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Huhh… I guess I’m fucked, because that description fits about half the people I know.
Argh…
This is so stupid.
I am so bored that I would literally pay someone to kidnap me right now.
And I honestly don’t know how anyone can take those dumb letters seriously. Well, besides my uncle, that is.
The man is even taking notes.
“How do you know the person is within our close circle?” my great-uncle asks.
“The locations,” Logan says, tapping the anonymous letters spread on the table. “They were found in Cillian’s gym bag, on his windshield, under his coffee at his usual café… these are all personal places.”
“They’re public places,” I argue.
“Public places you visit,” Logan corrects. “This tells us the stalker knows your schedule, and they are very comfortable moving in your private space.”
“We can give you a list of every problematic staff member or person we’ve fired from the company if that helps,” my uncle offers, adding it to his fifth to-do list.
“We won’t find the suspect on that list,” explains Knox. “This person is likely a high-functioning individual. Very organized, disciplined, and capable of extreme patience.”
Ugh…
His voice is so deep and sexy.
I hate him.
Knox must feel my eyes on him, because he lowers his hand and stares directly at me.
“Anything you want to say?” he asks.
“What for? It’s not like my opinion matters here.”
“Cillian!” My great-uncle glares at me, then turns to the men and sighs. “I apologize. Cillian is still grieving the loss of my brother.”
“My grief has nothing to do with this total waste of time.” I lean over and slam my hand on the table. “I have the annual auction to prepare.”
Logan holds my glare and points at the word “die” in one of the stupid letters. “If you treat this like a joke, Cillian, you will end up dead.”
“Please… they probably just want money.”
“Of course you think everything is about money—” Knox scoffs, and Logan stops him with one look. “There are twenty-seven letters,” Knox adds, his tone “nicer” this time. “And not a single one asks for money.”
I open my mouth to tell him off, but he’s right.
Besides mentioning the inheritance, there isn’t a single line in any of the letters asking for a ransom or a payout.
“Cillian, I know this is difficult for you,” the lawyer says, and the look in his eyes tells me he actually does.
It’s like he’s been right where I am. I glance across the table to where I tossed his business card and read… Alistair Fitzwilliam.
Holy crap!
He is Archibald and Isabella Fitzwilliam’s son.
Of course he knows how I feel.
