Page 60 of How to Play the Player

“It doesn’t,” I confirm to Scott.

He nods. “It’s not much to go on, I know.”

I pause, taking in the information. He’s right; there isn’t much to go on. Either Quinn hired someone to do this so she could have an alibi, or someone else is pulling the strings.

“There’s more,” Scott continues. “I received an update on the anonymous text you forwarded me. It appears to have been sent from a burner phone, but the language analysis suggests someone with intimate knowledge of both you and Quinn.”

I frown. Just as I’d suspected. “So it could be someone close to us?”

“Possibly,” Scott replies. “There’s still more to investigate, but I wanted to give you the preliminary findings.”

I sink into a chair, my mind racing. “This isn’t enough. We need more.”

“Already on that,” Scott assures me. “But I thought you should know what I’ve found so far.”

“The sooner we can find a smoking gun, the better, regardless of whatever evidence we have. And the same goes for the leak from today,” I say, already moving toward the door. “Let me make a call.”

Outside in the hallway, I lean against the wall, my heart thundering in my ears. I pull out my phone and stare at Quinn’s contact information, my thumb hovering over her name.

What if this is real? What if the idea that she’s innocent is legitimate? Has she been telling the truth all along? While I’ve been punishing her, humiliating her, shutting her out? How could I not see that she was the true victim?

Before I can overthink the situation any further, I dial her number. It rings three times before she answers.

“Nathan?” Her voice is guarded, professional. But the fact she answered my call rather than not picking up surely has to be a good sign. “Everything okay with the talking points?”

“Talking points are fine,” I say, struggling to keep my own voice steady. “I’m actually calling because?—”

I falter.

I might have been wrong.

I’m a jackass.

I was wrong, a jackass, and an asshole.

Different ideas, different sentences, for what to say spill all over the place in my brain, yet all of them seem woefully inadequate. Fuck, an “I’m sorry” wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

“Yes?” she prompts, and I can hear the wariness in her tone.

“We should talk,” I finally manage. “After the interview. There’s something I need to show you.”

There’s a pause on the other end. I can only imagine her weighing her options. She could either be wondering which colorful language to use to tell me to fuck off to hell, or whether to trust me.

“The interview’s at five,” she says finally. “I should be done by six thirty.”

I close my eyes in silent relief. “I’ll meet you at your office then.” The feeling washes over me like a large wave diffusing a fire just as big. “Quinn?—”

“Yes?”

I miss you. I’m sorry.

Words catch in my throat, and almost none are able to come out.

“Thank you,” I say instead. “For helping Jonathan and Kiera. For doing your job despite…everything.”

Another pause, longer this time. “I’m simply doing my job,” she finally says, repeating my words, her voice carefully neutral. “See you at six thirty.”

The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, horrified by the realization that if there turns out to be a bigger conspiracy for what’s going on, I’ll more than likely have to face the possibility there can never be forgiveness for what I’ve done to her. To us.

---