“You handle the girls and I’ll handle my uncle, okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll call a bunch of cabs.”
“And the police.”
Birdie’s eyes widen. “You sure?”
“Absolutely. Talk to the girls and see who is up for that. If they’re not, don’t pressure them. Get all their names, too, so I can send them some money.” I push her out the door and turn around and face my uncle, who has gotten to his feet. The other directors are stuck in their chairs, likely thinking about how much trouble they’re going to be in and how much it’s going to cost to buy their way out of this mess.
“Nick, my son!” booms Uncle Jim. He waddles over, hitching his pants up over the big gut he’s developed eating off my mom’s plates. “Good God, man, why did you run off?” He pulls me in for a hug, which I dodge by arrowing toward the liquor cabinet. “I’ve been worried sick. I sent detectives to hunt you down.”
“I’m sure you did.” Which is why I’ve been hiding out in a small town four hours south of here. I pour myself a glass of bourbon and nod to the small, nearly bald man to my left. “Nice to see you, Harry. The girl you had on your knee looked to be the same age as your daughter, Amanda. A friend of hers?”
Harry nearly coughs up a lung before waving his hand. “It’s not what you think, Nick.”
“I have an appointment,” announces a thin, gangly old man who I recognize as Jeff Baldwin. He once owned a small tech firm before it got acquired by a bigger tech firm. Now he sits on boards and gives money to charity, although I doubt those organizations will welcome him back after word of these events get out.
“Where are you staying these days, Baldwin? When the police come, I want to be able to give them the right address.”
Uncle Jim releases a forced laugh. “Son, what are you talking about? The drugs? Everyone does it these days. No sense in getting those nice young ladies in trouble because they’d rather swallow a pill than drink. It’s what the youth do.”
“It’s not me you need to convince.” I down the rest of the liquor and set my glass back onto the drink cart.
Baldwin turns to me with narrowed eyes. “What do you want?”
He’s the dealmaker, I guess. “I only need to have seven percent more shares to have control over the company so the first person who pushes me over the top gets to walk.” An excited murmur ripples through the directors.
“This is already your company,” cries Uncle Jim. He holds his arms out wide. “I’ve been taking care of it for you, just as my brother asked.”
I stare him down, this ugly motherfucker who had my dad run off the road. I may never be able to prove it, but I can take him down. I can strip away everything he cares about the most—money, power, prestige. My revenge starts now. “As I said, Baldwin, first one to my office with a proffer of stocks gets out of this mess. The rest of you, I have on tape. Literally.”
Eyes widen. There are some uncharacteristically high-pitched gasps that leak out. “It’s Saturday!” protests Harry.
“Lawyers work on Saturdays. They just charge more, which I don’t give a flying fuck about,” I reply pleasantly. I pick up the heavy cut crystal, pour a finger of bourbon into it and start toward the exit. I pause when I get to my uncle. “I know you killed my parents, you disgusting roach’s ass. I don’t care that you aren’t going to prison. I’m going to make your life so miserable that you’ll be begging for death.” I don’t give him time to respond. Instead I smash the cut crystal and the booze against his forehead and watch him crash to the floor. Blood seeps out of the cut, mixing with the sticky liquor. I drop the glass on the top of his body. “This was a solid piece of crystal. I’ll have to remember to buy that brand again.” I step on his head as I leave. There’s a satisfying crunching sound as my boot heel meets cartilage. I may have even ground my heel against an eye socket as I was walking out.
The front door is open and I can see the flashing of police car lights zooming up the drive. The sirens are starting to get louder. Behind me there’s a clattering of feet and huffing noises. Three men are in front of me. Baldwin shoves his card into my hand. “I have eight percent. You can have it for half the price.”
“A quarter.”
“Deal.” He wipes a hand over his forehead. “My attorney is sending you the papers. How do I get out of here?”