CHAPTER SIX #2
I label my newly created stack KING JUNIOR and then scratch it out.
“You don’t get to be King,” I say, and write just JUNIOR.
Liking the way that looks and sounds a whole hell of a lot more, I stand up, walk to the wooden step stool under the bulletin boards cluttered with pushpins, and climb the three steps to the top.
Once there, I place my “Junior” label at the center top of the board and then line up the word cards.
Once done, I step off the stool and stare up at the beginning of my creation and grimace at the words: Insecure.
Egotistical. Educated. Devious. I just described every politician and attorney on Planet Earth and, according to the guy that came before Rich, myself.
Kane, as well, if you remove the word insecure—his confidence is something that has always drawn me to him.
Damn it, Lilah. Don’t do that. Don’t think about Kane.
I refocus on my board and the words I’ve written.
I’m off to a worthless start, but then, I remind myself, every puzzle starts out with a seemingly impossible amount of pieces.
Sighing, I drag a hand through my hair and walk back to the desk.
Sitting down and deciding I need fuel for my brain, I open my right-hand drawer.
Bingo. My stash of chocolate is still intact.
I pull it out of the drawer and set it on the desk, and, as is my ritual, I line up a dozen pieces of chocolate in a neat row in front of me.
Each will be a reward for filling in a puzzle piece, and since I haven’t eaten all day, I don’t even have to suffer a morning jog to pay for them.
Chocolate motivation in place, it’s time for a new card and a new direction.
Whoever this is knows one of two people or both—me and/or Kane.
I can’t avoid him. He’s a part of this and my life, forever after, because of that night.
I write my name on a card and then his on another.
Now. Who was close to me back then? My inner circle.
I grab a stack of cards and use one per name.
My father, Grant Love, then the police chief and running for mayor.
My brother, Andrew Love, who was training to take over as police chief.
Eddie “Asshole” Rivera. I actually write ASSHOLE on the card because it simply makes me feel better.
Roger Griffin, my mentor. Logan Knight, my NYPD superior.
From there, the cards start flying. There is my father’s campaign manager and staff.
A woman Andrew was dating back then. My then—and now ex—best friend, Alexandra Harris.
I stop at twelve cards, keeping the inner circle my focus, at least for now.
I move on to Kane and stare at the blank cards.
There is only one person I know that has ever been close to Kane.
Me. Well, and one other. I write that name on a card: Miguel Mendez, Kane’s dead father.
A man who ran a cartel that he hid under layers of legal operations, with a savvy never seen before.
A man who had enemies that Kane inherited by association.
This has to be about Kane, not me. I’m going to have to involve him in this.
No, I think immediately. Not that fast. Not until I rule out other options directly linked to me, not him.
I grab the note cards and walk to the bulletin board, and wanting to start high and work low, I climb the step stool, pinning my name and Kane’s side by side and above my head.
When I’m done, my long list of names is under my name, and there is simply one under Kane’s name—Miguel.
I scan my list and keep going back to Eddie, but my eyes pull to the name Miguel Mendez.
Again, I think this has to be about him.
He died not long after that night. Was there a connection to my attack and his death?
Was it an attack on Miguel or Kane? I don’t like where this is leading me, which is to Kane’s doorstep.
I grab a piece of chocolate and rip it open, shoving it in my mouth, only to choke on the horrid taste of mud.
“Ah, yuck.” I sit down and grab the trash can under the desk, spitting out the monstrosity in my mouth labeled as chocolate, looking for water I don’t have anywhere nearby.
Opening the drawer, I grab a tissue and start wiping my tongue, like this will help, but I’m desperate here.
I need this out of my mouth. Finally, I cross over from disgusting to a lingering chalklike sensation in my mouth, and I toss the tissue.
I then grab the bag of candy and search for an expiration date to find my chocolate is two years past the “best by” date.
Obviously not the thing to take with you into a bomb shelter.
My cell rings, and frustration with Rich and my chocolate fiasco wins my irritation. This man must let go. He’s going to make me hurt him, and that sucks big, fat bananas. I grab my phone and swipe my finger across it to answer. “I said please,” I bite out harshly.
“Please isn’t always good enough. You know that.”