Page 10 of Bad Situation

My dad smirks and shakes his head. “Cam’s got his hands full between your mother renovating their bathroom, his team winning the state playoffs, the wedding, and worrying that Paige doesn’t overdo it. She’s a little spitfire. Between her business and loving on my grandkids and son, she doesn’t sit still. I told her if there was a time to take it easy, it’s when she’s carrying my grandbaby. But she’s good—told me to tell you hi.”

“The wedding will be here before we know it. I can’t wait to see them.”

I walk my dad to the door where he turns and tries to assure me one more time. “We’ll get this all worked out so you can get back to what you’re a whiz at—crunching numbers.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I lock up, arm my security system, and head back to my dinner that’s less fitting than what’s usually served in prison.

Shit—prison.

I quickly wipe that from my mind.

I’m only able to stomach a couple more bites of the sketchy hummus when my eyes catch my bag sitting on the counter. Digging through, I take out the MacBook our tech department provided me with this afternoon along with the new iPhone Donny picked up for me. I dig deeper and, when I finally find what I’m looking for, my insides tighten and the ridiculous excuse for a meal I just ate churns in my stomach.

Elijah Pettit.

Eli.

He didn’t lie about his name but did he know he’d be bursting in to my office two days after I practically allowed him to grope me on the dance floor? Hell, I did everything I could to encourage it.

I don’t know why I do it because I memorized it at first glance, but I flip the card over. I study the handwriting—a scrawl belonging to someone who’s either busy in life or who just doesn’t give a shit. And there’s no reason for me to look it up—I know the area code is from New York City.

Closing my eyes, I exhale, tapping the damn card against my marble counter, wondering what Elijah’s deal is.

What I do know is when someone gives you their phone number, either solicited or not, that person wants to communicate.

Well, fuck him.

He obviously knows where to find me. If he wants to talk to me, he can do it in the presence of my attorneys.

*****

Eli

I pore over the case files in front of me. Of all the documents we obtained through the warrant this afternoon, there are only a couple of interest.

Two Excel files.

They were buried deep—electronic folders within folders. Files that could prove Jen Montgomery has done exactly what’s suspected.

Even so, it doesn’t add up. I’ve worked too many of these cases when I was first hired. The evidence is too cut and dry.

Too obvious.

But more than anything, these two files—ones that Bree practically wet herself over when she found them she was so fucking elated—are unnecessary. For a CFO who’s responsible for the financial well-being of a corporation—thought to be worth hundreds of millions—these documents are simple and overtly incriminating. Even if only circumstantial.

They don’t list any details, just figures—down to the penny—that match the purchases we’re investigating. I asked Bree for the files to look over, telling her I wanted to familiarize myself with the case.

Jensen Montgomery has been the Chief Financial Officer for a while and it’s plain to see she was given the job because of her last name. We know she puts in the hours from what’s been recorded during surveillance but that doesn’t mean she’s got the brains to back it up. Maybe she is stupid and small-minded enough to put together unnecessary spreadsheets of information that could easily be hidden or, better yet, memorized.

But every other piece of information to be had on the woman supports the opposite. Every article in Fortune and The Wall Street Journal describing her as “the up-and-comer to watch in the oil industry.” I even found a write-up and photos in People that agreed, but it talked more about her fucking outfit and how she gives new definition to the term business couture.

I don’t know what business couture is. The candid picture taken of her on a downtown Dallas sidewalk wearing a dress that might not show much skin but does show every slope, curve, and groove of her body, looked more like fuck-me couture.

But what do I know?

I doubt she’s ignorant enough to create these two simple files that are more like kindergarten spreadsheets, let alone keep them where we found them on her laptop if she was trying to hide something.

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