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“Only that he got home okay, and then a text this morning about the upcoming press conference. Apparently, it’s in the morning, 10:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.”
“I’ll make a note to watch,” Sean said. There was a moment of silence, and then he added, “I miss you. When can I come see you?”
“Are we talking about looking at each other’s faces or spending the night?”
“I’m talking about all of that,” he said.
“The answer is anytime you want, whenever you want. Always.”
He sighed. “You’re my drug of choice and I am in need.”
“You need a key to my house is what you need,” she said. “I’ll get one made before I go home this evening. It’ll be here for you whenever you can get free.”
“Tomorrow after six?”
She laughed. “That’ll work. I’ll bring home barbecue.”
“I’ll bring dessert,” he said.
“You’re the only sweet thing I want,” she said. “Love you. See you tomorrow.”
“Love you more,” he said.
The call ended. Amalie sighed, then reached for her Pepsi and took a drink before digging into her PB and J.
Wolf was as prepared for this press conference as he was ever going to be. He’d talked to Arnie, his lawyer, about what issues to skirt and what to ignore, depending on what they asked. His goal at this moment in time was to reassure stockholders he was hale and hearty.
He’d purposefully dressed for the media. Black suit, white shirt open at the collar, his thick gray hair combed away from his face with the length just brushing the collar of his suit. Black brows, hooded ice-blue eyes. He was lean and fit and did not look his age. It was his habit to never smile in public. He played tough and looked the part. Wolf Outen looked like a biker in a business suit, and today he needed that persona to maintain emotional distance because he was royally pissed about what had happened on his watch.
There was a tap on his door and then his secretary walked in. There was a moment when the thought went through him that it should have been Stu, and then he let it go.
“They’re ready for you, sir. Security is waiting for you in the hall.”
He nodded, straightened the cuff links on his shirt one last time, then strode past her and out the door.
Three men from his security team were waiting. One led the way. The other two flanked him as they proceeded to the conference room, and then they took him in the back door and straight up onto the stage. There was no prior announcement, just Wolf emerging without fanfare.
At least a dozen media outlets were represented, liveand on camera, and more than thirty journalists from stations all across the state were sitting in the audience.
He walked straight to the bank of microphones and looked up.
“Thank you for coming. As you can see, the rumors of my demise have been exaggerated, although the reasoning was sound. I am first going to acknowledge the depths of my grief and despair for the two good men who died because someone wanted me dead. My deepest sympathies to the families of Stuart Bien, who was my personal assistant for the last thirteen years, and Zander Sutton, the owner-operator of the helicopter that crashed. I will take some questions, but I am limited in what I can talk about, since final sentencing has yet to take place for Fiona Rangely, who has confessed to and is incarcerated for the deaths just mentioned, after she learned I did not die. I’ll take the first question now.”
Hands went up. Journalists were calling out to be recognized. Wolf began acknowledging them and answering.
“Mr. Outen, why did your wife want you dead?”
“We’re assuming it was my money, since the first three men she’d married and buried left everything to her. I was to be number four.”
“Mr. Outen, when did you learn about the crash?”
“After I landed in Brazil.”
“Mr. Outen, do you think you’ll ever marry again?”
He frowned. “I have to divorce this one first, and I do not speculate about the future.”
“Why were you in Brazil?”
