Chapter Seven
As the days go by after the murder of Senator Hannah Hathaway, we look to the governor to see who will be appointed to fill
empaths and the use of empathy.
will codify much-needed protections for non-empaths,” said a member of the Stone Solutions leadership team. “We’ll bring our
full support to see it pass.”
—Emerald Tribune, “Empathy debates heat up again in state senate”
Somewhere in downtown Seattle, a car alarm was going off. Grayson rolled to his back, caught momentarily between sleep and
waking.
The wall stretches out in every direction, too high and too wide to see around. There’s no way over it, around it, or through
it. Nothing to see but gray, and gray, and gray—
And the impression of wings, sleek feathers so black they glimmer with ripples of light, like stars against a night sky or snowflakes catching in dark hair—
Grayson’s eyes popped open, everything disappearing in a burst of white: a smooth white ceiling, white crown molding, the
white light of a winter morning pouring in through the windows.
He stared blankly into space for a long moment, hearing his own breaths fill the studio apartment he’d once slept in with
Reece.
Had there just been—in the gray—
The ring of his phone filled the studio, and his thoughts slipped away like birds on the horizon. He reached for it, head
still on the pillow as he hit Speakerphone. “Grayson.”
“Evan, it’s bad.”
St. James’s voice was tight, way too tight, on the verge of angry, heartbroken tears like he’d only heard from her the night
she discovered Reece’s corruption.
Grayson sat up in the bed. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t talk. Check your email.” And St. James hung up.
Grayson blinked at his phone for a moment, like the picture of Reece could give him a clue. Then he clicked on his email icon.
The top message’s subject line leaped out at him.
URGENT: Stone Solutions Head of Security dead—suspect Reece Davies
It was from Vivian Marist.
Grayson stared at the subject line.
Yes, it had only been a matter of time before they had solid proof of Reece committing murder. But they hadn’t had that proof
until now. No wonder St. James was a wreck.
Grayson read through the email. Stone Solutions’ head of security, Wayne Smith, had been found dead in a storage closet during the security shift change.
His blood work had been sent upstairs to Stone Solutions’ own lab; preliminary tests had already come back with adrenaline levels far higher than normal.
There were pictures attached. Grayson flipped through them. The storage closet at the end of the hall was the same one Reece
had once been locked in. There were red streaks smeared under Smith’s eyes, and his face was contorted into shock.
The final picture made Grayson still. There was no mistaking what was next to Smith’s body, because Grayson was still seeing
it every time he opened his phone.
A familiar winter hat, complete with bear ears.
His phone began to ring, and it was St. James again. Grayson answered. “Hey.” He tried not to sound like he was saying I told you so. Even he knew this wasn’t the time. “I just saw—”
“This is bullshit,” she said, cutting him off. “It wasn’t Reece.”
Well. Denial was one way to take the news. “Jamey,” Grayson started.
“You’re going to try to tell me he did this, because you believe it, just like everyone else,” she said hotly. “But unless
and until Reece looks me in the eye and tells me that he murdered someone, then I am going to keep hope and faith alive. And
no one, not even the Dead Man, can change that.”
Grayson’s gaze fell on the windows, speckled with raindrops in the pale dawn. “That’s your prerogative, Detective.”
“Reece didn’t kill this security guard.”
“It’s Wayne Smith again. The same guard who roughed Reece up in November, when he broke into Stone Solutions,” Grayson pointed
out. “This is what corrupted empaths do. What they enjoy doing.”
“But I helped get Cora in custody in November,” Jamey said. “So tell me why, when Alex and Cora were burning down Polaris, they didn’t come for revenge on me.”
“You’re a tough target. Ms. Falcon already knew she wouldn’t win against you—”
“But they spared Aisha and Diesel too.”
“I know you want to read hope into that,” Grayson said. “But corrupted empaths are sadists; they crave their victims’ pain
and rage and fear. Dr. Easterby and Mr. Lane were drugged and tied to beds; not too much of a stretch to think the empaths
were after prey with a little more fight.”
“Or maybe Alex and Cora recognized that Aisha and Diesel were victims too. Maybe even corrupted empaths are still capable
of mercy.”
“I saw the photos of Mr. Smith,” Grayson said. “I’m afraid your brother didn’t show him any mercy last night.”
“Reece didn’t do this,” she snapped. “Aisha and I are going to find a way to save him, and your brother, and Cora. This changes
nothing for us.”
“It changes nothing for me either,” Grayson said more quietly. “I don’t have a heart to break.”
She hung up on him.
Grayson held the phone, gaze on the screen and the image of Reece beaming at the camera in the bear hat. That empath was gone.
Why was Grayson even holding on to the picture?
He opened Settings, his thumb stretching for Delete.
But instead of hitting it, his thumb slipped to the bottom of his screen, and he opened his text messages instead.
Grayson: Message received. Don’t bother coming over. I’ll find you.
He sent the text to Reece. He looked at the picture again for a moment, the dark hair visible as a fringe under the bear hat. He raised his gaze back to the window, and for a moment almost thought he saw a snowflake in the falling rain.
The twenty-second floor of Stone Solutions’ headquarters in Bellevue had once been Cedrick Stone’s personal CEO suite, with
a large entertaining area, a corner office, a private staircase from the roof’s helipad and enviable views of Mount Rainier.
After Alex Grayson’s break-in and arson, however, Vivian Marist had been forced to have an eighteenth-floor conference room
converted into a temporary CEO’s office. With any luck, the board of directors would see fit to make her position as interim
CEO more permanent, and she could remodel Cedrick’s office to her tastes.
So far they’d kept the head of security’s death out of the papers. It had to stay that way. No one could know that in this
very building the night before, Stone Solutions had yet again been breached by the very empaths they were supposed to be protecting
the public from.
No secret lasted forever. It was inevitable that someday the truth about empaths would leak. But when it did, Stone Solutions
had to appear to be an impenetrable force capable of defending the innocent. Otherwise the public would look for another champion.
And that would be terrible for share prices.
She stepped off the elevator and to her door. But as she opened it, she stopped short. Charles Stone was already there, pouring
coffee into a Stone Solutions mug from the carafe that had been left for her on the mini-fridge.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Vivian!” A strikingly handsome man held out his hand to her, tall and broad-shouldered, with lovely deep brown eyes in a
face that appeared sun-kissed but was likely the highest quality bronzer. He was in his early fifties, but if he was hiding
gray in that thick, dark hair, it was expertly done.
What the hell was Lucien Braun doing here?
“Lucien.” Marist expertly smothered her shock as she shook Braun’s hand. “This is a surprise.” Her gaze darted pointedly to
Charles.
“I simply had to share the good news,” Charles said as he handed the mug to Braun. “I realize we have some unexpected business
to deal with this morning, but when does business ever go as expected?”
Marist did generally expect business to go without the murder of their head of security, but she forced a smile instead. “And
what’s that?”
“It will be formally announced this afternoon that the governor has picked a replacement to fill Hannah Hathaway’s senate
seat for the remainder of her term.” Charles gestured at Braun. “And we could not have asked for a better man.”
Marist froze.
“No one could ever replace Hannah,” Braun said, hand on his heart. “I just hope to serve the people of Washington how she
would have wanted—particularly on matters of empathy.”
“He’ll be backing Hannah’s anti-empathy bill,” Charles said. “And of course, Stone Solutions will be backing Lucien.”
“I see,” Marist said delicately, her gaze going to Charles again. “Well, of course allies are very important.”
Charles twitched, what would have been a wince on a man with less emotional control.
A too-loud ringtone, bright and perky, suddenly cut through the room. “That’s the governor now,” Braun said, glancing at his
phone without turning off the ringer. “My apologies, is there a place I can take this?”
Charles pointed to the door that led to the small adjoining room that held Marist’s desk.
Marist kept the irritation off her face as Braun disappeared into her temporary office.
As soon as he’d shut the door, however, she snapped her gaze back to Charles and spoke in a heated whisper. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“Lucien is perfect for the job.” Charles wasn’t meeting her eyes. “Whip-smart, camera-ready and firmly on our team.”
Had Charles lost his mind? “He isn’t even a politician—”
“He’s more than ready for politics. He’s been our best lobbyist for a decade,” Charles said. “His law firm has gone international
now; it’s one of the governor’s biggest donors.”
“But I bet American Minds Intact donates more,” Marist said pointedly.
Charles twitched again. That blow had struck home. “I realize Lucien has something of a reputation,” he said, clearing his
throat. “And it’s natural to be concerned about that following him into the senate. But everyone has their vices, and really,
when you look at the greater scheme of things, a fondness for beautiful women is quite forgivable—”
“Not to Beau Macy, it isn’t,” Marist said. Because Beau will never, ever forgive the man who had an affair with his wife, she didn’t have to add. Charles knew. They’d all been there at the raucous party where Stone Solutions’ preeminent lobbyist,
Lucien Braun, and Beau Macy’s wife, Adele, had fucked the weekend away on Cedrick’s yacht.
“We cannot lose American Minds Intact, Charles,” Marist said. “And that means keeping the AMI president as an ally.”
“But we must look to the silver lining,” Charles said persuasively. “Hannah had many strengths, yes, but we all knew her political
potential had a limit. Her vices were far less understandable.”
That was unfair, in Marist’s opinion. Hathaway’s struggles with alcohol and opioids had been attempts to fill a painful void.
“Her father’s suicide hit her hard.”
“I have a nation to protect. I’m afraid I’ll leave empathy to the empaths,” Charles said shortly. “Even before Hannah’s death, I was grooming Braun to replace her in the senate. I’ve known him nearly thirty years, and I’m pleased the governor took my suggestion in his appointment.”
Took his suggestion. As if Stone Solutions, and the Stones themselves, didn’t donate more to the governor’s campaign than everyone else put together.
Of course the governor had done what Charles wanted.
“Think of the benefits, Vivian.” Charles picked up another mug. “Lucien understands the importance of pushing S.B. 1437 through
the senate immediately.”
“I might have chosen waiting a few months for funding over angering American Minds Intact,” Marist muttered.
Charles waved that away dismissively, pouring coffee from the carafe with his other hand. “The affair was years ago. Beau
will come around. And you will too: When the bill passes, we’ll be able to add a driving range to Orion. Won’t it be a treat
to practice your swing there?”
Marist pursed her lips.
“You have enough to worry about trying to keep another empath murder out of the public sphere,” Charles said in a persuasive
tone perfectly manufactured from years of his own emotional training. He held out the freshly poured cup to her. “Let me handle
Beau. You get the Dead Man on the line and figure out how to catch Reece Davies.”
Marist sighed but took the coffee.