Page 272 of What We Become

“You asked whether his wife knew he charged that much to disappoint people.”

“A perfectly reasonable concern. She might be getting disappointed for free.”

Thor closes the door and turns the lock, moving to take a seat next to Loki. I look down at the document on my desk. Six weeks of preparation, reduced to expensive paper and language three highly paid people have spent the evening arguing over.

I close the cover and make my way to the drinks cart. I tug my tie loose and shrug off my jacket, laying it over the chair beside me as I survey the cart’s contents and carefully fold back my sleeves until they reach my elbows.

Whiskey.

I lift a bottle of sixty-year-old malt from the cart, pour two fingers into a crystal glass, and add two ice cubes. Loki has told me twice that this is a crime against the distillery. I want it cold.

“Did you seriously pour yourself a drink without offering one to us?” Loki asks from the sofa.

“You’re welcome to pour one for yourself.”

I don’t drink often. Tonight, I’ll make an exception.

Loki huffs and crosses the room, muttering loud enough for me to hear. “Jesus, you’d think he was the only one of us this affects.”

He makes a show of being pissed by the way he clatters the glasses together on the cart and carries one over to Thor.

I ignore his theatrics, taking the glass to the window and staring out at the buildings below.

The club is closed now—silent. Lilith’s staff have cleared the private rooms. It’s not my building but I’ve never been asked to leave. Perks of being a silent investor.

Somewhere below me, the cleaning crew moves through the main floor, readying it for use once more.

The town sprawls below me in scatters of light, streetlamps tracing the grid of downtown, the boardwalk a faint amber ribbon along the coast, and beyond it the ocean, black and restless. I’ve stood at this window more nights than I can count, watching the water eat the shoreline one grain at a time.

A container ship sits on the horizon, waiting for a berth. Farther up the coast, the bluffs are black against a sky that holds no stars tonight—just cloud cover, low and heavy, pressing the town flat under its weight.

I take a sip. The whiskey is viscous and oily, incredibly dense. It tastes of toffee and dark chocolate, stewed black fruits, and smoked oak.

I turn away from the window and take a seat at my desk, leaning back in my chair.

The navy folder sits on the desk, mocking me.

I take another long draw of the liquid, set my glass aside, and open the file.

Thor and Loki have the decency to sit quietly while I study it.

The photograph inside is recent—taken three weeks ago by one of my people. The woman is walking down a street, caught in profile. The light catches the side of her face, highlighting the curve of her neck, the fullness of her cheek.

She’s not smiling.

I lift the photo and turn my head to bring it into better focus. It’s a habit I developed after losing my eye. Neither Loki or Thor has ever mentioned it.

There’s a beauty mark high on her right cheek, and the streetlamp has found it. She looks tired—not the tired of one bad night, but the soul-deep exhaustion of a woman working four jobs and still working out of she can afford bread in the checkout line.

“What are you thinking?” Thor asks.

“That we can’t leave her alone anymore.”

I don’t like the reason we’re bringing her here. I dislike how easily I can use this situation to justify what I wanted long before the lawyers became involved.

I look from her photograph to the agreement underneath.

Loki slides off the sofa and comes to my side. “We left her for as long as we could.”