When I’ve sat by myself for who knows how long and my head’s begun to clear, I decide my only option is to look around. I’m not sure if Tucker kept me out of here because he wanted to hide things from me, or if he simply needed solitude to concentrate. Whatever the reason, I will not sit politely on the sofa waiting like Tucker’s “sweet boy” would have.
The large office is all leather and polished wood—the stuffy shit you’d expect a wealthy man with status to have. There’s more of his personality here than in the rest of the house. A #1 Dad trophy acting as a paperweight on his desk, alongside a picture of his wife and kids. Maybe that’s why he didn’t allow me in here.
Never felt good about knowing Tucker was using me to cheat. He insisted there was no love in their marriage, and he’d leave when the time was right. It shames me that I bought into his lies.
I run my fingers over the spines of books I’ve never heard of. The covers are all old looking and plain and boring. Ravi, one of the former male escorts who comes to brunch a lot, likes to read romance novels. Some of his have fun-looking covers and even the ends of the pages have fancy designs. I pull one book out, unsurprised to see nothing but plain, boring paper. I bet Tucker’s never even read these. Probably professionally decorated like the rest of the house.
How did I not notice sooner how pretentious he is?
The desk is so clean it looks barely used. Not a single errant pen or scrap of paper. There’s one of those ink blotter calendar things sitting on the glass top, but there’s not a single thing written in any of the date squares. My mom’s fridge calendar had scribbles and notes and stickers all over the place.
Tucker’s center drawer holds office supplies, neatly arranged and appearing unused. The pencils look like they came pre-sharpened out of the box. A drawer to the left has a stack of lined notepads, not even a single page torn off.
“Everything about him is so fucking fake,” I mumble. Then again, I spent four years with him, so what does that say about me?
I built my entire life around his false bullshit.
Milo would say Tucker took advantage. Admitting that’s true is embarrassing, but he did, didn’t he? All I can do now is try to be smarter. If Jonas was suggesting what I think he was suggesting, it might be too late.
When I tug open the drawer to the right, I have to laugh. There’s a neatly arranged row of cigars, but like everything else, they’re wrapped and brand new. What does he have these for? I don’t even see a lighter.
The laughter dies in my throat, though, when I see what else is in the drawer.
A notebook-style check register, open to what’s probably the most recently used page. It’s the only thing with any wear. My mom had one of these for her floral business.
Tucker’s bold, blocky handwriting stares back at me, and the line at the top of the page lists a check written to someone named Oskar Hansen for fifty thousand dollars.
Why does that name seem familiar? It’s not exactly common.
Oskar Hansen. Anyone you know?
All at once I’m back in a dark room at Shadow, with Milo tossing a passport at me. I gasp and shove the drawer closed.
The guy who ordered the hit. Tucker paid him fifty thousand dollars.
My heart speeds up, battering at the walls of my chest.
I’ve never been great at math, but I feel like I can figure this one out.
Jonas said Tucker brought him back here so he could monitor me. He also mentioned other young men who disappeared. At first, it didn’t really hit me. After all, I disappeared when I left.
But now? “I need to get the fuck out of here.”
“You can’t go yet, you just got here,” Tucker says as he walks in.
I’m backing away from the desk. Did he see me closing the drawer? “Why the hell did you bring me back here? It wasn’t to have a proper goodbye, was it?”
He tips his head to the side the way he always did when he thought I was saying something a little silly. The head tilt used to be followed by fondly calling me “sweet boy,” but that endearment is missing now.
Tucker turns for the small wet bar at the other end of the room. He takes his time pouring some dark liquor into two crystal glasses. “I wanted to talk. Really talk. Here.” He holds one out. “Have a drink. You’re old enough now.”
One sip has me gagging. “I don’t like the taste of bourbon.” He ought to know that. I told him so shortly before I walked out. The one other time he offered me some.
He makes a noise with his tongue. “I’m afraid my decision to run for office means you’re an added complication I can’t afford. The official announcement will be this evening. Unless you and I can have a conversation that assures me you will not share anything you know about me, I have someone coming here to monitor you while I’m gone.”
I’m shaking like I’ve had way too much espresso. Adrenaline, I guess? It’s probably what makes me blurt out, “Are they coming to monitor me or are they coming to kill me?”
He was approaching slowly, but my words make him pause. “What on earth makes you think I’d do that?”
