Chapter 11 #2
I've seen too many men use financial manipulation as a weapon. Watched wives and girlfriends get trapped in arrangements that look legitimate on paper but are anything but. Giuseppe taught us early: follow the money. It never lies.
The surgery was real. Lily's medical records confirm a congenital heart defect, corrected at eighteen months. The hospital received payment—but not the full amount. Not even close.
Twenty thousand to the hospital.
One hundred thousand borrowed.
Where did the other eighty go?
I grab my phone and text Liam.
Need deep dive on Jack Walker's financials. Employment history, gambling, debts, the works. Also check if loan was taken out in her name without her knowledge or consent.
Three dots appear almost immediately. Liam doesn't sleep much either.
On it. Something specific trigger this?
Payment pattern doesn't match loan structure. She's paying him, not the creditor.
Noted. Will have preliminary by morning.
I set the phone down and stare at Kristen's picture. The one from her driver's license, where she's attempting a smile.
I might not know her long but I know she flinches at loud noises. Makes herself small in rooms. Checks exits when she enters a space.
I know those signs.
My jaw tightens. If Jack Walker is what I think he is—
The thought cuts off. I'm getting ahead of myself. Making assumptions based on incomplete data. That's sloppy. That's how people get killed.
But I can't shake the feeling.
I close the laptop and move to the window. The grounds are dark except for the security lights tracing the perimeter. Somewhere out there, Liam's men patrol in patterns designed to look random but aren't. The compound is a fortress. Safe.
Kristen lives in that apartment with the broken elevator and the locks that wouldn't stop a determined child. Lily sleeps in a room with thin walls and thinner windows.
Not your problem, I tell myself. She's an employee. Temporary. Two months and she's gone.
But my brain won't stop calculating. The money she pays Jack. The debt she carries. The fear she tries to hide under that bright smile she gave Lily at dinner.
Something's wrong.
And I'm going to find out what.
I text Liam again.
Also need to know if Walker has any connections we should worry about. Criminal, financial, or otherwise.
His response comes faster this time.
Already on the list. You want surveillance on him?
I hesitate. That's a line. Watching her husband crosses from background check into something more personal. Something that suggests I care beyond professional curiosity.
Not yet. Just the financials for now.
I set the phone down and don't look at it again.
I should put the phone down. Go to bed. Stop looking for answers I have no business finding.
Instead, I open Instagram.
Kristen Thomas. I type her name into the search bar, already knowing what I'll find. Her profile picture is a shot of Lily holding a stuffed rabbit, face half-hidden by the toy. Private account. 17 posts. 89 followers.
Of course it's private. Everything about this woman screams stay away, don't look, nothing to see here.
I click anyway. This account is private. Follow this account to see their photos and videos.
Not happening. Requesting to follow would require explaining why her boss wants access to her personal life. Even I'm not that socially incompetent.
But there's another option.
Jack Walker.
The name tastes bitter even in my head. I type it in, and his profile loads immediately. Public. Of course it's public. Men like him need an audience.
The first thing I notice is his face. Square jaw, practiced smile, the kind of teeth that cost money to straighten.
He looks like a real estate agent or a used car salesman.
Someone whose job is making you trust him before he screws you over.
Brown hair styled with too much product.
Blue eyes that crinkle at the corners like he's everyone's best friend.
I've met a hundred men like him. They sit across from me at business meetings and shake my hand too hard. They make jokes that aren't funny and laugh at their own punchlines. They think charm is a substitute for substance.
His bio reads: Living my best life. NYC transplant. Work hard, play harder.
I want to break his fingers.
The feeling comes out of nowhere, violent and hot, and I grip the phone tighter to keep from throwing it.
Get it together.
I scroll down.
His feed is exactly what I expected. Pictures of Manhattan skylines. Expensive dinners. A blonde woman in several recent shots. He's tagged her: @AmandaLoves2Travel. She looks young. Twenty-two, maybe. Fake tan, fake lashes, fake smile.
But it's the older posts that make my jaw clench.
Kristen.
She appears about eight months back, before the separation. Before she fled to that shithole apartment with the broken elevator. In these photos, she's a different woman entirely.
Her hair is always pulled back. Tight ponytails, sleek buns, not a strand out of place. In every single picture, she's styled within an inch of her life—makeup heavier than I've seen her wear, lips painted red, eyes lined dark. She looks perfect.
And completely fucking fake.
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. I've seen her real smile. The one she gave Lily at dinner and the one that transformed her whole face when she was singing with that feather duster. This isn't that. This is performance. This is a woman wearing a mask so tight it's cutting off her air supply.
I keep scrolling, and my grip on the phone becomes dangerous.
The clothes.
Jesus Christ, the clothes.
Kristen—the woman who wears oversized sweaters and jeans that hide every curve—is squeezed into dresses that leave nothing to imagination.
Tight fabric hugging her hips. Necklines that plunge low enough to show the swell of her breasts.
Heels that make her legs look endless. In one photo, she's wearing something red and short that clings to an ass I had no idea existed under those shapeless work clothes until today that I had a view on that.
She's fucking gorgeous. That's not news. I noticed it the first time I saw her, even in that cheap catering uniform. But this—
This is weaponized beauty. This is a woman put on display like a trophy.
And she hates it.
I can see it in every picture.
She didn't pick these clothes. I'd bet my life on it.
Jack picked them. Jack styled her like a doll and paraded her around and posted pictures like he was showing off a new car.
My thumb hovers over a photo from two years ago. Some charity event, looks like. Jack's arm is wrapped around Kristen's waist, his hand splayed possessively over her hip. He's grinning at the camera. She's looking slightly to the side, that fake smile plastered on, eyes empty.
His grip on her looks tight. Too tight.
The rage that floods through me is irrational. Unprofessional. Completely fucking inappropriate.
I want to find Jack Walker. I want to break every finger on the hand that touched her. I want to make him understand exactly what happens to men who treat women like possessions in my city.
The phone creaks in my grip.
Stop.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
This isn't my problem. Kristen isn't my problem.
But I can't stop staring at her face in these photos. At the woman underneath the makeup and the tight dresses and the fake smiles. At the ghost of the person she must have been before Jack Walker got his hands on her.
She covers herself now. Hides under layers. Makes herself invisible.
Because he made her visible in all the wrong ways.
I close Instagram and set the phone face-down on the desk.
It doesn't help. Her image is burned into my brain. That red dress. Those empty eyes. Jack's hand on her hip like he owned her.
Not your problem, I tell myself again.
But my hands are still shaking with the urge to hit something.