Chapter 40
Grant scratches at the stubble on his jaw while looking over the email. He’s been glued to the screen for well over an hour now.
Apprehension stiffens my body as I tightly hold my coffee mug and sit on the couch at the penthouse.
Lonnie never did show up, and Grant had other ideas of how to deal with the situation, so we left and came here.
After four days, a shower felt glorious. My limbs are still humming with contentment, almost silently thanking me for finally putting hot water, a sharp razor to my legs, and soapsuds to good use.
Grant still hasn't showered, though. He's been sitting here since we got back, fixated on the screen, humming and rubbing his palms together. He’s read the email over and over and over. So much that a prick of unease is poking at my sternum. I shift once more, adjusting my silk robe, nodding toward Grant.
At last, there's a new movement with my question. He exhales hard, slouching into the couch. “You failed to tell me Lonnie was this demented.”
“Not exactly something I like talking about over dinner, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. But this? He’s dangerous, and we need to take action immediately.” After undoing the top button on his shirt, he closes the laptop and stands. “I'll be sure to send this along to the security team. You'll also have to give them full background information as well so they have a clearer sense of direction on how they need to handle the situation.”
Security. The word rings odd, even several hours later. Grant has decided to hire a security team full of bodyguards and men in black suits to handle Lonnie.
Lightly, I trace over one of the flowers on my robe, head down, confusion fizzling under my skin. “Grant, why? Why are we hiring someone? Why aren't you taking care of this yourself? You killed Seth—”
“Paid to have it done,” he corrects. “But yes. I went pretty far under the table for that.”
“So? What makes Lonnie different?”
I'm surprised at the lightness sparkling in his eyes as he tilts his head and pockets his hands. “One word—legality. Sure, I could easily go out there and put a bullet in Lonnie's head, however … What if something went wrong? What if evidence was found and it screwed both of us over?”
My brows furrow, the confusion filling my veins now. “But you have just about every legal hand in Washington on your side. Wouldn’t handling this ourselves and using them for protection be safer?”
“Rule one about having political ties. I own them, but they like it when things look squeaky clean, and if you continuously ask them to take out your garbage, they’ll start thinking of you as a liability rather than an ally. By hiring security, and allowing them to do their job, we won’t suffer any repercussions or have to cover anything up if Lonnie is killed. We were simply people under a threat who tried to protect themselves and did it legally. At the end of it all, we can’t be touched.”
My head quirks to the side, and I smile. “And that’s a good thing.”
“No,” he says softly, finally stripping out of his shirt. “That’s the best thing.”
* * *
“And you still haven’t heard from your mom?” I ask.
Roxie sniffles, and the grief present in her eyes fires a painful ache in my shoulders that swirls down to my fingertips. I’ve never seen Roxie so broken. Dread knots under my muscles, making them tender and sore. The sensation grows as she shakes her head and tucks her legs underneath her.
“I got a text from her a month ago, saying she was going on a date with a guy she met on set.” The saddest of smiles pinches her face. “This was her dream movie. She’s worked endlessly trying to build her career, you know? She was the wardrobe designer for Meryl Streep. She’s been talking with this male director for months, and he finally asked her out.” The first tear spills down the corner of her eye, and she quickly pats it away. “You should have heard her. Mom was so excited I thought she was going to cry. I told her to call me after the date. She said she would, but…” She shrugs and allows her hands to fall into her lap with a defeated sounding plop.
“Nothing.”
That’s terrifying. I place my hand over my stomach to lessen the whirlpool inside of it. “And you talked with the police, and she was last recorded leaving work, and turning in the direction of her home?”
“Yes.” Her voice is thick. “Believe me, they’re trying. The police chief in LA calls me by my first name now. There’s nothing to go off of. Liv, what am I going to do?”
Her broken question forces me to sit taller. For years, Roxie has been the unbreakable, brash woman who grabs life by the neck and tells it how to act. But presently, her feet have been knocked out from under her. Now, it’s my turn to be her strength.
Resolve threads through my heart, strengthening each pump it makes as I narrow my eyes and lean forward. “We’re going to find her,” I say, lowering my voice. “That’s what we’re going to do, Rox. We’re going to fucking find her.”