Chapter 21
Brioni wasn’t at work. She’d been home “sick” for two days. Seven had passed the time driving to Brioni’s townhouse picturing every worst-case scenario, imagining the people running this enterprise deciding she’d fucked up too badly to keep around, or that she’d made a run for it.
But when they knocked, she opened the door in unicorn pajama pants, a shockingly pink tank top, and a threadbare oatmeal-colored sweater, her chestnut brown hair shoved into a messy bun.
Her nose and eyes were red and swollen; she clutched a wad of tissues in the hand she used to gesture for them to come inside.
“You’re Seven, right?” she asked, voice small and beaten.
“Yeah. We need to talk,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
She nodded and backed away from the open door into her definitely over-budget townhouse.
Seven knew what his mother made and there was no way she could have afforded a place this nice.
He couldn’t stop himself from taking in the large flat screen, the expensive sofa, the granite countertops.
She wasn’t even trying to hide that she was getting money from somewhere other than her job.
She flopped onto the couch and pointed to the two armchairs opposite it. The coffee table was a graveyard of tea cups. A small trashcan lived between the table and the sofa. A blanket and a pillow were half-tucked into the cushions, and a vampire show re-run droned on low.
“So. Talk,” she said, and blew her nose loudly.
“Why did you frame my mother?” Seven asked.
Brioni froze. Her watery eyes went wide. “What?”
Seven glowered at her. He wasn’t in the mood for her innocent act. “You heard me. We have proof. Don’t waste our time lying. Did she get too close to realizing your boss was trafficking women?”
Brioni blinked so fast the words came out wrong and ragged. “Wh—what?” A coughing fit seized her. When it finally relented, she shook her head. “That’s not true. He wouldn’t do that. He takes care of those women.”
“He?” Enzo prompted.
“Grant,” she said.
“The director?” Enzo asked to confirm.
“Yeah.” The word deflated halfway through her lips. She wrapped the fuzzy blanket tighter around herself like a shield. “He…he’s a good man.”
Seven narrowed his eyes. “Why does it sound like you don’t believe that?”
She just shrugged, now refusing to make eye contact.
“You’re dating, aren’t you?” Enzo pressed.
She didn’t deny it. She only shrugged again. “I guess you could call it that.”
“Does his wife know?” Seven guessed.
Now, Brioni glared at him. “He’s divorced. I’m not a homewrecker.”
Enzo tapped the arm of his chair with one finger. “Does he pay for this townhouse?”
“Is that a crime?” Brioni snapped. A sneeze punctured the edge of her anger and made her sound smaller.
“It is if he’s using embezzled funds to pay for it,” Enzo said flatly.
Seven leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Or the money he earned trafficking the women he was supposed to help.”
“It’s not what it looks like.” Her voice went thin and rushed.
“He’s helping those women. He gets them jobs, helps them relocate, gives them brand-new lives under different names so their abusers can’t find them or their children again.
” Tears tracked down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with a crumpled tissue.
Seven couldn’t tell if the tears were from a head cold or from grief over someone she loved enough to commit crimes for. He tried to picture this Grant person. He was sure he’d met him at some point, but he was drawing a blank. He couldn’t imagine he was worth all this.
“That’s what he told you?” Seven asked, lip curling.
“And you believed him?” Enzo added, his tone hard.
“It’s the truth!” she shot back, then shrank under the blanket again, eyes darting to the hallway like she expected someone to come barreling through at any moment. “Isn’t it?”
“Brioni,” Enzo said, his voice taking on that smooth cadence he used when he was cross-examining a witness.
The one he used to lure them into a false sense of security.
It was sexy as hell. “You seem like a nice woman who maybe got mixed up in something bigger than you knew. Let’s go back to the beginning and see if we can piece this together. Okay?”
She hesitated, then nodded, reaching for her mug. She sipped and made a face before setting it down. “I need more tea.”
She shrugged off the blanket and shuffled into the kitchen, hitting the kettle’s switch with a thumb that trembled. Enzo and Seven exchanged a look and followed. She gestured to the bar stools pushed under the island. Enzo pulled one out and offered it to Seven, then settled on the other.
“You were the one who dumped those files onto that thumb drive, right?” Seven asked. “You framed my mother.”
Tears leaked instantly. “I—I panicked.”
“Did Grant tell you to do it?” Seven pressed.
“No, I just… I was worried they wouldn’t think she was framing me just with the files they had. I wanted to make sure they didn’t suspect me.”
She bit her bottom lip, like she realized she was trying to garner sympathy from her victim’s son.
“So, you were embezzling money for the company?” Enzo asked.
Brioni’s answer was a messy nod and a shake at the same time. “I was, but not for the reason you think.”
Enzo steepled his fingers together on the counter. “Did you do it for your own self-interest, or did Grant somehow coerce you into doing it?”
Seven’s brow lifted, and he waited for the altruistic justification for stealing from a charity.
“Grant asked me to…siphon money from WERC to help those women start new lives,” Brioni said, the words tumbling out.
“He told me it was the only way. That charity oversight and donors made it impossible to do the work properly. That to truly protect them, we needed new passports, new identities… Things that cost money.”
“You did it because he said it was necessary?” Seven’s voice was quiet and flat, disbelief wrapped in accusation.
“He showed me pictures,” she said, clutching her empty mug like it was an anchor. “Former clients. Smiling women with apartments and jobs. He said they were safe. He said we were saving them.”
“Was the previous financial director in on this, too? Damian?” Enzo asked.
She hesitated, then nodded. “We were both happy to help. We thought we were giving them new lives.”
“Did it never once occur to you that Grant was trafficking these women?” Seven demanded.
“He wouldn’t do that!” she cried.
“Except, he did.” Seven’s words landed hard. “He did do that. We have proof. Proof you gave us.”
“What?” Her face crumpled.
Seven shook his head. How could someone be so blind? Instantly, his mother’s face popped into his head. He’d spent years thinking that she’d been this blinded by love for his father only to find out that she was only giving in to protect him. He doubted Brioni’s motives were that noble.
“Those files you dumped in Neith’s bag.” Enzo’s tone was steady, clinical. “You handed us Grant’s entire operation. Thanks to you, we know who he took, which donor bought them, and—if we’re lucky—where they are, so we can pull them out. But that wasn’t your intent, was it?”
Brioni sank back against the counter, hands covering her mouth. “No. No way. He wasn’t doing that. Grant and his friends…they’ve always—” Her voice broke. She trailed off as the kettle clicked and beeped.
She turned, the movement small and mechanical, and poured hot water over a teabag. She stood there, shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Seven had a hard time finding sympathy in himself; pity and anger tangled where sympathy might have been had she not framed his mother.
When she finally forced herself to turn, she cradled the mug like it might keep her together. Her smile was a wobble. “Can we go back to the living room? I’m a little dizzy.”
Seven watched her, every muscle taut. He didn’t trust the tremor—not yet—but he couldn’t ignore how small she looked against the brightness of her kitchen lights.
Once they were settled, and Brioni was wrapped again in her fuzzy blanket, she looked at them with red-rimmed eyes. “Ask me anything. I’ll try to answer.”
“Why did you frame my mother?” Seven spat, glaring at her. “She really liked you.”
“I like her,” Brioni cried. “I didn’t want to frame her, but Grant said if he or I went down for it, we wouldn’t be able to help those women.”
Seven’s lip curled. “You thought my mom was a better sacrifice?”
“Grant said if Neith knew the whole story, she would have volunteered as the scapegoat because she was so devoted to the cause. I begged him—begged him—to let me tell her what was going on, but he refused. He said the more people who knew, the more dangerous it would become. And after the Marcus situation, I knew he was right.”
“Marcus? What did he have to do with this?” Enzo asked.
“Grant brought him in because he was related to a donor who all but insisted that Grant hire him. But pretty quickly, it became clear he wasn’t a good person.
He was harassing the women we were meant to help.
Neith insisted he be fired. Grant said they couldn’t fire the relative of a donor.
He quietly found him another job. A better job. ”
“That wasn’t a red flag to you?” Seven’s voice went sharp. “You didn’t care that someone who clearly abused his power over women was not only not disciplined, but was helped to find a better place where he could keep victimizing vulnerable people?”
“I didn’t see it that way. I—” She cut herself off, sipping her tea and wincing. “I guess I just didn’t want to see it that way.”
“Why did Grant kill Damian?” Enzo asked.
“What?” Brioni gasped. “He didn’t. That was an accident.”
“Damian was allergic to alcohol. Why would he drink and drive?” Seven pushed.
She closed her eyes and looked suddenly years older. “No. He was a recovering alcoholic. Grant said he was—” Her words fell away. When she opened her eyes, she said, “He lied about that, too, didn’t he?”