The General (Professionals 4)

“We can try,” I told her, not wanting her to get her hopes too high. We all had some skills with electronics, but we weren’t exactly hackers. “If we can’t, I can likely farm this out to someone at Hailstorm or something. We will get into it one way or another,” I told her, tucking it under my arm, pressing a kiss into her temple.

She didn’t melt into me, though. Not right then. Because she was a woman on a mission. She had blinders to take off, secrets to uncover.

By the time we left the apartment, she had found various panties in different sizes and styles in a dresser drawer, like trophies to a weak, pathetic, insecure man, more drugs in the couch cushions in the living room, and a safe in the bottom of the closet packed with cash that she stashed in her purse.

“Can we make a stop?” she asked on the way home, making me pull up in front of the Navesink Bank Women’s Shelter, walking in, slapping the stack of cash down on the front desk. Ten grand easy. Then turned and strode right back out.

Three days later, it was time for the finance guy who was around Bertram’s age in a suit that cost more than a few months’ rent for an average person in Navesink Bank. He was all apologies before Jenny insisted they get down to business.

She’d told me she’d been expecting two mill. She wasn’t too far off, ending up with two-point-eight in their accounts. But she had her stock options for life, the sale of the apartment, and then there was the issue of the life insurance.”

“He had life insurance out?” she asked, brows knitted, confused, clearly not thinking he would think about her in the case of his death.

“He took it out a long time ago. It originally went to his father. But after your marriage, I had drawn up the papers to transfer it to you. He signed it at our next meeting.” Likely without realizing what he was doing, just signing the papers because that was expected of him.

It gave her another two.

Million.

No matter what she chose to do – stay in the unnecessarily large house, or sell it and move somewhere else, she would be set. For life. She’d never have to worry about her father’s care, about having to find a ‘real job’ at this point in her life. She would be able to work on her jewelry. Or simply just enjoy her life after so many years in hell.

“My head is spinning,” she admitted over dinner after the staff had left.

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” I reminded her. The bills came out of their accounts automatically, including the staff.

They get paid well to betray me, she had mumbled at seeing Maritza’s and Lydia’s salaries.

“I want to fire them,” she told me after a long moment of consideration.

“The staff?”

“Yes,” she said, turning her empty cup of tea around in a circle on the tabletop. “Unless you think it is too soon,” she added.

“I definitely think you can get rid of Lydia. You never eat what she makes anyway. It would be reasonable. You aren’t having events anymore that you need a cook for.”

“You don’t think I can get rid of Maritza?” she asked, not meeting my eyes.

I knew why she wanted to get rid of her.

It turned out her hunch was right.

Maritza did clean the apartment. On Sundays when she wasn’t at the house. Cleaning up drugs and panties and who-knew what else.

“I think, maybe, with her… cut her down first. Once a week. Again, a reasonable move since there isn’t much to clean up after anymore. Maybe in another couple months, you could get rid of her entirely.”

“Alright,” she said, clearly not happy, but understanding, knowing her moves were still important, that appearances still needed to be kept up.

The next day, I stood by with pride swelling inside at seeing this woman – so beaten down, meek, scared when I first met her – lift her chin, strengthen her voice, and inform the staff of the changes, not bending when they tried to change her mind, then turning on her heel and moving away.

Taking back her house.

That was what she was doing.

And it was a sight to be seen.

It wasn’t long.

Just the next day actually.

I knew it was coming, even if maybe Jenny didn’t.

The senator came barging in.

“Jennifer!” his voice called, raised a bit with his agitation as she came out of the kitchen, her hands cradling a hot cup of tea, likely burning her palms.

“Did you unlock the door?” she asked, brow creeping up. Maybe he didn’t know the move for what it was. But I did. That was anger. And, judging by her ability to generally keep tight reins on that, I had a feeling the fact that it was surfacing did not bode well for him.