Chapter 45 Sydney
Sydney
Marco Garcia could’ve walked off the cover of a GQ. His suit was obviously tailored and, without a doubt, designer. If the word “sleek” could be a person, it would be this lawyer. Hopefully, that meant he was good at what he did.
In discussing the deposition, he explained he would do most of the talking.
Only when he gave her the okay would she speak.
This way, she could be as honest as possible.
If answering any question would incriminate her, cause her to lie, she was supposed to flick her hair or tuck it behind her ear, then he would step in.
He didn’t ask her whether she had murdered Mitchell or what her involvement was. Apparently, he didn’t want to know. Quite frankly, she had no interest in telling him. She and Fink would take this secret to their graves.
His job was to keep her uninteresting to the prosecution. Fair enough. She could do that.
Sitting at the conference room table, Sydney did her best to appear as though her anxiety wasn’t making her skin crawl. She pretended her heart wasn’t threatening to explode out of her chest. This was far more intense than she’d imagined.
This was bad. Going on the stand in a courtroom with a judge would be a thousand times worse. She’d have to be sedated to get through it. Though if she pulled this off, she wouldn’t have to.
Lying to the police wasn’t new. She’d done it often in her youth, but this was different. This wasn’t shoplifting from the corner store. She was a murderer chatting with the people in charge of making sure killers were sent behind bars.
“Stop fidgeting,” Marco whispered while they waited.
“Sorry.” She dipped her chin in embarrassment.
“They’re always watching,” he said as he nodded toward the camera nestled high in the room’s corner.
Following his gaze, she spotted it and swallowed hard.
“They’re not going to ask about you. This is about Mr. Grant and his wife. So, tell them what you can,” he explained. “You aren’t the one on trial. There’s no judge here. Relax.”
Not yet, but if she said the wrong thing, they might start looking at her again.
Which would destroy all the happiness she’d recently discovered.
Fink couldn’t stick around if they were investigating her, even if he wanted to, or if she got convicted.
That was too risky for him. She’d never ask him to.
If she were in that position, Fink sticking around put him in far too much danger.
Shaking that idea from her brain, she decided not to find out. There was no point in worrying about stuff that wouldn’t happen. The police and the prosecutor thought she had done nothing wrong. Her job was to reassure them they were on the right trail with Mrs. Grant.
Chloe.
A nice enough woman.
Sydney hadn’t met her in person. They’d spoken on the phone a few times. Sydney had lied to her when Mitchell was with his girlfriends or didn’t want to go home. He wasn’t big on family. Surprising, since he was knocking women up left and right.
Internally, she rolled her eyes. The world was a better place without Mitchell Grant. His children would be spared his misogyny. His murder was the right thing to do.
The door to the conference room opened, and Sydney’s head snapped toward it.
A woman with her hair slicked back into a bun wearing a dark pantsuit entered with a balding fella behind her.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said as she took a seat opposite her. “I’m Joyce Dunning from Samuel Milford’s office. We only want to go over some details and get a better understanding of what you know about Mitchell Grant and his untimely death.”
Everything.
Sydney inhaled. This was it. Showtime.
Fink
Fink shouldn’t be here. His presence would only make their situation more complicated. No one knew, or even suspected, his involvement. He was free and clear.
Yet here he was, hacking into the security system.
He’d done this several times over the past week to establish a pattern of glitchy cameras. That way, when he showed up, people wouldn’t suspect anything. It was hard to play a long game when there wasn’t much lead-up.
Mentally, he patted himself on the back. Somehow, he managed.
Wearing navy coveralls, a matching hat, and his signature makeup, he approached the door with no one the wiser. Sure, if people really looked at him, they’d be perplexed by his white face and blue clown makeup, but by keeping his chin tucked and his head down, no one seemed to care.
After he pressed the bell, he clasped his hands together and waited while a small dog barked from within. It had to be one of those designer teacup ones based on the sound of the yapping. One that had more bravado than brains.
Soon the door opened.
A woman wearing a flowy, slightly floral dress with a deep V neckline stood with her hand resting on her protruding belly. Her blond hair was pulled up in a purposefully messy bun, and her makeup was a bit overdone for a lady hanging out at home in the middle of the week.
She gave off the vibe of someone expecting a visitor.
In theory, yes. Fink. He was there to repair her security cameras. Or so she thought. He’d fix something for sure.
“Hello?” she greeted as her gaze swept him up and down.
“Mrs. Grant, I’m here from Montanaro Security Systems. We hear you’re having issues with the feeds?” he said with a tip of his hat.
She eyed him suspiciously.
“I’m due at the children’s hospital down the road in, like, an hour.” Fink thumbed behind him. “I perform for the kids.”
She furrowed her brow before nodding.
The story was weak at best, but most accepted it. Especially when there were hospitals nearby. He hadn’t a clue if anyone still volunteered and dressed as clowns, but people thought they did, so he rolled with it.
“I need to access your servers,” he said.
Stepping back, she waved him in.
First hurdle complete. Careful not to trip over the puffy ankle-biter yapping at his feet, he entered her house.
“They’re over here,” she said on a sigh as she moved through the fancy front foyer.
Was that alcohol?
Fink sniffed as he followed her.
She was pregnant. This woman shouldn’t be drinking. Also, it was, like, ten thirty in the morning. Way too early for cocktails. This wasn’t Sunday brunch with the girls. She was home alone.
In the paperwork he’d collected on Grant upon accepting the contract, there was information on his wife. Mrs. Grant, Chloe, was no saint. She’d had a few instances of being caught driving under the influence, but they never seemed to stick.
Money could make that sort of stuff go away. If there was one thing Chloe Grant had, it was cash.
Also, from his research, alcohol wasn’t her only indulgence. She was pregnant. He should feel guilty about going through with his scheme. Better men would. However, a woman who used while with child… This was probably for the best.
Shaking his head, he stuck his hand in his pocket, checking for his supplies.
This wasn’t a contract. No one had hired him for this. There’d be no check at the end, so there was no use for flair. His reasons for doing this were to protect Sydney and so they could get on with their lives.
Was it the best idea?
Not at all.
However, he was impatient.
Something that was new to him. He didn’t like it. This would be the only occasion he’d act on impulse.
Okay, this was the last time. Getting involved with Sydney had been an impulse he couldn’t deny, but that was it. He would control himself from now on. No more impromptu side quests.
Fink didn’t want to have any more little surprises, and cutting this last loose thread would ensure he and Sydney could attempt happiness together.