Chapter 12
“Gray hacked into the security cameras. He found footage of meetings with the victims. No sound, of course, but he discovered something really interesting.”
I wait for Ella to continue and pace my apartment. Yet again, my palms are sweaty for reasons I can’t quite understand.
“Peyton Radd is present in all the meetings leading up to the third victim’s death,” she continues. “He seems to be acting like an intern.”
“For whom?”
“Unclear. No one speaks to him.”
“That’s strange.”
“Yeah.” Ella sighs and sounds exhausted.
“Can you have Gray try to hack emails sent between Mr. Mills and the third victim? The three months leading up to his death?”
“Sure.” I hear Ella typing furiously, likely taking extensive notes.
“Oh, and Ella?”
“Mmm?” she says, though I can tell her mind is already far away.
“Go home and get some sleep. Give that boyfriend of yours a kiss. This can wait.”
In reality, I don’t want to wait. Something feels wrong with this entire case, and it’s not just that Owen isn’t acting like the murderers I’ve put behind bars in the past.
She chuckles. “You have no idea how nice that sounds, but I have to finish up here. Sometimes I wish I could have Eagan help. We’d probably already have the evidence to convict this guy.”
That gives me an idea. A terrible one. “He might be able to help.”
Ella almost sounds like she’s choking. “What?”
“All of Mr. Mill’s charities and foundations are nonprofits. They are open to the public. That means Eagan can look at any information about them without suspicion being raised, even if he got caught.”
“You want him to hack into the charity emails?”
“Exactly. See if he can find any mention of lethal plants or poisons. After all, most of the charities are plant-related.”
She enthusiastically replies, “I’ll ask him tonight!”
“Good. It’ll be nice to have more eyes out there.”
“Thanks, Nova.”
“Don’t mention it, Ella. Talk tomorrow.”
I hang up the phone and instantly regret my decision to involve Eagan. Though nothing we’re doing is against any rules, he could easily find out that Ella works for the CIA, and that could get both of us into more trouble than we already are.
There are bodies everywhere. Enough to make me believe this was all a set-up. But how? And why? This specific crime syndicate isn’t this brutal. There must be at least twenty shooters. I lost sight of the target, but that’s not surprising.
This is a cover-up for something larger. I know it is, but I can’t figure out for what. Or why they would go to these lengths. No mission I’ve ever been on has had this much public display of violence and loss of civilian life. There has to be a reason for it.
I stumble toward the rendezvous point, fighting the pain and blood loss, my vision blurring. I know I won’t be able to figure this out right now, so I try to bury it in my subconscious.
I have to get to Gray. I have to get out of here. Then I can figure out what happened.
A few steps into the dark, I find myself falling. The blood loss has me too dizzy to catch myself, and I trip, my head colliding with the edge of something hard.
Everything goes black.
Snapping my eyes open, I’m not surprised to find my shirt soaked with sweat. I sit up and grab my phone, my hands shaking as I jot down notes from my dream, trying to piece together what happened. Trying to make sense of it. Trying to have a coherent report for the lawyer’s defense.
I groan while reading through what I’ve already written. None of it makes sense.
Looking at the clock next to the bed, it reads 4:15 am. It’s too early to go into the office, but I can’t stay here. I’m too anxious. Getting up, I turn on the shower and wash the sweat away.
When I step out, there’s a message notification on my phone.
Owen: You awake?
My heart doubles in speed.
Me: Yes.
The typing bubble appears, and I don’t understand my anxiety.
Owen: Couldn’t sleep again?
Me: No.
Owen: Do you ever text more than one-word answers?
Me: No.
A laughing emoji appears.
Owen: Why does that not surprise me?
I send a shrugging emoji.
Owen: I can’t sleep either. Meet me at the office?
Me: As long as there are no naked women and you’re sober.
The typing bubble appears, but disappears.
I wait.
After what feels like forever, he finally sends his reply.
Owen: No naked women. Not drunk, but is hungover OK?
I roll my eyes, even if he can’t see it.
Me: You’ll still reek of alcohol.
Owen: I will sweat it out.
Me: Gross.
Another laughing emoji. He replies a second later. Please?
Putting down the phone and toweling off my wet hair, I consider his offer.
I pick the phone back up.
Me: Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
What am I doing?
Owen slouches in the large, plush chair in front of his desk. He’s shirtless, of course. His hair is tousled like he just woke up.
“Did you sleep here?” I ask, throwing my bag on the ground and crossing my arms.
“What of it?” he asks, chewing gum.
I almost laugh, knowing he’s trying to mask the scent of alcohol. He’s not hungover.
I narrow my gaze. “You’re still drunk.”
“So observant, Miss Riley.”
Suddenly, I’m annoyed. “You lied.”
He swings his legs over the side of the chair and stands. Once he has his balance, he stumbles toward me.
“You wouldn’t have come,” he says, stopping a foot from me.
“Lied and manipulated. You make a habit of those things? Is that how you get all those women into your bed?”
I don’t mean to let all that slip, but I can’t help it. I’m so flustered and angry and confused, and I don’t know which way is up. He’s a murder suspect, and yet he’s only been kind. He’s done nothing but help people, including me, which has me not wanting to look too far into why.
He takes another wobbly step toward me, and now I have to crane my neck to look at him. “What if it is?” he growls. His eyes are narrow slits, the green in them darkening almost to black in the dim light.
“So honorable,” I mumble sarcastically.
“You know nothing about me, Miss Riley.” His voice is a deep growl. A flash of anger passes across his eyes.
In any other situation, I’d be on high alert. Ready for a fight. Ready for the abuse that often follows when a person’s emotion finally snaps. But with Owen, I don’t feel afraid.
“Then tell me!” I yell at him. “Tell me why you drink every night? Why you have a different girl in your bed every night? Why you sleep in your office almost every night?”
He raises a brow. Does he think me so daft I wouldn’t notice he doesn’t go home at night?
His fury deflates. “Because…because…” He trails off and looks at the ceiling, sucking in a deep breath. His chest is so close. “Because money doesn’t buy you happiness, Miss Riley. It buys you loneliness.”
Now it’s my turn to suck in a breath. I didn’t expect him to say that. “What about your brother?”
Owen meets my gaze again, and this time his eyes are softer. Sad. “We didn’t grow up together. He grew up with his mother, while I lived with my father, spending most of my time here, sleeping under my father's desk most nights.”
This company was his whole life, whether he wanted it to be or not.
Even as a child, he had no choice. My chest constricts at the thought of the little boy under the desk, living and breathing his father's career. Did that little boy ever have a childhood? It sounds like Parker did. I’m doubting Owen did.
He continues, “We only recently became close now that he’s helping with the charities.”
I go to place a hand on his chest and stop myself, dropping it to my side.
Owen’s gaze tracks the movement.
I step back. “You can’t fight me in this condition. I’ll surely give that pretty face of yours a black eye. You’re no match for me drunk.”
He laughs, the sound causing a flutter low in my gut.
“I’m no match for you sober, Miss Riley. What do you propose?”
“Coffee, food, a shower, new clothes, a toothbrush, and lots of water. I think I have some electrolyte powder.” I bend down and pick up my bag, shuffling around the contents until my hands land on a small plastic bag full of electrolyte packs.
I hold them out to him and find his stare is on me. The look pierces me, and goosebumps travel up my arms.
He takes the packets, his hand lingering too long on mine. I snatch it away and turn, trying to compose myself.
“Thank you, Miss Riley.” His voice follows me to my desk.
Nodding, I move to the coffee machine, adding a filter and ground coffee beans. Then I flip on the spigot and hold the pitcher under the stream.
“I’m not lonely. Not with you here.” His confession is almost a breathless whisper.
I halt, water spilling from the top of the coffee pot, but I’m unable to move.
Owen steps behind me and reaches over to shut off the spigot. His front presses against my back, trapping me against the sink.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
My heartbeat speeds up. I pretend not to notice my body's response or the fact that Owen hasn’t moved away. With shaking hands, I dump some of the water out of the overfull coffee pot.
He steps back suddenly, as if just realizing how close he was.
“Go take a shower. I’ll find us something to eat,” I say to him, my voice more raspy than I intended.
He obeys without a word, and as I’m switching on the coffee machine, I hear the bathroom door shut.
Relaxing my shoulders, I let my head fall into my hands.
What the hell happened? And why do I seem to care so much?
He’s a fucking murder suspect.