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“You’re the one who wanted to see this thing,” I call, keeping my voice light, even as I prowl, knife raised, towards the living room. “I would be happy just grabbing a beer and a bite.”
I look around. Nothing looks out of place. Miles is a neat freak, and prides himself on a well kept living space, so I would notice if there was a sign of a struggle, or anything out of place. I continue on, searching the kitchen, and then moving on down the hall towards his office.
The words die on my lips as I take in the sight of him, hanging from the rafter.
I scream, rushing to him. Trying to lift his body, trying to get him down. In the end, I remember the knife in my hand, and manage to drag a chair over, and saw, jagged, through the length of rope he has strung around the beam.
“Miles! Open your eyes, oh God, please.”
But he doesn’t. Not when I loosen the rope that’s almost embedded in his neck, or shake his limp body furiously, or even press my mouth to his, trying desperately to resuscitate him.
He doesn’t move or make a sound.
He stays dead.
“Dear, are you alright?”
The voice of an older woman pulls me out of the past, but I’m disoriented as I look around. The flashback is so clear in my mind, I could swear, I was right back in that room, shaking with grief.
“You look like you’re going to be sick.”
My eyes finally land on the woman speaking. She’s holding onto a stroller with one hand and holding her phone in the other. She looks so concerned.
“Can I call someone for you? Do you need a lift somewhere? Or an ambulance?”
“No,” I manage to say. “I’m fine.” My voice is a harsh croak, and I can see that it just worried the woman more, but I don’t have a drop of energy to spare reassuring her.
Besides, I’mnotokay.
I start to walk again, moving on autopilot this time. All the memories I’ve been holding back are taking over now. Waiting with the body for the cops and Barretti guys. Calling Miles’ family. And the funeral… God, that bleak, depressing day as we all stood by the graveyard, watching his coffin disappear into the earth.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Even now, I can recite Miles’ suicide note from memory, it’s burned that deeply into my mind.
I fucked up.I got in too deep with Sebastian’s card game, I tried covering from the accounts, I thought I could win it back again, but I failed. I let you down. I’m sorry.
Sebastian.
The name sends another wave of nausea through me. How could I let myself forget the damage he does? Could a few passionate nights and sweet nothings really wipe clean the legacy of cruelty and pain he’s made in this world?
Somehow, I manage to make it home. I’m still in shock, reeling, but I hear voices coming from Sebastian’s office. A number of people, all of them sounding worried and urgent.
I drift closer to the open door. Listening, unseen, as they argue inside.
“We need a unified strategy,” one woman is saying. “Should we draft a press release?”
“No release,” Sebastian says bluntly. “Wolfe Capital has no comment.”
“I have to agree with Sukie,” a voice from the speakerphone pitches in. “The negative PR from Dunleavey’s death will be a hit. He was well-liked and respected in the industry. We don’t want to be left playing defense.”
“Can we put it around that this was nothing to do with the takeover?” someone else suggests.
“I like that,” Sukie nods. “Plant some stories that he was using drugs, or acting erratically, long before the merger talks started. Maybe that was even the reason the board was so eager to accept our offer, they’d already lost faith in his leadership.”
I watch, aghast, as they casually discuss smearing a good man’s reputation, just to save themselves some bad publicity.
Surely Sebastian can’t go along with this?
