Chapter Thirty-One
Eric
As I blaze down the hall, heading for the vestibule stairs, one thought keeps repeating in my mind. What the hell are you doing? I can't answer that question. An impulse shot through me, and I had no choice but to follow it. Okay, I did have a choice. It's just that my brain kind of switched off a minute ago. All I can think about is protecting Iona.
Not because I'm in love with her. I never was, but I realized that fact a little too late to save face. Why, then, am I taking the stairs two at a time and almost tumbling over the railing because of that? It's simple.
I pestered Iona for months. Now I need to make amends.
How? By hunting down Graham Oliver.
As I burst out of the ground-floor door, I trip over one of the paving stones that serve as a walkway. My knee smacks into a stone. Fuck, that hurt. Will it stop me? No. Iona and Rafe deserve answers. If Hubert Frye won't give them, then I'll make sure Graham does.
I stop in the middle of the gravel driveway. I don't have my own car, which means I can't go anywhere. What are the odds one of the drivers left his keys in his limo? Maybe I'll catch a break like that. Might as well try.
The shorter limo, which looks like a regular car that's a little bit longer than usual, seems like my best shot. I jog over there. When I try the door handle, it opens. Maybe my luck is changing. I climb into the driver's seat, expecting to need to hunt around for keys, but I suddenly notice they're in the ignition slot. All I need to do is turn the key.
The second I do that, the engine grumbles to life.
Hallelujah . I push my foot down on the accelerator and race backward, swerving around the other limo until I can swing this car back around to face the open wooden gates of the castle. Then I slam my foot down on the gas pedal and roar off down the gravel driveway. Lucky for me, the metal gates that bar the road at the halfway point swing open for me, then close again behind me. Guess nobody really thought Graham Oliver would invade the stronghold.
Gravel sprays up in my wake, clattering on the undercarriage.
Soon, I'm on the paved road that leads to the village of Loch Fairbairn. I don't slow down at all until I've crossed through the village limits. Even then, I break the speed limit---but ease my foot off the gas pedal just enough that I won't wrap this limo around a light pole. As I navigate the streets, people stare at me and some shout, though I can't hear what they're saying. Probably "stop that right now, you moron." Or possibly "somebody arrest this lunatic."
I've driven around in this village enough times that I know where I'm going. Besides, I've visited this destination more than once. Never under these circumstances, though. Maybe I should've brought a baseball bat with me. No, I won't go inside. This is reconnaissance only.
Right, now I'm a cop or something.
The closer I get to my destination, the more I ease off the gas. I'm going slightly slower than the thirty-five miles per hour speed limit now. When I find an area that doesn't have many cars parked along the curb, I pull over and shut off the engine. I'm almost there. Just a short walk to go.
I climb out of the limo. Nobody notices me because nobody's around. I purposely chose a parking spot that was kind of hidden behind a tree, enough that the limo isn't too conspicuous. As I start walking up the street, I can see my destination. Though I can't read the sign, I know what it says.
The Loch Fairbairn Daily News.
About halfway to the newspaper office, I pass by a vending machine filled up with copies of today's issue. Even when she's in danger, Iona keeps pumping out stories. I'm about to skip right past the vending machine, but then the words emblazoned on the front page catch my eye peripherally. I've never known Iona to use giant bold letters on the front page, not even for the top story. Her headlines are big and bold, but not like this.
I walk backwards until I reach the machine, then turn toward it. The words on the front page...Iona didn't write them. How do I know that? Because of what the headline says.
LOCAL JOURNALIST CAUGHT UP IN SEX SCANDAL.
Whuh? No, that can't be right. Iona wouldn't smear another journalist.
Then I notice the subheading: IONA BUCHANAN IN THREESOME WITH RAFE KNIGHT AND ERIC TAYLOR. The story itself begins below that in smaller letters: "Depraved journalist Iona Buchanan hunts for men around every corner, seeking sexual thrills wherever she can get them. The maneater has already sunk her hooks into an innocent American laddie and a lunatic Brit who enjoys electrical torture."
What the flying fuck? Somebody must have hacked Iona's computer.
Then I notice the next line. It says, "See the photographic proof for yourself."
Whatever that "proof" is, it's below the fold. I dig a few coins out of my pocket and shove them into the slot. Then I yank the door open and snatch up a copy. As I unfold the paper, I freeze. Where the hell did somebody get pictures like this? One shows Iona kissing my cheek while we're standing on her porch. The next one shows her hugging me. All of that was friendly, not romantic. Another image reveals...Holy shit. Naked Rafe carrying naked Iona into a sauna. I think it's the one behind Iona's house.
More pictures show me and the rest of the gang filing into Rafe's house in England. Hubie could've taken those pictures, but the other photos...
I sprint down the sidewalk, veering around an old guy and his little dog on my way to the newspaper office. Sweat starts rolling down my temples, though it isn't a hot day. When I burst through the main doors, halting just inside, I need a minute to catch my breath. I hunch over, slapping my palms on my thighs.
"Who the bloody hell are you?"
I jerk upright and glare at the bastard who spoke. "You must be Graham Oliver."
The gray-haired guy with sallow skin stands behind Iona's desk as if he owns it. A copy of the slanderous issue of The Loch Fairbairn Daily News lies on the desktop.
"Aye," the creep says. "I'm Graham Oliver, the real owner of this newspaper. It was about time the residents of this town learned what a depraved woman Iona Buchanan is. You should know all about that, laddie. You took part in the orgies."
I jerk my head back. "Orgies? You're crazy. What you put on the front page is total sleaze, but nothing like a wild sex party."
Graham sneers at me. "You didn't look at page two, did you?"
I know I shouldn't do it, but I can't stop myself. I need to know what other slanderous lies this piece of human scum made up about me, Rafe, and Iona. So, I pick up the paper he offers me, which has been folded over to show the offending pictures.
What the...Oh, Graham is one lying, scheming, sneaky charlatan. Yeah, I'm being kind in my assessment of him.
I slap the paper down on the desk. "You boned up on Photoshop, huh? These days, anybody can manufacture shit like this with AI. And what makes you think anybody will believe your lies? You went so overboard that it's laughable."
Yeah, the "photos" depict me, Rafe, and Iona, and the others who stayed at Rafe's house, all engaged in a naked orgy on a huge bed. I guess this bastard had to create an AI version of the inside of Rafe's house, because the bedroom shown in these pictures looks nothing like that. Hubie must not have been able to sneak inside to snap images of the real thing.
Graham smacks his palms down on the desk too. Now we're eye to eye.
"You'll regret this, you slimy, conniving bastard."
"Dinnae think so, laddie."
As much as I want to punch this guy's lights out, I know that would only give him justification for having me arrested. I need to speed back to the castle and alert everyone about Graham's disgusting "story."
I snatch up the newspaper and hightail it back to Dùndubhan.