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Before I could change my mind and plead that explosive diarrhoea had forced me to turn around, Dad stuck his head out the front door. A smile instantly lit up his face, and he jogged out to me, resting his elbows on my door and leaning into my open window. “You can park, you know.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You aren’t. We’re eating dinner and catching tonight’s match.”
“Cricket?” I asked, unimpressed.
“No, tennis. Come on in. There’s plenty.”
I pulled into the closest car park and gave myself a pep talk—there’s no need to freak the fuck out. You can do this. Pull up your big girl panties.
“Hey,” I called as I closed the door behind me.
Ezra stuck his head out from the kitchen, and his wide-eyed look of sheer panic made me snort with laughter.
“Detective, what a pleasure to see you,” I deadpanned and continued on over to Dad to give him a hug and steal a cherry tomato. “Whatcha doin’, old man?”
“Enough of that, missy,” he chastised playfully. “What brings you here?”
“Just wanted to catch up.” I smiled, trying to act as innocent as possible, but Dad saw straight through me.
He snorted out a laugh and gestured over his shoulder with a tilt of his chin. “That’s exactly what Ez said.”
“I’d say great minds and all that, but…,” I trailed off and shrugged, tossing a smirk at Ezra.
“Your daughter is so mean,” Ezra shot back, eying me up and down like I was a lollipop and he wanted to lick me from head to toe.
Desire flared in me, and I blinked, clearing my throat and looking away from him before I gave myself away.
My phone rang, and I walked out of the kitchen to answer it. “Good evening, Professor Reid. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked.
“Is that your professor?” I heard Dad ask Ez.
“Yeah,” he answered, moving over to me. His concern was obvious in the furrow of his brow and the way he rested his hand on the small of my back, lending me his support.
Tristan’s words registered. “Can you talk?”
“Yeah, I’m at Dad’s. What’s going on?” I asked, worry prickling my senses. “Are you…. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, absolutely. Kind of,” he mumbled before sighing.
I could practically hear the wheels in his head turning, and the knot of dread that formed with me sitting in the car a few minutes earlier tightened.
“I did a search on our American friend—the liquidator.”
“And you found something dodgy,” I surmised.
“Yeah. There are too many coincidences.”
The breath rushed out of my lungs, and I slumped against the table.
“Some of the search results were on microfiche stored on the other campus. The librarian has just sent it to me.” He paused, and I could hear him swallow before he continued. “It’s a newspaper article from a few years after ReimagINC went under. The liquidator was charged with a series of white-collar crimes. The company in question was allegedly a front for a crime family.”
“Oh,” I murmured, his words taking a moment to sink in. I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Do I want to know which family?”
“Martinelli.”
The name struck me with the force of two planets colliding. My legs gave out and I slithered onto the dining table chair like a limp noodle. When I’d told Tristan that ReimagINC had invested in a company that had loose ties with a crime family, I’d hoped that the connection extended only to one of the directors being related through marriage.
