I didn’t realise how thoroughly I was lying until I’d spoken the words out loud.
“As I said, I look forward to seeing her for myself,” he rebutted. “I’ll be sure to pay a visit when her sixty days begin. You can demonstrate the full extent of her cash value in the flesh.”
The prick hadn’t been on site with me for well over three years straight. The prospect of him rolling up when I was in the midst of Paige’s systematic destruction was enough to set my jaw ticking.
“Don’t come here,” I hissed. “You aren’t fucking welcome.”
If he was surprised by my outburst he didn’t show it.
“One more questionable judgement call on your part, Brandon Grant, and I’ll be down there in force to rebalance the shares. Don’t overestimate how loyal your client base will be to you because you know how to fuck a girl up on webcam. Those relationships are forged with a damned sight more than cock.”
“Have you finished yet?” I sneered. “I’m bored and I’ve a fucked up investment upstairs still to rectify.”
“You’ve got plenty to rectify,” he sneered back.
It vexed me to know he may not be entirely unfounded in the truth of that statement, but I’d rather eat my own shit than acknowledge that to the cunt.
“Don’t ever call Eric again,” I said. “I fucking mean it. You want to know anything, you come through me.”
“And don’t you ever let a sixty-day girl gossip about my business associates without flagging a concern. I fucking mean it.”
I flicked the dregs of my cigarette onto the lawn below. “Rebecca Lane is in hand,” I said again. “No concern of yours.”
His laugh was one I’d never heard from him.
It was dark. Knowing.
Malicious as all fucking sin.
“Rebecca Lane is most certainly in hand, just not yours.” he said with a weird little chuckle, then disconnected the call.
My jaw tightened and clamped, rage coasting my spine as I stared dumb at the encryption screen on my handset. I jabbed the option for redial so hard my knuckle cracked.
It rang through to the mysterious unavailable tone, Drake gone from reach.
Most certainly in hand, just not yours.
What the living fuck did the prick mean by that little gem of a statement?
I should have brushed it off. Forgotten about it and turned my attention back to Annabel Fisher and my joke of a brother upstairs.
But I couldn’t.
It was his tone, dangerous in the most calculated of risks.
It was the bristle of malice in his laughter.
It was him. Just fucking him.
Every piece of shit cryptic handshake he rattled off to associates. Every smirk. Every sly glance across a crowded room at some other sack of bile with a finger in his corrupt little pot of politicians.
I called Lance downstairs before I went up, beckoning him out onto the porch and away from sly ears.
With Henry Drake’s eyes on my business, I didn’t trust a single fucking soul in this place.
Lance was the best call of the bunch. I planned to limit my risks to his allegiance only.
“I want to know what’s going on with Rebecca Lane every second from this point onwards,” I told him. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
He pitted his eyebrows, giving me a weird case of side eye. “I thought I was keeping tabs on the Emmerson girls? I’d be out there now if your brother hadn’t summoned me back for the broadcast.”
I tipped my head at the sunrise and weighed up my options.
“A day,” I told him. “I want you to keep tabs on Miss Lane for one day only, just to ascertain who else is following her, if anyone.”
“Following her? Who?”
“No idea,” I said, “just a hunch.”
Even as he retreated with a salute my head was reeling.
Paige Emmerson alone for one full day should be fine. I shouldn’t be giving her a second thought for another full month at least.
That’s what I told myself.
I should be concerned with bringing Annabel Fisher back into line. Putting her crazed outbursts behind her in favour of a decent bout of suffering at my fingertips.
And I was concerned with Annabel Fisher.
My trek back upstairs to the carnage at sunrise was nothing short of dedication.
So what if I put in a request for Paige Emmerson’s updated phone records on my way?Chapter Twenty-EightPaigeWe were up all night.
The morning light found us huddled on my bed, two sisters whispering, sharing. Hoping.
We were young teenagers again, both of us broken and striving for quiet against listening ears through the bedroom wall.
We were us. Two lost souls in a mean world, praying for a lifeline. Only this time the lifeline was at my fingertips.
“You can’t really do it,” Phoebe whispered. “Not for me.”
But I could.
I could and I would.
I took her fingers in mine and stared at her nails, chewed to shit.
“You’re my sister,” I said. “I can do everything for you.”