Chapter Twenty-Three
I don’t knock.
As far as I’m concerned, I was invited in when I was used as leverage to slow down the investigation.
I open the door and walk right into my father’s new office; a giant, fancy office at that, with a walnut half-moon shaped desk, heavy leather furniture in a seating area to the right, back in a corner, a round four-seater conference table closer to what would be the window, of which there are none.
Not one.
Someone is either afraid of sunlight or afraid of bullets.
My father is behind his desk, his expression pulled tight, tension in his shoulders, the right one flanked by Pocher, who’s standing over him like the puppet master he believes to be his designation.
Andrew, on the other hand, is leaning on the bookshelf to the left, as if it were a wall he was holding up, exhaustion in his posture.
Evidently, he’s been trying to talk sense into Dad, and he’s gotten nowhere.
“Lilah,” my father greets or rather acknowledges. A greeting would be welcoming.
I stay put, right by the door, not interested in being close enough to smell the stench of their bad intentions.
His tie is as blue as his eyes today, while his heart is as black as that night on the beach when I’d killed my first man.
“Everyone else needs to get out,” I say, the necessity of a father-daughter talk as obvious as Pocher’s arrogance.
“I trust everyone here,” my father insists, but his gaze shifts, as if he’s lying. He doesn’t trust everyone. He likely trusts no one. And yet, I’m here because, he too, is an untrustworthy manipulator.
With intent, my gaze shifts and sharpens on Pocher. “Leave.”
He stands his ground. I’m okay with that. “Obstruct justice,” I say. “Please. I beg of you. Make my day.” My gaze shifts to Andrew. “Get out before I make you wish you didn’t hear what I have to say. Or beat your ass. Your choice.”
I step right to offer him room to depart. Andrew shoves off the wall and walks toward the door and the very fact that he does so without argument tells me how irritated he is at our father.
Pocher purses his lips at me and says, “We need to talk.”
“I’m glad we agree. Don’t go far. I get very cranky when I have to tackle people.”
He grunts and shockingly follows Andrew out of the door, leaving a bit too easily in my book, but he’s also smart enough to know time is ticking on the events that must follow.
The minute they’re gone and we’re alone, I close the space between me and my father, stepping between two leather chairs.
“How certain are you this room is not bugged?”
“Pocher cleared it.”
“Then not certain at all. He could be listening.”
“I suppose,” he confirms tightly.
“Then we’re talking outside.”
He bristles, a crack of anger to his energy. “I’m not—”
“Then I’ll make sure everything gets moving, the investigation that will inevitably lead to a press leak, which means you need a story for the press.” I rotate and start walking.
“Lilah, wait.”
I don’t wait. I walk out of the door, cut left and head down the stairs, ignoring Mickey Smalls on my way.
At the bottom of the stairs, Adams and Pocher, stand in deep conversation while Andrew is nowhere to be found, but likely helping hunt for the hands.
Which Adams never looked for, and I can’t help but believe that’s because he knows where they are or that they are not here.
They turn expectantly as I approach, as if I’ve come for them, but I walk right on by, exit the house and start down the steps. I’m under a tree, all by my lonesome when my father strides this direction, as if all of this is beneath him, and he needs it over with yesterday.
“Happy?” he asks, when he joins me, holding out his hands to indicate his gift to me, which isn’t his departure, but his arrival.
“Why am I here?” I demand.
All his cool arrogance slips away. “It was him. I know it was him. And he’s trying to please you, Lilah.
You. My daughter.” He pokes at the spot in his chest that is supposed to have a heart, but I suspect there is only a black hole.
“He’s fucking with me, trying to destroy me, before I’m even sworn in. ”
He’s so over the top, out of his head right now, free from all composure, that I know with certainty, he didn’t kill that man, or order it done. “Ghost doesn’t play games unless he’s paid to play games.”
“He’s devoted to you.” His arm flies in the air, as if that makes some point, and then he points at me. “You did this.”
“You’re not making a case for me to help, just in case you didn’t figure that out,” I say, but in that moment, I have clarity where Ghost is concerned.
“It’s not him. Ghost just killed his biggest competition.
That’s all that has been on his mind. Hunting.
Killing. And he won. He killed her and now he’s number one again.
Ghost isn’t sloppy or an amateur. Whoever killed that man inside, thinks he’s a pro, but he’s not. ”
“I was a sheriff a long-time time, Lilah. There was a bullet in his head. That’s an assassination. And the hands—”
“It’s not Ghost. I’ve barely had time to analyze the crime scene, but I think it’s someone trying to throw us off.”
“Ghost.”
“Stop,” I bite out. “I get it. Your finger is hurt.”
“Broken. It’s broken, Lilah.”
“Do you know the victim?” I ask.
“No,” he says firmly. “I’ve never seen that guy before. Ghost—”
“Enough already. It’s not Ghost, and if it were, he’d have to be paid and paid well by someone to torment you.”
“He was there last night for you.”
“Unless he wasn’t. I repeat, the only way you hire Ghost is to pay him big money and if it requires a level of activity that might get him the wrong attention, he still declines.”
“If not Ghost, who? Kane?”