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“Edwards keeps a record of the sums he pays somewhere,” I say. “The recipients must acknowledge receipt of those payments. Edwards is way too thorough not to keep a proof of delivery. You should be able to get your hands on that information. How difficult can it be to do a little snooping at the office?”
“If the information was captured electronically, it would’ve been possible.” He swallows. “Difficult but possible. The problem is that Mr. Edwards writes everything down in a book.”
“A book? That sounds old-fashioned, even for Edwards.”
“He has this … this little black book.” He makes a gesture with his hand, and then, seemingly thinking the better of it, quickly hides his fingers again. “Thomson once mentioned that Mr. Edwards keeps note of how much he pays to whom in that book.”
“That’s risky.”
“Not as risky as keeping the data on a laptop. Encryption programs aren’t safe. It only takes a good hacker to crack the code. The information is much too sensitive to let it lie around in cyber space. The people taking bribes from him sign their names in that very same book to acknowledge the receipt of the money. The book doesn’t only contain the information that can condemn every woman and man whose names are recorded on its pages, but it also contains the proof that can bury those officials behind bars for a very long time. It’ll cause a national scandal, if not a complete collapse of the ruling party.”
I grin. “In that case, your job is even easier.”
He blinks. “You want me to steal his book? It’s impossible. He keeps it locked in his desk at home. He never invites us to his house. He doesn’t believe in mixing with his employees outside of work. Even if someone tried to break in, it would be useless. I’ve seen the precautions he took because I paid the security companies who installed his burglar bars and alarms. From the details on the invoice, there are even burglar bars inside his ceiling to prevent robbers from coming through the roof. The place is like Fort Knox. Mr. Edwards has one of the most sophisticated alarm systems in his world. It’s foolproof. He’s a stickler for security, which is why he lives in this quiet, godforsaken place and runs an office in George instead of in Cape Town. It’s a lot safer here.”
After that long speech, he sucks in a breath.
“Fine,” I say.
He regards me with mistrust. “Fine?”
I drop the brick. “I believe you.”
His features contort with alarm. “What now? What are you going to make me do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” he cries out.
“You’re of no use to me.”
He’s not competent enough to play the thief. I’ll have to make another plan to get my hands on that book.
Cowering, he whimpers, “You’re going to kill me. I know it.”
I laugh, moving around him to tie his hands again. “Not if you keep this meeting to yourself.” I pick up the sock. “However, if you say a word—”
Before I have time to finish my sentence, he jumps to his feet and charges to the window like a man with the devil on his tail.
“Wait,” I cry out, diving after him but grabbing nothing but air.
It’s too late. Before I can grab his jacket, he’s sailing through the window like an athlete jumping hurdles. The windowsill digs into my hips as I slam my body against the bricks.
Dumbfounded, I watch him flail through the air, trying to navigate a drop he clearly didn’t anticipate. A dull thud sounds as his body hits the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. He lies there motionless, his arms at his sides and his left leg bent in an awkward position while a red circle bleeds out from beneath his head. I don’t need to climb down to know he’s dead.
Stupid, crazy fucking bastard.
A wave crashes over him and tugs his body toward the sea when the water pulls back. The next wave drags him a little farther. In a minute, his body will be taken by the current.
I spare the idiot a last glance before getting to work, using a leafy branch I break from a nearby tree to wipe out my tracks. I drive to the tar road and do the same with the marks the tires left in the dust. Bringing the branch with me, I make my way back to George. On the way, I chuck the branch through the window down a ravine.
Fuck.
I still can’t believe Johnson was such an idiot, trying to escape through a window without knowing what lies beyond. His fear of me must’ve outweighed his fear of taking such an uncalculated risk, which is proof of how much terror I inspired in him.
He’s not the first man I saw dying. Witnessing torture and death is part of my inheritance. My father never sheltered me from who we are. I’ve seen men beaten, carved to pieces, and shot since I turned ten. Johnson is the first man who died by my hand though. He’s the first man I killed in the name of my future bride, and my gut tells me he won’t be the last.
