Chapter 19 – Aster
ASTER
“He’ll see you now,” a woman in a pencil skirt with a notepad says, leading me through Vetrel’s Bar. Given it’s hardly ten in the morning, the place is empty aside from a dozen guards scattered around the room, shooting the shit. But the news never sleeps—and neither do I, apparently—so here I am.
She brings me down a dimly lit hallway, passing four more guards, a reminder of exactly why my alter ego hasn’t yet paid this man a visit, then gestures to an open door. I head inside, and she closes it behind me.
“Mr. Blake,” Vetrel says, standing to greet me from behind his desk. We shake hands, and he gestures to the chair across from him.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” I say, taking a seat.
“Well, I figured it best I answer any questions you may have floating in your head before you share an uninformed opinion piece on Karolyn.” Straight to it, then.
“I can assure you, everything I publish is entirely factual.” I just may omit the occasional detail or two.
He forces a smile, hands folded on the table. “How can I help?”
“The police report says Karolyn was at the annual Blue Heart Charity Benefit before she was murdered, but you and I both know that can’t be true.”
He blinks, eyes assessing me. “I wasn’t aware you were keeping tabs on her all night.”
I shift in place. “I was not.”
“Right.” He nods, lips pressed together. “Which is why you wouldn’t have known that after we met you in the art gallery, she left to attend the benefit.”
I open my mouth to disagree, then quickly snap it shut.
The only way I’d be able to argue without a shadow of a doubt he’s wrong is by admitting I personally witnessed her murder.
And that would be a pretty dumb thing to do considering I have no clue who did it.
Hell, Vetrel’s done so much messed-up shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was our resident Kodak.
I’m sure a guy like him would get off on killing people and seeing it plastered across the front page the next day. The only hesitancy in my theory is that most of the victims tend to be criminals themselves. Maybe he’s taking out his own competitors or people who’ve fucked him over?
“Anything else I can help clarify?” he asks, eyes predatory like a snake. “Or can I return to grieving my friend?”
His words are meant to target my empathy, but unfortunately for him, that particular emotion is lacking as of late.
And I refuse to leave empty-handed, so I say screw the guards and screw risking the wrath of Frederick Vetrel.
“Karolyn told you, ‘He knows.’” Vetrel’s eyes widen before he schools his expression.
“Who was she referring to? And what exactly did they know that was so urgent?”
He stands abruptly, buttoning his suit jacket. Figured that would strike a nerve. “Karolyn’s and my private conversations are not of journalistic relevance.”
He rounds the table, and I follow his lead, standing to my full height. “I’m simply trying to get the full picture of the night of her death, and to determine why the police claim she was at the Blue Heart fundraiser and not the Westerfords’.”
“As I said…” He brushes his suit jacket to the side, flashing me the pistol on his hip.
It’s not a direct threat, but it’s enough to confirm I’ve spooked him.
If only he knew I could murder him with the pencil sitting on his desk quicker than he could unholster his gun.
“She left the party at Jude’s by eight.”
The temperature in the air rises as his gaze sears through me. “Would you swear that under oath?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes, and he gestures towards the door. “Have a nice day, Mr. Blake.”
As I leave the building, each of his guards eyes me, and I wait for one to pounce.
My knife is tucked in my waistband, and as I pass through the tables, I glance around for any chairs that look weak enough I could bust one for extra weapons.
Fortunately, not a single meathead makes a move, and once I’m on the noisy street, I exhale a sigh of relief.
My phone buzzes.
Belle
I’m sorry, I miss you. Call me back?
Blowing out a raspberry, I shove it in my pocket. I know I can’t stay mad at her forever, but if I’m choosing to be no contact with our father, is it so hard for her to respect that?
Ten minutes later, I find myself wandering along a dirt path to a bench by the bay, my chest tightening.
It’s the closest thing I have to a memorial for Oliver considering his real grave is a thousand miles away and in far too close proximity to my father.
I’ve only visited that one a few times since his passing and have somehow always found a place that feels like him in every city I move to.
Cleosville’s the first one that ever made me feel at home. I suppose that’s why I’m still here.
My mind wanders to Lily. It’s only been weeks that I’ve been in her aura, but she makes this place feel a little like home too. She sure as hell makes it a lot more fun.
Taking a seat on the bench, I allow my gaze to wander out at the morning sun sparkling across the water. A sailboat passes by, and memories resurface from when I was younger and Oliver was still very much alive.
“Your seamanship sucks!” Oliver shouts over the howl of the wind as I struggle to tie the most basic cleat hitch to secure the boat to the dock. The sky is dark and cloudy, rain sprinkling, warning of the impending storm like a goddamn metaphor for my life.
“Well, maybe if you spent less time fucking with me, I’d be getting somewhere!” I tease, trying to lighten the mood and ignore the thoughts that have been consuming my mind. I need to talk to Ollie. He’ll be on my side. I know it.
Oliver laughs, coming to crouch beside me, then bumps me out of the way with his hip. “Watch.” He makes quick work of the rope, and a moment later, the sailboat is secure. “See? Not so hard.”
He grins, ruffling my hair, and I shove him away. “Show-off.” I don’t admit that my hands were shaking because of the conversation we desperately need to have.
“Want to ride with me to the office?” he asks, reminding me of the one place I hate more than home. The one place that’s become a prison I fear I’ll never escape. I have to escape. We have to escape.
“Oliver.” I pause on the wooden dock, and he stops, turning to face me. Water droplets land on his face, and he looks up.
“Come on.” He grabs my arm. “We can talk inside.”
“No.” I tug him to stop, glancing towards the house, then find his eyes. “Not there.”
His brows furrow. “What’s going on?” I shift in place. “Spit it out, bro.”
“I know that you know.”
A beat passes between us. “Know what?”
“About Dad’s shady business dealings.” His eyes widen. “The countrywide increase in gun violence lately. It’s not a coincidence.”
“Aster.” My brother grips my arm, tone hushed. “Drop this.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“You have to.” His eyes bore into mine. “You have to trust me.”
“Give me a reason to.” I yank my arm away. “Tell me you’re not a part of it.”
“As if any of us have a choice.”
His words cut through me like ice. “There’s always a choice.”
I just wish mine wouldn’t have cost him his life.