XX STOLEN THUNDER （AUGUST）
XX
STOLEN THUNDER
(AUGUST)
I’m having a dream.
I’m a fireman, sleeping in my bunk at the station during my shift. An alarm’s blaring, waking me up with a start and calling me to action.
There’s a big fire to be put out, the chief bellowing, and I’m supposed to throw on my gear and slide down the pole to hop on the candy-red truck so we can go tearing out into the street to save people’s lives.
Only, it’s a very strange fire station. Everything around me—from the walls to my bunk to the pole across the room—is drawn in clumsy crayon lines.
I think this might be a drawing from when I was a little boy, when I idolized firefighters.
Still, I need to get up, or the crayon-and-paper truck won’t be able to roll to save the crayon-and-paper town—but I can’t.
There’s a cold, wet nose poking me in the forehead over and over as the station dalmatian nudges me. It’s a weird dalmatian, slender and feminine, with golden spots instead of black, and hazel-colored eyes.
Instead of barking, it grins and pokes me with its paw, teasing, “Gruffykiiiiiiins. Wake up. Your phone won’t stop ringing!”
My . . . phone?
My phone.
That’s not my normal ringtone.
That’s—fuck.
That’s the shrill alarm of Rick’s Black Box emergency phone.
The dream clears in an instant, and I bolt upright in bed.
Then my entire home erupts into chaos.
Even as the blasting ringtone ends and starts again with a new incoming call, Elle yelps as my sudden movement tilts her off balance. All I see is a blur of ivory skin and bright-blonde hair tumbling to the floor, dragging the duvet with her.
I lunge for my phone while another ringtone starts screaming from the fuzzy peach bathrobe on the floor. Meanwhile, my doorbell starts dinging like mad.
Shit, what now?
Is there a missile heading for Seattle, or what?
I’m going to get one of Elle’s whopper migraines at this rate.
Tensing, I snatch my phone and swipe the call. Elle wobbles to her knees and presents a distracting view as she crawls across the floor bare assed to work her phone out of her robe.
“Merrick?” I growl into the phone. “What’s happened?”
“Oh my God,” Elle mumbles from the phone, plunking to sit on top of her bathrobe and staring at her screen. “Jesus, not even TikTok’s safe. Why is everyone calling me a ‘gold digger whore’? I’m ... using kids to get to you? Who’s Duetting my migraine at the press conference?”
Shit, shit, and also, shit.
I don’t think it’s even eight o’clock in the morning, and everything is on fire.
This is not fine.
As I stagger out of bed and hoist my pajama pants up to head for the bedroom door with a light touch for Elle’s shoulder, Rick babbles in my ear.
“Mr. Marshall?” he says breathlessly. “You need to get down here. Right now.”
“Where the fuck is here?” I demand, heading down the hall to make that damnable ringing stop. Who the hell would show up at my door instead of just sending a text?
“The office. Not ours, but Marissa Sullivan’s office—”
I yank the door open while Rick keeps talking.
I almost don’t recognize the man on my doorstep.
I’ve only met him once via video call.
Mr. Carlton, the private detective.
He’s a slim man in a suit, neat and precise. Not at all the image of the grizzled PI you’d expect. He glances at the phone against my ear and smiles thinly, keeping silent as he mouths, Good morning, Mr. Marshall.
He offers me a manila envelope under his arm.
I nod tersely, take it and pry the prongs open, and spill a stack of pages and photographs into my hand.
Then I stop cold.
What Rick just said clicks in my brain through the chaos swirling around me.
“She did what?” I snarl into the phone. “Repeat that.”
Even as I’m talking, I’m leaning into my office next to the front door, fumbling around with a hidden pocket safe to find my checkbook.
My heart is fucking pounding hard enough to drive nails. I need something to keep my hands busy, anything, so I rip off a check for probably three times the amount we agreed on, thrust it at Carlton, and slam the door in his face.
I don’t have time for niceties right now. Not after what Merrick’s just said.
“Miss Marshall. Clara,” Rick repeats breathlessly. “She left on her own to meet Miss Sullivan. She asked me to drive her, and I said you wouldn’t be happy about that, so she took an Uber.”
“Shit.”That bullheaded, impetuous woman. We’re too much alike, my aunt and I. I slump against the wall, holding the phone against my ear with my shoulder, rifling through the pages. “Call Deb. Her apartment’s closer to Marissa’s office. Get her over there ASAP. I’ll be there soon. We need to do damage control—”
I freeze.
While I’m talking, I’ve been flicking through the pages of the PI’s report, absorbing his summary.
Marissa developing a drinking habit after her father’s death. Her drinking affecting her publishing operations, sending everything into decline. It’s clear now why she blames Little Key and wants to absorb it, taking what she feels is her birthright to compensate for the failures she feels drove her father to his early death.
More about her surviving mother, Yvette Sullivan, Lester’s widow. She’s apparently estranged from Marissa. No contact in years, not since before the drinking started. Yvette currently lives in a rural town in Minnesota, retired and raising chickens, according to her Instagram bio.
But that’s not what makes me stop cold.
It’s a fuzzy photo taken in what looks like Bainbridge. Marissa would live somewhere like Bainbridge, I suppose.
Which is where Rick is meeting her.
In my car.
It’s a rainy night. Probably right after he dropped Elle and me off for our movie date.
God fucking damn.
So this is what he does with his free time, while waiting to chauffeur us around.
He’s leaning against the car with Marissa next to him, and she’s passing him a thick envelope bulging with what has to be cash.
Cash.
Untraceable.
No bank records.
Now, I fucking know exactly how those candid photos keep appearing, caught by some mysterious stalker who always knows just where we’ll be to catch us in our most private moments.
You might think I shouldn’t be angry when that was the entire point of this illusion.
But the fury, the betrayal inside me turns black, burning like a volcano.
“I trusted you,” I bite off, the only words I can think of, but they stop Rick short.
“. . . sir? I’m . . . I’m sorry, what?”
“I trusted you! How long have you been my right hand, Merrick? How long have you been more involved in my life than anyone else? My shadow. Always there. And you took advantage of that.”
“I ... I ...,” he stammers, but I can hear the guilt in his voice, clear as day. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Marshall—”
“Cut the shit. Fuck yes, you do. And I’m entirely out of patience for your backstabbing.” I turn to stalk into the bedroom. I do not have time for this. I need to get dressed and get downtown ASAP before Aunt Clara makes a hideous mistake. “How much was she paying you to spy on me? On us? Was it worth it, you asshole?”
Dead silence.
His next breath sounds almost like a sob.
As I step back into the bedroom, Elle glances up from the floor, then recoils, blinking as she looks at me.
What’s wrong?she mouths.
Fucking everything.
I can only shake the lump of solid fury masquerading as my head.
There’s nothing I can explain while Rick is whining in my ear.
“It’s not about the money,” he says weakly. “It’s—it’s my granddaughter, sir. You don’t understand, I—I didn’t know she was in trouble with money. She started doing these adult films to pay for medical school, and Miss Sullivan found out. She threatened me—she said she’d make sure the whole world knew, and Emily would never get a job in her field. I couldn’t let that happen—”
“You could have told me the truth, Merrick. You could have turned to me for help. I could have protected you, and her. Instead, you ratfucked me. Don’t bother coming to collect your last paycheck. It’ll come in the mail from corporate.”
I don’t wait for his response.
I hang up and rip my closet door open, dragging out a pair of slacks from the dry cleaning bag.
“August, what’s going on?” Elle’s on her feet, padding over to touch my arm.
“Rick was the shithead taking photos of us. He’s fired,” I snap, turning to kiss the top of her head. “Grab a shirt and see if you can turn it into something presentable. We’ve got to go now.”
“Go?” Her wide, worried eyes track me as I kick my track pants off and step into my slacks. “Go where?”
“Marissa Sullivan’s office,” I growl. “Before Aunt Clara does something we’ll all regret.”
It’s a miracle I don’t get pulled over for traffic violations.
The G80 was made to speed, and I push it to its limits, weaving in and out of traffic, while Elle clutches the oh-shit handle and tries not to say anything, her jaw clenched tight.
She’s somehow managed to turn one of my button-downs into a pale-blue shirt dress that looks like it was designed for her. She’s pressed back in her seat, sick with worry and possibly a little fear over the razor-sharp turns I’m taking.
I’ll apologize later.
Something tells me things are about to get very, very bad.
Clara won’t answer her phone.
Not for me, not for Elle, busying herself in the passenger’s seat, calling over and over, leaving worried voice mails.
I take the next turn like the car is on rails—and almost come bumper to bumper with Deb’s car, lunging ahead of mine through traffic.
Shit, shit.
I hoped she’d beat me to the office, but luck isn’t on my side today.
I know it’s too late by the time we both go skidding into the parking lot.
I spike the G80 to a halt at an angle to Deb’s fishtailing Mazda. Deb, Elle, and I all go spilling out into the front lot just as the door to the tall high-rise building opens.
Aunt Clara steps out, deep in conversation with Marissa and one of the lawyers we met the other day.
Suddenly, there’s no one for me but Clara.
Everyone else fades into the background.
Even the ridiculous flap of Elle’s fuzzy slippers trails me as I stalk across the concrete. There was no time to change her shoes.
“What did you do?” I demand. “What is this?”
Clara freezes the second she sees me.
There’s a painful flash of guilt on her face before her lips thin with determination and she lifts her chin proudly.
“What’s in my right to do,” she says woodenly. “I love you, August, but you don’t get to make that choice for me.”
“What choice, Aunt Clara?” Deb stumbles to a breathless halt next to me. “Auntie, what did you do?”
It’s not Aunt Clara who answers.
It’s Marissa Sullivan.
Crowing triumphantly, she holds up a small USB recording device.
“Lookie here,” she says, and this time she’s quite sober, her eyes glinting with evil joy. “Clara Marshall’s confession. She’s admitted everything. You lost, Marshall. Clara stole Inky the Penguin from my father, and the entire world is going to hear about it. Once I submit this evidence—everything you have is mine.”