Page 61 of Power Games

"Currently," the journalist repeated.

Charles lay back in his chair and repeated, "Currently. I can't tell you what's in store for any of us down the road."

The video was cut short; a link at the bottom offered to take her to the full thing on the network's site. She didn't click on it, or bother to open the comments. Instead, she reached out for her phone and called.

"Hey."

Charles' voice. She hadn't heard it in days. He sounded tired and groggy.

"Did I wake you up?"

She hadn't looked at the time.

"That would imply I'm sleeping, these days. How are you doing?"

"Good, I'm good." She saw that her left leg was restlessly moving on the ground. She crossed it over her right and took in a calming breath. "I saw your video. Didn't know you went public."

Charles sighed. "Sorry, it entirely escaped my mind. Aiden advised me to set up an interview. It was with a finance journalist, but she cornered me. I figured I might as well clear the air."

"It's fine. You did great. I just wanted to check if you were okay. You looked exhausted."

Charles paused.

"I can't sleep. I think I've only just realized that Isabella is actually dead, not just gone on a holiday. Dead. Soon to be underground. She was thirty-five." He sighed. "I got a phone call from Nate Kingsley this morning."

"That name rings a bell." She couldn't quite place it, though.

"A New York guy, you might not know him. He has a security company."

Ah, yes. Before deciding to employ Matt, she'd looked into him a few years back.

Vanessa nodded, although he couldn't see her from this side of the line. "Makes sense, if whoever attacked Izzy goes after you next—"

"No, I haven't hired him for my personal security, although I might. He does investigations. He'll look into the murder."

Oh. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and closed them, silently praying that Kingsley wouldn't get his hands on anything too sensitive.

"Good idea," she managed to say.

She hated the feeling. Hated it. It was the first time she had openly lied to Charles. No, it was a terrible idea. An idea that could get him—and his PI—sent to the morgue, too.

Eager to change the subject, she asked, "What's your favorite color?"

Charles laughed softly. "Random."

"Your apartment is all gray with some purple."

Somehow, she doubted purple was his thing.

"Yeah, Izzy decorated. I like red," he replied. "You?"

"Green. Dark forest green. There's just so many greens. What red?"

"The reddest red. Scarlet, blood-red. We don't get to see any of it."

"Obviously, you don't get periods."

Charles choked on the other end of the line. "Can we not?"

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