24. “Confident” - Demi Lovato
“Confident” - Demi Lovato
Ibusy myself with the myriad of papers Maisie left that need my signature. Nothing like scrawling your name at the bottom of hundreds of documents to get your mind off the fact that your marriage is on the rocks and there’s little you can do about it.
Just when I think my hand is going to officially turn in its resignation, my phone rings, prompting me to throw the pen down in relief.
It’s a number I don’t recognize. My first instinct is to decline it, but this line is monitored pretty heavily.
If the caller got through, they must be a legitimate person and not one of those creepy robots.
When I pick up, there’s gruff male voice on the other end. “I have intel for you.”
I pull the phone away from my ear to frown into it. “Who is this?”
“Jack Reacher.” There’s a pause. “I was asked to look into someone for you.”
This must be the PI Preston hired, but I thought I’d made it clear to Preston he was to handle everything. “Why are you calling me?”
“I told you, I have intel.” Open-mouthed chewing comes through the line, and I gag. My press secretary and I will need to have a chat about the suitability of the PIs he hires in the future.
“That information could have been relayed to the person who hired you.”
“Yeah, well I was told you’d want to hear it straight from me.”
I’d like to tell this churlish SOB what he can do with his information. “I’m not sure what you’ve been told, but I no longer need you to trail the subject.”
“Suit yourself.” I picture this slobbering mess of a man shrugging in his rumpled suit. “It was a boring job anyway. Lady never did nothing interesting.”
I grit my teeth. Of course she didn’t. She’s Elizabeth Gable, perfect mother, perfect real estate agent, and perfect future wife. “After your uncouth attempts to get information out of a three-year-old, I decided we no longer need your services.”
“Hey, I was given orders to do what was necessary. Talking to that little brat was creative and innovative.”
I’m surprised he even knows the meaning of innovative. “It was unethical. I don’t care how badly you are in need of information—you will not do something like that again on my dime.”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Queen.”
The nerve of this man. “Good day to you, Mr. Rea—” I pause, considering. “Your name isn’t Jack Reacher, is it?”
He cackles. “And here I was, thinking you wasn’t so quick on the uptake.”
“I’ll see to it you’re paid, but do not expect my business in the future.”
“If you’re paying anyway, do you at least want to hear what I found?”
I pause, my thumb already hovering over the disconnect button.
Hiring this ridiculous pathetic excuse of a person was an idiotic idea, but I won’t deny there’s a small grain of curiosity in me that wants to know if he gained anything valuable from trailing Elizabeth.
Henry will blow a fuse if he ever finds out, but if this information leads to us prying that woman from our lives, it won’t matter how I obtained it.
“Or I could sell it to the highest bidder,” he says when I don’t answer. The sound of his crunching comes through in the silence.
“Just tell me what you found.” I clench my jaw. “And if you could put your crisps away for the rest of what I hope will be a very short conversation, it would be greatly appreciated.”
He laughs as a wrapper crinkles on the other end. “You’re as charming as they say.” Mockery coats his tone like oil.
I’m going to fire Preston, if I don’t murder him first.
“I’ve been trailing your girl for a week,” the PI says. “She did the usual—grocery shopping, library with the kid, yoga class. I did enjoy that one quite a bit.”
He laughs lewdly, and I swallow the bile rising in my throat.
“Went to a god-awful amount of houses. She’s a real estate agent, and she’s constantly bobbing around the city to meet people at these big ol’ mansions. I wasn’t always able to get super close to those. They had gates, you know.”
“Would you please get to the point?” I snap.
He waits a few breaths, probably just to irritate me.
“Well, today, she did something different.” He pauses again, and now I know for sure he is dragging this out to make me pay for being rude.
When I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply, he continues.
“Drove out of town on that road that leads to Summersville. I thought maybe she had a big, fancy house showing out there. But she just kept right on driving.”
Does this man think I care that Elizabeth took a day trip out of the city? She probably went to place flowers on a forgotten grave in the middle of the heath.
“I followed her, being sure to stay out of sight. You know, slowing down and letting a few cars get between us so she didn’t get suspicious and all that.”
“I am aware of how to properly follow another vehicle without detection,” I deadpan.
He ignores this. “So anyway, about two hours out of the city, she finally pulls off onto another road. That’s when I realized where we were.”
I raise my eyes to the ceiling as I wait for the inevitable seconds to pass as he drags this out.
“Staggart Prison.”
I’m familiar with the name, although I’ve never been there.
It happens to be where Henry’s father is incarcerated, not that he’s ever visited him.
And while a part of me knows Elizabeth was probably taking cookies to the prisoners in a sweet little basket with a gingham napkin, there’s a tiny spark of hope that she was there on a more nefarious mission.
To visit her murderous brother, perhaps, or to trade confidences with an old roommate?
“Is this the part where you say she went inside, but you can’t tell me any more?” I ask, sick of this wild goose chase.
“This is the part where I tell you that she went inside, and I got the name of the person she visited. But it will cost you another ten grand.”
“Piss off. We’ve paid you plenty.” The words fly out without thought, and I immediately regret them. This information could be vital to bringing Elizabeth down. I’m on the verge of blowing the whole thing just because a bumbling idiot of a man got under my skin.
Fortunately for me, he laughs and says, “I’m just messing with ya. Told you I’d include this information free of a charge. Kind of like an upgrade to first class.”
The man wouldn’t know class if it slapped him in the face. I don’t point out that this is the first information of any kind that he’s been able to supply, and we should actually be receiving a refund.
“You sure you want to know who she was visiting in the ol’ slammer?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. If I had a gun, I’m not sure whether I’d shoot him or myself first. “Positive,” I bite out.
“Alrighty then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He waits again, and I picture him picking at something in his teeth while smiling devilishly as he makes me squirm.
“She was visiting King William. Oh, beg your pardon. The former king. You know, your father-in-law?”
I don’t address his absolute lack of propriety or manners.
I don’t tell him that the only way to refer to him these days is as William Sutherland, since he lost his title and his dukedom when his crimes came to light.
I simply end the call and lay my phone on the desk, trying to process this information.
What the hell was Elizabeth doing visiting William?