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“We need to find him.” I follow him out of his office.
“That’s just it, he’s disappeared. Gone. I know people were saying he’s laying low until the whole Fairfax Capital shit blows over. But the firm is running again; no one cares about what happened anymore.”
“Is Fred still looking?” It’s a stupid question, but with so much going on…
“Freddie can’t find anything on him or the bloke from last night. That’s another red flag. The guy is a ghost. Secret Service kind of ghost…Casper is certain. Not to mention, he had no tattoos, no noticeable scars or anything that could distinguish him. Nobody has laid a claim on him, and all of a sudden they blame the fire on an undetermined terror attack?”
“It’s all well and good that you see all of this, but without evidence, it’s a conspiracy theory. We don’t work like that.”
“Something isn’t right, Christopher,” he grits as we walk down to the lifts. Nodding at some of the employees at their desks, he adds, “I tried to ask Wayne if he’d heard anything down the grapevine, but since he’s been put primarily on Cassie duty, he’s out of the loop. Since when does your dad keep him at arm’s length?”
“Wayne might be family, but he’s not on the inside. He’s security.”
I don’t miss the miss the way my statement lands—his annoyance is palpable.
“Something went down at the hospital after the attack. Francis knew about
my dad and grandad. What if he knows something else and he’s not telling us?”
The ride down to the lobby from the twenty-second floor is quiet as I try to make sense of what he’s saying in my head. There’s so much going on right now on top of my worry that Arabella is about to do another runner on me.
“What did he tell you after he dismissed the rest of us?”
“He and Benedict weren’t exactly forthcoming. They gave me another lecture on keeping my head down and focussing on the promotion.” I don’t need to tell him about my clash with Charles. He’ll use that to bolster his suspicions. And I need cold, hard proof. “They’re pushing for silk in the next couple of years.”
“Queen’s Counsel by thirty? They’re not playing around. Is that what you want?”
“Did you want to start up your own fund during political and economic crisis?” I ask as we exit the lift. The lobby is empty and quiet. The security guard pacing up and down behind the turnstiles stops when he hears us and returns to his post behind the reception desk.
“I’d never thought about it before Francis and Benedict suggested it. But it’s worked out, and in a way it’s better. I don’t have to worry about carrying anyone, about letting anyone down. It’s just me and my name. But Queen’s Counsel isn’t like running a hedge fund.”
“The caseload is lighter, but the cases are bigger, longer, higher profile. Perfect for getting my name out there in a more serious and appealing way. That’s what they want. To build something other than just a privileged facet. Less parties and more politics. They’ve got it all figured out.”
Stopping in his tracks, he checks his watch again before he says, “None of that makes sense with what they did with Arabella. It makes no sense that we’re being kept in the dark.”
“They told me to trust them.”
He laughs caustically. “Really? Because it’s starting to feel like we’re on our own, and that’s not how this works.”
“We’re being herded.”
“You think they’re herding us? Fuck, Christopher, we’re being picked apart. That night…”
Everything comes down to that fucking night. It’s like everything before it has been burned to ash and swept away in the wind.
We head through the turnstiles, out to our cars, and stop outside the revolving door of the all glass and steel edifice.
“We need to figure out what’s going on and why the fuck your dad is shutting us out.”
The way he keeps coming back to Dad is making me feel uneasy. Dad, Benedict, and Charles. I don’t know why, but Leo has his sights on whatever theory he’s got going in his head.
Normally I’d shrug it off. But maybe he’s got a point. It’s more than something that isn’t right.
They messed with my family and my marriage. And I have no idea why, because he’s right—their actions and the public persona they’re trying to build are at odds with one another.
“I need to go check on Arabella.”
“Cassie and I are heading south tomorrow. You should come.” We stop by his Maserati, the Range waiting for me coming to life in front of it.
