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As it dawned on him that he was never going to know any more details about her life, it was as if she had died. Or he had.
“It was only a matter of nights,” he said hoarsely, “but it’s going to have to last me a lifetime.”
And then something dawned on him.
He looked at his brother. “Your vision. It really wasn’t about the farmhouse, was it. That wasn’t the second sun.”
“We don’t need to think about that right now—”
“Because it wasn’t raining last night.” He leaned forward. “It wasn’t raining. In your vision, you said it was raining, right?”
“Yeah. I did.”
Numbly, Darius glanced back at the bedroom window. “That’s what you saw, the rain. Before the click, before the second sun.”
“Yeah.”
Darius took a deep breath. “Good. It means there’s still an explosion out there, waiting for me. Now, I just have to find it.”
Closing his eyes, he didn’t expect to be able to dematerialize—but for some reason, maybe because getting off Anne’s property was the very least he could do for her, he managed to spirit away.
Then again, maybe it was because as a bonded male without his mate, he was in so much pain, he didn’t even feel his stab wound.
Pity that suicide got you locked out of the Fade.
So thank the Virgin Scribe for Vishous’s vision.
And sooner rather than later on the fireball, please.
CHAPTER TWENTY
On the Monday morning after Anne’s life went into the blender of fate, she emerged onto Beckett, Thurston, Rohmer & Fields’s top floor at eight thirty a.m., stepping off of the elevator along with two associate attorneys. When both of the men pared away and went down the service hall Charlie had called her into, she had a moment of deep sadness as she glanced toward where he had been standing when she had spoken to him for the last time.
Then she turned in the opposite direction and walked forward.
The lovely model/receptionist was not at her desk, and that made things easier. Although it ultimately wouldn’t have mattered if the Brooke Shields look-alike had been there with her sincere smile and another offer of coffee.
Anne would have kept going, with or without permission.
Passing through the waiting area, she continued by the conference rooms… and came to Miss Martle’s desk. As the woman looked up with a frown, Anne put her palm out.
“It’s all right, I’ll let myself into his office.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Anne ignored the noise and walked around the desk, opening Mr. Thurston’s closed door with a quick punch of the handle. The man himself was just coming out of his private bathroom, his suit jacket off, his hands vigorously working a monogrammed hand towel like they weren’t just wet, but stained.
He stopped dead when he saw her. Just as Miss Martle rushed in and started blustering.
“I’m here to talk to you,” Anne said in a low voice. “Privately.”
Mr. Thurston’s eyes narrowed. And then he assumed a pleasant expression that was so fake, she wanted to kick him in the shins just to see if he could make it stick.
“That will be all, Miss Martle,” he said, cutting through the woman’s indignant tirade.
“But she forced her way in—”
“That is all.”
Like the trained guard dog she was, once she’d been given a direct command, the older woman backed off, even though it was clear she disapproved of the whole world at the moment.
When the door was closed, Mr. Thurston tossed the hand towel back toward his sink. “Have a seat, Miss Wurster.”
“No, thanks, I’ll stand. I’m not going to be here long.”
“Oh? Eager to get back to the job that pays you so well?”
She waited until he sat behind his desk, and the fact that he took his own sweet time made her feel like he was moving slowly on purpose.
“I’m here to sign your release,” she said.
Instantly, his smile became far more sincere, especially as he went to open a drawer. “Well, isn’t that good. I still have your check—”
“You’re going to pay me fifty thousand dollars. And then I’ll sign.”
The partner froze where he was, the drawer halfway out. “I am sorry, what did you say?”
“Your firm failed to protect me from another employee.”
Mr. Thurston’s eyes gleamed with elegant menace. “You were in a relationship with the man. Your poor personal choices are hardly our problem.”
“I never would have met him if you hadn’t hired him. And your human resources department failed to perform proper due diligence prior to offering him employment.”
“May I remind you that you work for human resources, Miss Wurster.”
“Not in hiring, I don’t.”
The senior-most partner steepled his hands and assumed an air of utter superiority. “We are not responsible for what he did—”
“How many other employees have you not vetted, hmm? Maybe there are some with criminal histories you don’t know about, or false diplomas, fake names, messy backgrounds—and how would that look? You know, if someone like a newspaper or a federal agency happened to come in here and do some actual digging on not just the staff, but the attorneys themselves? How certain do you feel about what would be found?” She leaned in. “Or maybe the question is… how lucky do you feel, Mr. Thurston?”
