterday.
“Everyone! Meeting room! Now!”
My father called out across the open floor plan and headed toward the boardroom. I almost trotted there, eager like never before to be at work.
"Alex Slater’s death is a significant loss.” One of the investigators jumped right into it as soon as we grabbed our seats. “He was shot here.” He pointed to the drop-down screen with his laser. It was a picture of a black car with a man slumped over the steering wheel, blood covering his face and neck.
I studied the picture of the dead man, both grossed out and strangely relieved. One rat less.
“This is now a homicide investigation. We can’t be sure who the shooter was, but we suspect it was Alex Martinov.”
No one knew the impact that name had on me. I sat back in my chair, forcing myself to breathe in and out slowly.
What thefuckwas Alex up to last night?
I listened to the updates, mentally far removed from the boardroom. My father snarled out questions every minute, incessantly interrupting the investigator.
“Losing Alex Slater and having their office go up in flames in one night is too much of a coincidence!” my father half-growled, half-shouted, furrowing his black eyebrows.
And then, he did the thing helovedto do—he leaned on the table and looked around, gazing into everyone’s eyes, as if personally talking to them. “Someone—” he turned to me first, “—on this team—” he turned to the senior lawyer sitting beside me, “—is snitching,” he finally addressed the investigator.
Snitching was an interesting choice of words. “Theyknew—” he pointed to the screen where Alex and Andrei’s pictures were side by side, “—that the office search was coming. It was all kept strictly under wraps.Someonetold them.”
My father glared at the poor, young investigator, demanding an answer while I was eyeing the picture of Alex. He was…so hot. I felt like a teenager, ogling at some older man in a magazine, because he did look like a model in that photo. It was zoomed in, taken from a distance, and he was stepping out of a car, his black hair tousled by the wind. There was a displeased scowl on his face, and he wore a black T-shirt and jeans, his sunglasses resting on the bridge of his straight, large nose.
I pursed my lips and tilted my head, hoping no one could tell the way I was admiring a criminal who shot through someone's brains last night.
“Maybe Slater confessed?” I interjected suddenly, unsure why. “Maybe he told them everything, or they…forced him? And they panicked? They realized that if he worked for us, it was only a matter of time before we’d get the search warrant.” I shrugged, offering my professional advice like I wasn’t personally entangled. “Why do you suspect the shooter was Alex…” I trailed off and looked down at my notes, double-checking the last name as if I wasn’t ready to tattoo it on my skin. “Martinov?”
The young investigator presenting the findings turned and gave me his full attention. “We don’t know for sure.” He put hishands in his pockets, but his eyes were on me, just like for most of his presentation. “We only suspect.”
The young man fixed his glasses and threw me another glance before taking his seat after that extremely anti-climactic answer. His name was…Josh? Or Jason Dawson or something.
"We regroup tomorrow morning.” My father ended the meeting and shot up out of his chair while we all scuttled back to our desks.
Except for Josh or Jason Dawson. As soon as I descended into the lobby to grab my first cup of coffee, he magically turned up there too.
"Miss Moretti?" he called my name with a warm smile on his face, taking quick strides my way. I smiled back, a perfect picture of professionalism as always. I waited for him to say something else, but he just stood there, his boyish face turning pink, almost red in contrast to his pale skin and light brown hair.
"Mr. Dawson? Hello," I prompted him, eyeing the Starbucks lineup filling up with all the office plankton. Ugh. It would be a fifteen-minute wait now and Josh-Jason was beaming.
"Oh, I'm here to grab a coffee too. May I treat you?"
What a weird way to phrase that. I wasn't sure what to respond as I looked him over, but then it hit me: he liked me. Yes, that would explain all the stolen glances.
I blinked up at him, the idea blooming in my head. I could exploit that in so many ways.
“Sure.” I shrugged, faking my uncertainty. “But call me Jade. You're Jason, right?" I took a shot in the dark, hoping I wasn’t completely off about his name.
"Julian,” he corrected me, and at this, my face blazed in earnest. Fuck, I couldn't even be bothered to know the names of the people I'd worked with for a whole year.
“I’m sorry. Julian. I’m really bad with names.” I bit my lower lip, throwing him my best flirtatious look. We took our spot inthe coffee lineup, and it was weird and awkward, but Julian tried. He brought up the meeting and kept silent about my disappearance.
Inevitably, our conversation meandered to my father.
