No Shovel
Maddox
When I opened my door, Ryder grinned. "So, you finally did her in, huh?"
Officially, Sloane was missing, not dead. But you'd never know it from the news coverage.
I'd spent the last two days hunkered down at the place I called home – a sprawling penthouse overlooking Chicago.
I hadn't been opening the door to anyone – not that anyone had knocked. That was by design, not chance. The building had a doorman and extra security for a reason.
I gave Ryder a perplexed look. "How'd you get past Frank?" The doorman wasn't quite security, but he still would've had to buzz Ryder up.
"Oh, that?" Ryder said. "It was easy. I said you need help."
"With what?"
"What else? Burying the body."
Ryder was holding something loose at his side, but it wasn't a shovel. I gave him another look and waited.
"Relax," Ryder said. "He and I go way back. He used to work at one of my buildings." He smiled as he hoisted the thing in his hand. "Plus, I brought you this."
This was a bottle of Macallan, the same scotch we'd used to help send Griff on his little reset.
I almost smiled. "I know." I glanced at the bottle. "I saw it through the peephole. Why do you think I answered the door?"
In truth, I'd answered because I was annoyingly glad to see him – not just because he was a friendly face, but because hiding wasn't my style.
And yet, that's exactly what I was doing.
Leaving the penthouse meant dealing with reporters. Staying home meant dealing with myself. Pissed off or not, I was still better company.
Besides, it was the weekend.
Technically, there was nowhere I had to be.
And let's be real here. There was nowhere I wanted to be.
As I stepped aside to let Ryder in, he moved forward and took a long look around, studying the floor-to-ceiling windows with the Chicago skyline beyond, where the last light of sunset glinted off the skyscrapers.
He gave a slow nod. "Nice place."
I laughed. "That's what you said the last time."
"So?"
"So it's not exactly new." As I said it, I turned to study the penthouse with fresh eyes. Maybe Ryder had a point. Between the skyline views, the sprawling living space, and enough marble to bankrupt a small country, this wasn't a bad place to spend a weekend avoiding drama.
Sure, I hated feeling like a prisoner in my own home, but not as much as I hated being mobbed wherever I went.
Months ago, after the fiasco with the wedding, things had been hectic enough. But apparently, a missing ex generated a whole new level of interest – especially when the press started connecting it to family history.
According to the gossip mill, Sloane had drowned while yachting – just like my dear old dad.
Or she'd been drowned, courtesy of yours truly.
The way people talked, the odds were running fifty-fifty, which should've been hilarious, considering I had never set foot in Greece.
Yes. Greece.
The same place my father had died.
Next to me, Ryder hoisted the bottle higher. "So, are you gonna stare out the windows all night, or do you want to grab some glasses?"
I'd done enough staring already, so I headed for the kitchen, where I snagged two decent glasses and a bucket of ice. By the time I returned, Ryder was sprawled out on the sofa near the fireplace, watching me with a look I couldn't quite decipher.
Normally, I wasn't one to ask. This time, I made an exception. "What are you thinking?"
"Me?" He took a long look around. "I'm thinking this place is too clean."
I frowned. "How so?"
"It's like nobody lives here."
I'd been to Ryder's place, so I wasn't buying it. "Yeah, well, your place isn't exactly a mess."
"True. But at my place, you can tell someone actually lives there." He gave the penthouse another once-over. "Here, it's like a model unit – like somebody decorated it for a brochure and forgot to move in."
I was in no mood to be analyzed. "Or maybe the cleaning people just left."
"Or," he said, drawing out the word. "Maybe you're the one who needs an intervention."
I froze. Like Griff? "Fuck no."
Ryder laughed. "Don't worry. It's off the table now, since I tipped my hand, so you can stop looking so horrified." But then, his expression grew thoughtful. "But you know what?"
I was almost afraid to ask. "What?"
He gave a slow nod. "What you need is a getaway."
The world was a giant place, and I had plenty of money. I could get away any time I wanted. And yet, I'd been staying put, refusing to be run out of town by a bunch of bullshit that was too ridiculous to be believed.
And yet, the world did believe it.
Of course, that ludicrous book wasn't helping. By now, it had been out for only two weeks, long enough to get tongues wagging – as if there hadn't been enough gossip already.
Three days ago, the wagging went into overdrive when Sloane had gone missing from a party-yacht with friends. When the yacht pulled into port, her stuff was still there, but Sloane was gone, leaving nothing of herself behind, except a blood-stained Gucci scarf.
God, what a cliché.
The media had just loved that – as if I'd strangled her with the scarf and tossed her over, keeping the scarf as a bloody souvenir.
Except nobody had kept it. It had been found tied to the railing like a designer calling card.
Plus, if she was strangled, why the blood?
It was too ridiculous by half.
How this whole scenario involved me was a serious stretch. It's not like the scarf was found under my pillow. Plus, there was the inconvenient fact that I hadn't even left the country – which only fueled theories of murder-for-hire.
Right. Like I had hired a scuba hit squad to drag Sloane off the yacht.
At least I wasn't an official suspect. And yet, that part never made the headlines. Hell, it barely made the stories.
On the couch, Ryder asked, "So, aren't you gonna ask where?"
I blinked back to the present. "Where what?"
"Where you should go."
Fine, I'd play along. "Alright. Where should I go?"
"Mackinac Island."
"Why there?"
"Because the tourist season's over. The place is practically a ghost town." He smiled. "Plus, I want you to meet my fiancée."
I almost dropped my glass. "What?" The engagement had to be new, because this was the first I'd heard of it.
"My fiancée," he repeated, looking a lot happier than I'd ever been after my engagement.
I stared. "You're marrying Delaney's sister?"
That made him pause. "Why'd you put it that way?"
"What way?"
"You should've said, 'You're marrying Tessa Sinclair.'"
Damn it. He was right. It was a rookie mistake. Some might blame the distraction with Sloane. But the truth was, Delaney Sinclair was still occupying far too much of my mind.
Still, I forced an easy shrug. "And that matters why?"
His eyes narrowed. "You met her, didn't you?"
I reached up to rub the back of my neck. "Who?"
"Her sister. And no, I don't mean Delaney's sister, who I'm gonna marry. I mean, Tessa's sister. And you never did tell me where she is." His tone grew sarcastic. "Thanks for that, by the way."
When I didn't reply, he added, "Tessa really does want to know."
That got my attention. "You mean, she doesn't already?" Delaney had left Chicago months ago. Surely, she would've surfaced by now.
But apparently not.
Ryder replied, "Hell no. You're the one with all the information."
He was wrong. I'd lost track of Delaney the moment she'd left town – not by chance, by design.
No stalking. No hounding. No watching from afar.
With Evan Carver out of the picture, I had no reasonable excuse.
Delaney was perfectly safe.
Or at least, she should be safe.
Still, concern prickled at my spine as I asked, "How can you not know? What, she hasn't talked to Tessa?"
Ryder's mouth tightened. "You mean the person you refuse to meet?"
"I'm not refusing."
"The hell you aren't," he said. "We've invited you a dozen times. You always bow out."
For the last few months, Ryder and Tessa had been splitting their time between Chicago and Mackinac Island. Ryder seemed happy, which should've made me happy.
And it did.
But the truth was, Tessa Sinclair wasn't on the list of people I wanted to meet. From everything Delaney had said, I wasn't sure I'd like her. Plus, the last thing I wanted was to dredge up more memories of Delaney.
And besides, Ryder was exaggerating. I'd declined five or six times at most. I told him, "Hey, it hasn't been a dozen."
"Fine." He leaned back on the sofa. "Half a dozen."
Shit. I didn't like being hassled, but the guy was right. He'd been a solid friend, and he was obviously head over heels. And here I was, being a dick by not doing the meet-and-greet to welcome Tessa into the fold.
But hey, the engagement was still new, so it wasn't like I'd refused to congratulate the guy. But then, I paused. Had I even said it?
No. I hadn't.
I managed a smile. "Sorry." I lifted my glass in a toast. "Congratulations. I'm happy for you."
"Yeah, I can tell," he replied, sounding doubtful. But then he grinned. "Good thing I'm happy enough for both of us."
He looked it, too. I was glad to see it, especially compared to how glum he'd looked in June, when he'd first returned to Chicago.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when Ryder's grin faded. His tone grew serious as he asked, "So about Sloane, how are you doing?"
My answer was automatic. "Fine."
He studied my face. "I know you broke it off, but that's still gotta be rough."
The only thing rough was the media frenzy and all of the bullshit surrounding it. When it came to Sloane herself, I wasn't crying into my pillow.
And no, it wasn't because I was a monster. It was because, after months of theatrics, I wasn't buying it.
For the past three days, I'd kept my suspicions under wraps. Why fuel the fire? But this was Ryder.
Not the public.
Not a reporter.
And not Mother, who seemed convinced I'd lost my mind.
She didn't care about Sloane. She cared about the headlines, which were getting more brutal every day. Evelyn Whitmore-McGuiness was not happy.
I knew this firsthand because my refusal to issue a sympathetic statement had put me in her crosshairs yet again.
I looked to Ryder and asked, "You want the truth?"
He nodded.
I gave him a grim smile. "I don't think she's dead." I lifted my glass but didn't drink. "Or missing."
His eyebrows furrowed. "No shit?"
"I'd bet my life on it."
He studied my face. "That's a pretty big bet."
Finally, I took a good, long sip. "Yup. But I'm liking my odds."