Chapter 60
sixty
By Monday morning, I’ve called Juliet back five times and I have to take two showers to wash away the scotch oozing from my pores—one before my workout and another after.
I do my usual Monday shave and pick a boring-ass suit without a flicker of feeling. Ordinarily, I reserve my plain navy set for depressing shit like wakes. And I typically pair it some sort of colorful vest, shirt, or tie.
Not today. White shirt, no vest, a blue tweed tie.
Hell . I look like my dad.
Ironic, considering my destination.
It isn’t lost on me that I haven’t heard from him since Friday. He sent a few indignant texts asking me what the hell was wrong before cutting all contact completely. My concierge informed me that he tried to come by Saturday afternoon while I was at a bar pouring liquor down my throat. Per my instructions, they sent him away.
I’m fairly certain he knows that I’ve figured him out. If he truly didn’t understand my knock-out punch, he’d probably still be trying to get in touch with me.
In any case, it will probably become clear to him that I have no intention of speaking to him again when I don’t show up for work today.
Instead of calling a car on the Everett Alexander account, I hail a taxi. “Federal Plaza.”
The cabbie grunts and charts our course. Out the dirty window, I watch the Lower East Side smudge into Downtown. My fingertips rap against the briefcase full of evidence at my side.
After twenty excruciating minutes, I find myself in the charmless office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Specifically, the Department of Justice.
The nearest agent catches sight of me and stops in his tracks. “You lost?”
I search inside myself one final time, looking for a shred of doubt or dread or anything . But resounding emptiness roars back at me. Even with everything on the line, I have nothing left to lose.
Because I already lost her .
“No,” I determine. “My name is Graham Everett. My father owns one of the biggest investment firms in Manhattan. I’m here to report him for fraud.”