Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Eddie
The last thing I want today is a visit from Arthur Bradley and his son. When he messaged me that he’d be coming by, Cleo said she didn’t want any part of the meeting. She preferred to slip into the pool and pretend she’s a mermaid for the day. She’ll want answers when they’re necessary—no sooner.
Feeding information too early will only feed her anxiety, and God knows she carries enough of it already.
It’s enough that she lives with the constant dread of Dorian storming in, dragging her away, and killing us in the process.
I hadn’t realized how deep that fear ran until she said it aloud.
I promised her we were safe. I promised her I’d ask Arthur for a couple of bodyguards to keep watch, just in case.
She shook her head. Not yet. She doesn’t want more eyes on her.
Cleo spent too long under surveillance in that gilded cage with Dorian.
Another pair of men patrolling the house would only feel like chains all over again.
I promised I’d do it as she requested, unless necessary. At least she’s talking now—that’s something. That’s progress.
“Gentlemen,” I say as I take my seat, forcing civility into my tone. “I won’t lie—this is a surprise. I hope you brought good news.”
Mason slides a folder across the table. The edges are frayed, the tabs chewed down like they’ve been worried at for weeks. “We have information,” he says. “And a plan.”
“A plan?” My eyebrow arches, suspicion sharp.
“Optics first,” Arthur says smoothly. “When a woman vanishes, the world looks at the man who claims to love her. Husband. Significant other. In this case, it’s the fiancé. The lens doesn’t move. That instinct works for us.”
“We didn’t need to paint him in a bad light to anyone,” Mason adds, voice flat. “We let the picture form itself. Right now, the investigators are already digging into his business. We’re simply showing them what he’s tried to hide.”
Arthur’s grin cuts across the table. “They’ve already got him by the throat.”
Mason taps the folder once, finally lifting his gaze. “Two tracks. A public story that cools the pursuit of her and shifts the guilt onto him. And a private case that destroys him.”
“Define ‘cools,’” I ask, throat dry.
“We’re ready for the next phase. We make them stop looking for a breathing woman,” Mason explains. “Let the world believe she’s gone.”
Across from me, Barret’s foot stills mid-bounce. “You’re talking about—”
“A tragedy that leaves no one to rescue,” Arthur finishes smoothly. His eyes cut from me to Barret. “A body, semi-recognizable. No trail to reopen. A loss swallowed by the water, because water doesn’t give back what it takes.”
My stomach twists. “You’re asking us to kill her on paper.”
Arthur steeples his fingers. “I’m asking you to protect her in practice. To give him a story that convinces him the hunt is over. Monsters get careless when they think the gate is shut.”
Barret leans forward, forearms pressed into his thighs, his posture taut with disbelief. “Walk us through it—without teaching us how to commit a crime.”
A corner of Mason’s mouth tips up as if he appreciates the line drawn. “We don’t commit crimes.” He smirks. “We play chess. We walk the gray, but we don’t cross it.”
Arthur nods. “We create a last-seen that can’t be disproven—busy enough to muddy, ordinary enough to stick. Then we arrange an ‘accident’ with which no one can argue. People don’t go back to the cliff that takes them. They learn to leave flowers and move on.”
Barret’s throat works. “And her family?”
Arthur points at me. “You said you’d have that covered,” Arthur says.
“I did when I thought I had time but now . . .” I’m slightly speechless because, honestly, it’s hard to think what I can do to tell them—Hey, so she died, but it’s all going to be okay.
It would’ve been easier if they had come over to see that Cleo was well and knew the whole story. Now, I’m not sure what to do.
“How long do I have?” I ask because that should give me a little wiggle room. It’s apparent that we have to do this before the holidays.
“We can give you a week tops. That’s plenty of time to prepare everything.” Arthur’s eyes don’t move from mine. “We have to bring a couple of people to work this out.”
“What do you mean?” I frown.
“We need a dentist to get her dental records. I’m counting on the fact that she hasn’t visited any dentists since she moved to New York.” He grins.
“You need dental records?” Barret frowns. “That makes no sense.”
“To kill someone, you need a body. The only way that we’ll be able to figure out it’s her will be through dental records,” Mason states. “This all will be done on the East Coast.”
Arthur’s eyes don’t move from mine. “Thorne will steer resources toward damage control if he believes there’s no witness left to threaten. Meanwhile, we keep building the case.”
Mason opens a second folder. “He leaves fingerprints everywhere but the one place that mattered. Not literal—patterns. Payments. Phone habits. The way his people travel. I’m mapping the web. It’s there.”
Barret’s voice drops low. “Then why does this feel like the part that could break us?”
“Because it asks you to let the world believe something you know isn’t true,” Arthur answers. “And that’s its own kind of pain.”
I stare at the tide line drawn across the glass. “I own papers. Stations,” I say. “If I’m seen bending a headline, it becomes a story about me.”
“Then don’t bend it,” Mason replies. “Let it flow where it would have gone—gossip columns, wire briefs. You keep your hands off. We seed the absence somewhere else.” He taps the folder again.
“Paper tickets, calls from pay phones, cash withdrawals . . . it’s a new century.
The world records enough to suggest, not enough to prove. We lean on that.”
I swallow. He’s right about the year. It’s not like we’re in a sci-fi world with Skynet watching. There are receipts and a teller who remembers someone in a hat.
Barret shifts. “What does ‘day of’ look like? Without diagrams.”
Arthur doesn’t blink. “A ferry that doesn’t announce every passenger, a walk that isn’t marked for tourists, and weather that can claim a misstep.
We put belongings where people can find them without feeling like they’re being watched.
It’ll look like a murder that was made to look like an accident—Dorian stops looking for Cleo and starts worrying about himself. ”
“What do you expect him to do after this?”
Mason’s gaze goes thin with something like disdain. “The cops look even closer at the concerned-fiancé. He’ll probably pay a columnist to write a story about his heartbreak. Hires someone to ask questions around here—someone who leaves footprints we can follow back.”
“And in the shadow of that,” Arthur adds, “he makes a mistake. They always do. Contacts the wrong associate. Moves cash the wrong way to clean what’s not even his mess.
Tries to disappear whatever he thinks Cleo knew in case someone got to her and interrogated her. We use everything he tries to cover.”
“What if they ask her family?” Barret suddenly asks. “Or either one of us.”
Arthur shrugs. “You don’t lie to police. They’ll ask questions, you know nothing about the murder, and therefore, there’s nothing for you to say. You let other people assume. You don’t feed the story, because the last time you saw her was a couple of years ago.”
Barret blinks a couple of times. “How would they even know that?”
“In one of the reports, while looking for her, someone mentioned she was going out with one of the members of Dead Moth Parade.” Mason grimaces. “Your name came up.”
“Fuck,” Barret groans.
“It’s okay, babe. We’ll work with a lawyer and prep you for any interview, but we’ll try to keep you away,” I reassure him.
He exhales slowly, the sound dragged out of him. “I can do that. And if someone asks me if she’s dead?” Barret’s voice fractures on the question.
“You say you don’t know,” Arthur replies, firm, like the words are already carved into stone. “Because you don’t keep track of the women you dated in the past.”
Barret’s mouth opens, then closes. A hollow sigh slips out. “I . . .”
“We’ll try to keep you away from that, okay?
” My hand finds his, squeezing hard, like I can keep the walls from closing in if I just hold on tight enough.
I want to sound calm. I want to sound like this is under control.
But I’m just as rattled, my pulse thrumming like it might bruise through my skin.
Barret pushes up from his chair and drifts toward the window.
He braces his palms against the glass, bowing his head until his forehead touches it, like he’s trying to bleed the fever from his body into the cold pane.
His voice breaks low. “We wanted to bring the family over for the holidays, but now . . .” His breath hitches, frayed and thin.
“Now everything feels like it’s falling apart. ”
Arthur turns his gaze on me, assessing. “That’s your call. You think they can keep this secret? How tight is their circle?” He hesitates, then sighs, shoulders dragging with it. “Has she agreed to this plan?”
“She hasn’t said no,” I answer carefully. The truth catches in my throat, but I force it out. “But we haven’t asked if she agrees to be part of it either. She prefers not to know until it has to happen.”
“Then we go back to the drawing board,” Mason mutters, a sound close to a growl. “If she chooses to stay alive, she’ll need to testify. And that makes it harder to keep this mess away from either one of you.”
“It’s possible?” I ask, the words a prayer wrapped in defiance.
Mason nods. “Anything’s possible. Even rewriting the way people live—or die.”
Barret finally turns, his expression stripped bare. “What do you need from me?”
Arthur folds his arms, voice even. “We’ve already secured your alibi.
Before her disappearance, you two were visible.
Together. In places people can point to and remember.
The charity where you signed that guitar for a little kid whose father couldn’t afford the auction.
The events—you left a trail where you’ll be remembered.
All of it is here in Seattle or Los Angeles.
There are no recent trips east. I checked your flight logs—the last one to New York was three months ago. ”
I glance at Mason, a half-smile tugging at me. “So that’s why you were booking those charters?” He gives a tight nod. “You’ve been cleaning my tracks even when I wasn’t aware.”
“You hired the best, Reznor,” he answers with a flash of teeth. “And we’re delivering the best.”
Arthur cuts in, voice steady with command.
“Keep your hands clean in the press. If a reporter asks, you give them the line every exec gives when they don’t want to become the headline.
‘We’re sending the best to the family.’” His gaze flicks toward the window, light breaking across his face like something holy and damning all at once.
“And you make sure this house stays a harbor for her.”
“Done,” I say, more like a promise.
They rise. Arthur pauses at the door. “Talk to Cleo, give her a rundown. If she’s in, we start moving. If not, we pivot.”
“We will,” I promise, though the words scrape my throat raw.
The door clicks shut behind them.
Barret doesn’t look at me as he reaches, but his hand finds mine, our fingers tangling in a fierce grip. His voice is sandpaper. “I fucking hate this.”
“Me too,” I whisper, pressing closer, because if I don’t, I’ll unravel. “But it’s the only way.”
He exhales. “When do we tell her?”
“Later today.” I exhale, exhaustion threading through me. “Let her have a quiet moment by the pool first. Then we’ll figure out what’s best for her—and us.”