Chapter 2
Atticus
We’re going to have to kill someone, and the only proof I have of that is that Conrad’s pacing.
Nothing good ever happens when Conrad starts pacing. That vein at his temple pulses; his shoulders are rigid, his fists are clenched…every inch of him is coiled tight like he’s moments from kicking a hole through the wall just to feel something break.
I understand the urge, because all I want to do is destroy the world around me.
Unable to stop myself, I press two fingers to the inside of my left wrist. The steady pounding of my blood through my veins reminds me that I’m here.
That I have a purpose. It’s a constant reminder that I can’t go on a rampage.
Instead, I sit at the dining table, as far away as I can get from the corpse.
My glasses lie next to my elbows and forearms on the cool wood while my eyes stay fixed on my phone.
I stare at the blank screen like it might give me answers.
The screen throws my reflection back at me: my pupils pinpricks, jaw locked.
I look like a mess.
My heart rate is steady. But my mind is more of a crime scene than the room we’re occupying.
Unwanted, an old memory surges up and forces its way into my mind.
I was probably ten years old, and my dad thought it would be a fun exercise to take me to the shooting range.
Rite of passage—all that fun welcome-to-southern-manhood shit. He gave me an airsoft gun, complete with a metal tin of pellets, because he said I was too scrawny to handle a real pistol.
And then there was the fact that he knew I’d probably find a way to kill him. Even at ten, I’d call it an accident. Most children aren’t planning their father’s murder. But I was.
We were shooting paper targets at the far end of a gallery, and I remember how impressed Dad was with one of his buddy’s son’s grouping when the targets came sliding in.
Everyone oohed and aahed over how tight the group was, how precise and accurate it was, while I stood there and rolled my eyes at the display.
Seriously—who really cared? It was a piece of paper.
Could he shoot something that mattered, when it mattered?
And then it was my turn.
I didn’t want to shoot that stupid gun, but I was already an asshole, so I dropped the tin and pretended to accidentally misfire and shoot the other kid in the foot.
Everyone started yelling.
The pellets scattered all over the polished wood of the shooting gallery, pinging this way and that and causing general chaos.
It was calculated chaos, and it was beyond beautiful.
Dragging myself from the memory, I can’t help but identify the similarities between then and now.
This is the type of scattered chaos that can only ever come from someone calculating every single possible outcome, and doing their damndest to control it.
There is someone behind the curtain, using their power to maneuver us like a chessboard. Someone who just fired a perfectly placed warning shot to watch us scatter and see how we react.
I recognize the move.
They’re using this chaos to compile data. They’re building toward something more. A much bigger plan. I just have to figure it out.
A small part of me respects it, but most of me wants to tear this jackass apart with my bare hands and watch him bleed out at my feet.
The only thing keeping me from snapping at Conrad is the cold detachment I’ve spent years beating into myself.
Exhale four counts. Hold four. Release…until the edge of my panic dulls.
Finally, I feel the familiar numbness take over. It’s comforting in a twisted and fucked up way.
Years of my mother’s emotional manipulation, of guilt, and of hiding my father’s secrets have prepared me for this moment. You learn to shove panic down deep when the panic’s routine.
“—need to secure the entire east wing,” Conrad is saying as he moves around the room like a caged animal. Anger simmers under his skin, barely contained. My gaze drops to his hand, where he keeps flexing and releasing his already bruised and battered knuckles.
This has always been his problem. He can be cold and calculating when he wants to be, but the second things get to be too much, he gives in to his baser instincts. Strategy evaporates and that rage that thrums in his veins takes over.
Conrad needs to get it out. Honestly, he needs to hit something.
He needs to find an enemy he can actually see and rip them to shreds with his bare hands.
That instinct is why we were forced to take a year off school in the first place.
Why finish our MBA’s when we have something to work toward, right?
He itches for impact—a wall, a jaw—anything that answers back and gives him the excuse he craves.
The fucking barbarian can’t think past his hair trigger, and one day it’s going to bring us all down.
“—we need to get the rest of the floor under control before—”
“We already did that,” I interrupt, not looking up from my black screen. “Twice. The front desk has been told not to check anyone into another suite on this floor—upgrades are being comped. Housekeeping’s been told to leave the penthouse for today.”
He ignores me, still pacing.
I have to remember this is his thing.
This is how he feels in control. He needs to know where all the pieces are, even when the board is on fire. Macho alpha bullshit with just enough paranoia to make him dangerous.
What pisses me off most is that he’s not wrong. He’s just late. His orders arrive fifteen minutes after I already issued them. If I were to show him my phone log, he’d already see the calls he’s telling us to make.
The first thought I had when I saw the body—Sarah’s body—was that it could have been Phoenix.
I should want to wrap my arms around her and take her far away from this.
I should want to make sure she’s okay, that she wouldn’t see this, that she would never be the one laid out like a message.
I should want to do any number of things to protect her.
But I already know there’s something broken in me. Because I knew it was already too late. She was the first to see the body.
I can admit to myself, where I’ll never have to face the truth, that I wanted to hold her.
To be her strength, but that’s not who I am in our merry little band of fuck ups.
And Storm was already there. He was holding her, and while I may not know what to do for Phoenix, I can see clear as day that she helps him with her presence.
He shouldn’t be part of this conversation, anyway.
It’s too messy. Too full of rage and recklessness for the gentle soul he holds.
Storm knows how to kill, how to protect, and how to hold.
But politics? Logistics? This isn’t his game.
Ask him for the clearest way through a problem, and he’ll draw his knife, not a map.
There are too many places for him to get lost, and the last thing we need is Storm wrestling his own demons on top of everything else.
So it’s me who gets to stay in this room with the corpse, trying to answer the unanswerable and to keep Maverick and Conrad from making everything worse.
Me who’s been drawing that kind of short straw all our fucking lives. And I’ve been okay with it—until I saw Phoenix’s expression, and something in me wanted to be the one who got to make everything better.
I suck in a deep breath, taking that stray emotion and shoving it down, deep somewhere I can’t access it. Developing feelings for Phoenix would make things…complicated. Right now we can not afford complicated.
The game with Phoenix has been a fun distraction, but we need to keep in mind that’s all she is—a distraction at best, a liability at worst. She gets to walk away when this is over.
And that’s going to wreck Conrad, and Storm. Hell, maybe even Maverick at this point.
“We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Conrad snaps.
Maverick leans back in a leather chair that he dwarfs like he’s watching a particularly boring episode of someone else’s breakdown. Fuck his constant nonchalant attitude, like nothing ever matters. He flicks lint from his cuff and studies the ceiling as if that’s more interesting than the body.
“Can’t we just…I don’t know, call the cops? We didn’t actually kill her. We weren’t even here,” he says. “Phoenix, and the cameras all over the place will support that. Built in alibis and all that shit.”
I press a finger against the edge of my eyebrow. A migraine is building behind my right eye, throbbing hard enough to blur my vision. Light halos at the edge of the room, and the screen in front of me grows fuzzy around the edges.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe through my teeth. “Jesus H. Christ. Please be a little smarter, Mav.”
“What?” Maverick shrugs. “I’m just saying…if we didn’t do it, maybe acting like normal fucking people for five seconds isn’t the worst play.”
“And then what?” I snap. “We calmly explain to the cops that no, we didn’t kill this girl because we were too busy feeding two mafia enforcers to sharks in international waters?”
Both Maverick and Conrad go silent for a beat too long.
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds kind of bad.”
Maverick grins, and I fight the urge to punch him in the face. His smile is all white teeth and empty thought, only I know he’s not stupid.
I slide my chair back and head to the bar.
The bourbon in its cut-glass decanter looks far too tempting, but it’s too early for that and I have too much to do.
Instead, I pour water, then take an Adderall from the bottle I keep in the second drawer of the liquor cabinet.
I eye the Zavegepant inhaler, then grab it and shove it into my pocket after taking the required quick puffs.
Hopefully Conrad and Maverick calm the fuck down, and I won’t need it, but if this migraine gets worse, I don’t have time to rest. Sleep is a luxury we can’t afford, but pharmaceuticals aren’t, thank the pill gods.