Page 222 of Lethal Obsession

Thorne visibly blanches at the word skeleton.

I lean forward, aware that Renata is tense and still beside me. Come on, you fucker.

Thorne clears his throat behind a closed fist, eyeing the group over it speculatively.

“Almost a decade ago,” he begins, “my eldest son, Carter, came to Miami with some friends for spring break. College kids, having fun. Unfortunately,” he says, his face darkening, “Carter chose the wrong girl to have fun with. An ambitious, calculating little slut called Renata Cardeñas. She took one look at my son and saw a meal ticket, and likely her own college tuition paid for.”

Ice-cold fury trickles through my veins like deadly fuel. I don’t dare look at Renata, who is frozen beside me, but I do reach over and take her hand. It sits lifeless and cold in my own, as if all the blood has left her body.

“According to Carter’s friends,” Thorne goes on, “Carter fell for this girl the moment he saw her at the beach. He disappeared later that night, apparently to go and meet her.”

You must be fucking kidding me.

Renata has gone pale with shock.

“Well,” he goes on grimly, “it seems Carter found her, all right. Or rather, he followed the trail she set for him—right into the trap she’d been planning.” His eyes burn with righteous anger, his mouth trembling as he stares into the distance.

Christ, I think cynically. He’s got this performance down to perfection.

“They slept together,” Thorne says. “Afterward, from what little the police were able to tell me, my son returned to his hotel. But Renata Cardeñas,” he goes on bitterly, “didn’t go to sleep. Oh, no. She went straight to a pharmacy and bought a DNA test.”

Renata’s mouth hardens. “A DNA test,” she whispers. “A fucking DNA test? That’s what he’s calling a rape kit now?”

“But our little Latina didn’t take the test to her family,” Thorne says scornfully. “She knew what the men in her family would do to a girl who’d been fucking around with a white college boy.”

Renata’s hand tightens on mine hard enough to stop the blood flow. I grip hers right back.

“And besides,” he goes on, “she needed Carter alive to get money out of him. Alive—and in enough pain he’d agree to give her whatever she needed. So who did she take it to instead?” He glares around the table. “To the best torturer in Miami,” he says softly. “She went to Alexei fucking Petrovsky.”

There’s complete silence at the table—and on the other end of my comms.

I’d pay good money to see the faces on Renata’s brothers right now.

“Petrovsky took the sample straight to a lab,” Thorne goes on. “That same fucking night. These were two people who knew what they wanted and saw a way to get it. Petrovsky was a slave to the Orlovs; Renata wanted a way out of Miami. My beautiful son was the billion-dollar payday they both needed.”

His eyes dart around the assembled group, as if to gauge how his story is hitting. He pauses for effect, then continues in the dramatic vein of a documentary voice-over. “Nobody has ever found out what happened to Carter that night. We know he came back to the hotel. But after that?” He shakes his head bitterly. “Nothing. But here’s what I know.”

He holds his hand up and ticks off the points on each finger. “Shortly after Alexei Petrovsky left that lab, the hotel security cameras were short-circuited and rewired to show a loop. Several hours after that, a car was stolen from the hotel parking garage, and Carter’s own room tag was used to open the gate. The next day, that same car was found burned out at the Everglades, near an abandoned jetty. Teeth were found inside it that belonged to Carter,” he finishes with an almost triumphant close of his hand, as if to say, case closed.

I grimace. Should have waited to punch that fucker until I had him out of the car.

“It took some time for me to realize that several million dollars had been withdrawn from Carter’s trust fund that night,” Thorne says bitterly.

Renata spins to face me, white-faced and questioning.

I shake my head. “Not a fucking chance,” I say grimly. “He took that money out himself and donated it to Hunter in his son’s name, then fudged the money trail.”

“Clearly my son gave in to torture,” Thorne is saying, “and withdrew the money under sufferance. But they killed him anyway.

“By then, Renata Cardeñas was long gone, to college in New York City. And soon after, Alexei Petrovsky somehow put together an army that took down the Orlov family.” He looks around the table, anger burning in his eyes. “My beautiful son was seduced, extorted, and then killed, all so a little whore could become a US Marshal and a degenerate criminal could regain his family’s former glory. Even worse, Carter’s name was then slandered in the press—they implied that Carter had been taking drugs and partying. My son was a good boy,” he says tightly, his eyes flickering to the faces of the two law enforcement representatives opposite. “One who always knew the right direction to follow.”

Cool story, bro. But even Lars’s imaginary voice has a somber edge to it. Be careful, brother. This is one nasty little motherfucker.

“When I tried to investigate myself,” Thorne says, “I was anonymously sent the DNA test. The letter with the results called it a rape kit.” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “It was made very clear to me that if I stirred up any more trouble, the results of the kit would be given to the press—and to the Cardeñas cartel. I knew that my life, and the lives of my family, would be ended, so I pretended to give up on the whole thing.”

And there it is, I think savagely. The lie underpinning all this shit.

“Dios mio, Lex.” Renata’s voice shakes. “This bastard lies far too well.”