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Ever since I moved into his apartment, I have made a point not to go snooping. He has a cleaner who comes in every other day, and I’d hoped that, given time, Conor would learn to trust in me and open up on his own. However, it’s becoming clear that’s not going to happen anytime soon, and for my own sake, I need to do my due diligence and find out what he’s hiding.
Because I’m pretty sure there’s something more going on here than meets the eye. I don’t know what it is, but his constant evasiveness has me on edge.
Swallowing back my nerves, I turn the door handle and step into his home office. Moving to his desk, I first rifle through the pages on the table before pulling open drawers and going through the contents. When I find nothing of note, I move to the bookcase.
Once I’ve searched the entire room and come up empty-handed, I move on to the bedroom, looking through his side of the wardrobe. Remembering the blood spots I saw on his shirt, I begin to flick through the shirts, scanning each one for the tell-tale red splotches. Not finding anything suspicious, I hunt through his laundry basket before spotting a garbage bin.
Sticking out of it is a white shirt, which immediately catches my attention as I pull it out and spread it out on the floor to inspect. My gaze is instantly drawn to the tiny red dots scattered across the front. It looks like blood splatters across it, perhaps from a punch?
Not sure what to make of it, I stuff it back in the bin and exit the wardrobe. In the bedroom, I approach his bedside table. Opening the drawer, I freeze with my hand still wrapped around the handle. My eyes bug out of my head as I stare down at the gun tucked in his bedside table.
It could just be for protection.
Except, we live in a penthouse with an elevator, a guarded reception, and who knows how many other levels of security between us and the ground floor.
Too scared to touch it, I close the drawer and move on.
Getting desperate now, and a tad paranoid, I start opening every drawer and cupboard and searching every nook and cranny in the apartment. I find another gun, similar to the one in the bedroom, strapped under one of the coffee tables in the living room and another hidden in a plant pot in the entrance hall.
What I don’t find is a single family photo or anything to do with O’Shea Corps or Conor’s nightclubs.
CHAPTER NINE
I’ve been avoiding Conor for two days now. Thankfully, he’s been busy with work, not getting home until the early hours and then gone by sunrise each morning. I’m nervous about confronting him regarding the weapons I found. I want to tell myself he’s a gun collector or that he’s just paranoid about his safety, except I know neither of those is the truth.
If I’m honest with myself, I know in my gut that whatever the truth is, it will mean the end for us. I just feel it in my bones that whenever I rip off that Band-Aid and confront him, it will de-evolve until our relationship is in tatters. It’s not even about the truth—whatever that may be. The lies are the problem, but even that I could probably get over with time.
I’m not quite sure what it is exactly, I just know that once I pull on this thread, everything is going to unravel. I think that’s why I’ve been holding off, wanting to live in this peaceful moment for a bit longer. However, I know time is running out.
Tomorrow, I decide. I’ll meet him head-on tomorrow.
Tonight, Carla has dragged me out clubbing. I’d initially been reluctant, but now that I’ve had a few shots of tequila, I’m having a great time.
“Ooh, let’s go to Illusion!” Carla squeals when we’re in the back of a taxi cab. Before I can say no, she leans forward and shouts, “Taxi driver, take us to Illusion.”
The city is a colorful blur outside the window. Or maybe that’s the alcohol burning through my system. Conor will probably be at the nightclub and I’m nervous about running into him, only I can’t explain to Carla why I don’t want to go to his nightclub. It’s the best club in town. The only reason I wouldn’t want to go is because of him, and Carla is astute enough to realize that, even in her inebriated state.
As soon as we’re inside the club, Carla pulls me onto the dance floor. We’re laughing and dancing, nothing but sweaty bodies in a writhing sea as we move to the beat.
At one point, I glance over and spot some guy sliding a baggie of white powder into some other dude's hand. Rolling my eyes, I turn my back and ignore them. Shit like that happens all the time in clubs. It’s not the first time I’ve witnessed it, and it won’t be the last.
“Let’s get a drink!” Carla yells in my ear. I nod, and we link hands as we squeeze through the throng toward the bar. As we push our way through the crowd, I scan the room for any signs of Conor, but I don’t see him anywhere.
Another round of tequila shots later, and we’re back on the dance floor, the room nothing but a colorful blur as I spin in my heels.
“I need to pee,” I yell at Carla before stumbling off the dancefloor and toward the bathrooms. I bypass the long line for the women’s, making a beeline for the employee toilets around the corner and out of sight. I’ve been here a couple of times with Conor since we started dating, and he had said I could use them, so I’m hoping it won’t be a problem this time.
While I’m peeing, I decide to search for Conor when I’m finished. Perhaps coming here tonight was a blessing in disguise. He and I can have one last night together before I pull the grenade on our relationship.
Once I’m done with my business, I follow the corridor away from the loud music and toward Conor’s office. As I approach his door, I notice it’s ajar, and I can hear voices coming from within.
Moving quietly on the tips of my toes, I shift closer until I can peer through the gap. Conor is standing behind his desk, dressed as usual in his full suit, with a scowl on his face. The man he is talking to has his back to me, so all I can see is his leather jacket and baggy jeans.
Their voices are too low to distinguish what they are saying, but I stare slack-jawed as the guy hands over a thick wad of cash to Conor. Conor flicks through the pile of notes with his thumb. Seeming appeased, he shakes the man’s hand, and they exchange a few words before the man turns so I can see his face.
An audible gasp slips past my lips, and I clamp my hand over my mouth as I back away from the door. After a few steps, I break out into a jog until I round the corner. Back in the corridor with the public bathrooms, I sag against the wall and let out my held breath.
Leaning my head against the wall, I play back the scene in my mind, focusing on the man Conor was talking to. Even in my tipsy state, there’s no mistaking what I saw. The guy was the same one I saw handing over the white baggie on the dance floor earlier.
