Chapter 4 #2
I didn’t tell him that I’d acted as the guinea pig multiple times while developing the compound.
The only person who knew that was Sofia Voronova and I highly doubted she was in a group chat with my brother and sister.
“You shouldn’t be testing your own drugs.”
“I’m not suicidal. I know what I’m doing.”
“That’s what terrifies me. You think you do but you don’t.” Shoulders slumping, he muttered, “I miss when you were my dumbass baby brother. Pulling stunts that almost got us killed, not that almost took your own life—”
“Excuse my prefrontal cortex for needing to fully mature.”
“That is what I’m talking about. You’re too in your head now.” He sighed. “Never mind.”
In silence, I got to my feet and finished collecting my things. Eventually, I asked, “Have you heard from Alina?”
His mouth tightened, which was all the answer I needed.
No.
Alina was Evangeline's mother and Luc’s one-time housekeeper, but she'd quit last year to open her own restaurant. An ultra-traditional kind of woman, it had taken losing her daughter to change her perspective. Which was a bitch because she’d been against Evangeline getting a career of her own.
A part of me was sure that I grieved her loss too. Especially as I couldn’t visit her restaurant. Not when I knew I’d come face-to-face with her disappointment in me—she’d wanted me to propose to Evangeline and I hadn’t.
My focus shifted onto his phone when he shoved it in front of me. “What’s this?”
“Read it.”
The recent passing of billionaire ‘philanthropist’ Graham Brackton Sr. may not have been as clear-cut as the authorities wish us to believe.
My eyes bugged. “Wait, Brackton Sr.’s dead?”
“You hadn’t heard?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure why I’m asking. I’m surprised you even know his name.”
“He’s that dipshit who pushed hard for Devere to become Davidson’s running mate, then has been funding Devere’s reelection campaign, right? The one who’s all about Christian values but’s a regular with our escorts? And whose son snorts more coke than a gaggle of 90s supermodels?”
Luc chortled. “That’s the one. Whale spenders. The pair of them.”
I’d never had the patience for hypocrites, but I sure as fuck didn’t today. “When did he croak, and why is it relevant to us? Aside from affecting our bottom line, of course.”
“Two nights ago. It’s taken over the headlines.”
“Ah, that’s why I’ve missed it then. I’ve been steering clear of things that irritate me. Including my siblings.”
Ignoring my grousing, he ordered, “Carry on reading.”
According to my sources, a long-range bullet killed him. One that traveled from such a distance only a professional could have pulled off the hit.
The type of professional that our alphabet agencies train…
This isn’t the first time I’ve brought up the bromance between Brackton and our president. You know, our commander in chief?
He’d have perfect access to the records of agents with that kind of experience.
But what could have triggered a breakup between these two? Especially when Brackton’s super PAC is heavily backing Devere’s reelection campaign…
During Brackton’s final hours on this planet, did the pair argue?
Or maybe Devere wasn’t behind the shooting.
If not, dear reader, then who?
Let me present some of the facts.
The president was one of two men who saw Brackton alive in the moments prior to his death. The second, Canadian billionaire Clyde Korhonen, was another of Brackton’s friends from his college days at Oakwood.
Who’s one of my sources?
Brackton, a renowned whoremonger, hired a special lady ‘friend’ on the night of his murder, and she, the poor thing, witnessed his brutal death before perishing in mysterious circumstances—a pileup on the Upper East Side last night.
Not before sending me a picture…
If that doesn’t scream conspiracy to you, then you’re reading the wrong blog.
Decide for yourselves exactly why that escort had to die. From the picture alone, (redacted to protect their identities,) we can see two of the ‘hookers’ entertaining our POTUS and his best buds are underage.
A secret worth murdering for?
Absolutely.
Throw in the fact that Brackton Sr. has been priming the city for an inhouse election of his own—his son, Graham Jr., has his sights on the New York State Executive Mansion.
Keeping their reputations squeaky clean would have been imperative to his father.
And being associated with a pedophilic president would have damaged not only the family, but their super PAC.
Then, there’s news that Anastasia, Graham’s beleaguered wife, has been interred in Shady Pines after experiencing another breakdown. (Two years ago, she was admitted to an NYC hospital on a suspected overdose when rumor had it the two were heading for divorce. See blog here.)
My sources tell me, however, that there was nothing voluntary about her recent hospitalization…
The wife, the billionaire bud, or the president—your suspects, dear reader.
I’ll let you decide who the perp is. I know who my money’s on and he’s sitting behind the Resolute Desk.
(Maybe it’s time to change POTUS’s meaning to Pedophile Of The United States???)
“Those hookers are kids.”
My flat statement had Luc nodding. “Agreed.”
“We don’t run children.”
“Of course we don’t.” Luc huffed. “Nor do any of the city’s principal factions—we have an accord, remember? For all that Braxton was a pervert, at least he liked them over the age of consent.”
This conversation was not helping my headache disappear.
I skewered the president’s face with my pointer finger. “Wonder how the blogger gained access to the picture.”
“The escort took it, but I don’t know if she sent it to the blogger.” A nerve ticked in his jaw. “She was one of ours. The authorities said she was driving under the influence. They’re blaming her for the pileup.”
I cracked my neck. “Did it seem forced?”
“What?”
“Any track marks? Any bruising that’d suggest she was helped?”
“Not as far as I know. Apparently, Clarice used to have a drug problem. It’s being postulated that she experienced a relapse.
” He cleared his throat. “You’d be wise to put a better face on things than you are now because Rory’s in a piss-poor mood.
Hunter’s already freaking out about the Braxton Hicks she’s experiencing.
We’re supposed to keep things as calm as we can. ”
“I’m not a child.” At his arched brow, I flipped him the bird. “I’m not. If she needs me to investigate—”
“For the moment, there’s nothing to investigate, and the last thing I want is you encouraging Rory’s theories. She’s as bad as this blogger.”
“Meaning she thinks the whole thing was staged.” I pursed my lips. “Her instincts are rarely wrong.”
“Perhaps.”
“I can make discreet inquiries.”
“Clarice came to Rory and talked about what she’d seen and heard prior to Brackton’s death.”
“Did she tell her to contact the blogger?”
“Not according to our soru.”
“What did Clarice pass onto her?”
“That Brackton and Devere know about the Five Points’ plan to put one of their own in the White House.”
I quickly scanned the blog again and made a mental note to visit the site and read the archives later. “You going to tell Aidan O’Donnelly?”
“My gut says this is something we need to bury. There’s a lot of time between now and their puppet even attempting to win a primary. Everything is still in play. If things change…” He hitched a shoulder. “Then, I’ll tell Aidan.”
“So, burying it and hoping it doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass is our play?”
Looking as dissatisfied as I felt, he exhaled. “Yeah.”
I zoomed in on the image of the pedophile-in-charge. “Wonder who took out Brackton.”
“Not sure. Clarice confirmed it was a hit, not a heart attack like the authorities want us to think. One second Clarice told Rory she and Brackton were arguing because Clarice refused to have sex with the “escorts” Devere and Korhonen brought along to the party, and the next Brackton has a GSW to the temple.”
“Cristu.”
“About sums it up. This is a cover-up just waiting to happen.” He heaved a sigh. “Rory said that Clarice’s disappointment was twofold.”
“Explain.”
“She seemed to think he’d wife her.”
“No fucking way.”
“His second wife, the one he divorced last year, was a hooker.”
I gaped at that news. “Holy fuck.”
“Man liked to shit where he ate,” Luc concurred. “Anyway, according to Rory, it’s why she argued with Brackton. She had power over him and didn’t want to take part in a twisted orgy with kids.
“From what I can tell, Brackton didn’t swing that way either, so maybe Devere had justification for taking him out. One too many judgmental looks? Maybe he threatened to take his super PAC’s funds elsewhere if Devere didn’t clean up his act?”
“This speculation gets us nowhere.”
“True.” He tapped his phone screen. “This blogger is becoming a problem. The intel she has access to concerns me.”
“Her? It’s anonymous.”
“Definitely a female voice.”
“She’s only concerning because we don’t know who she is. If we had control of her, then it’d be a different matter.”
“Of course,” he said blandly. “If we make inquiries about anything, it should be her.”
“I’ll ask Hunter to look into it.
Luc nodded. “Let’s get you home. Matri has made you a feast that you don’t deserve. She says you’re too thin.”
I snickered. “It’s the first time anyone’s ever accused me of being that.”
“You haven’t looked in the mirror. For you, you’re skin and bones.” He raised his hands again when I glared at him. “The nurses tell me you haven’t been eating.”
“I’ve eaten plenty.”
“According to Hunter, the only thing you do eat are the protein shakes he brings you.”
When my glower doubled down, he just sighed.
Twenty minutes later, he pestered me out of the goddamn door of this miserable hospital room and grabbed my bags like I was too weak to carry them on my own.
Even as my mind kept drifting to Clarice’s accident, I couldn’t stop myself from peering around every corner for the dream girl.
The guilt soured further in my stomach, memories of Evangeline’s death trying to force the image of the woman away, but it didn’t work.
How could it?
My relationship with Evangeline had always been platonic. Nothing about my attraction to the angel could ever share that definition.
The angel… Had she been sent to tell me I was close to my goal? Even if it was years too late?
Or was she merely temptation?
A promise?
As my head nearly swiveled off my neck whenever we traversed a corridor on the way to the car via a pitstop at Currau’s room, I had to accept the cold, hard truth—angel or not, ghostly apparition or not, woman or not, for the first time in too long, I wanted.
I needed.
I craved.
Which was practically the beginning of the end.