Page 72 of The Bodyguard

“What if we get the feeling there is, but he doesn’t want to tell us?”

Sawyer drummed his thumbs on the bottom of the steering wheel and mulled over her question. “Then we turn our questions around from ‘what haven’t you told us’ to ‘do you want to know the truth about what happened?’ He’ll say ‘yes.’ We’ll say, ‘Answer our questions.’”

“Why would anyone trust us?”

He chortled. “Why not?”

Forty-five minutes later, they found an office complex with Dwayne’s mud-spattered truck parked under the shaded corner of the lot. Sawyer pulled into a spot a few cars over.

She peered toward the small building. “Do we go and ask for him—?”

A gaggle of men exited the office.

“Or it might be our lucky day,” he offered. They tried to pick him out of the group and didn’t. “Let’s go see if he’s available.”

The receptionist questioned why they wanted to see Dwayne. He didn’t see clients, and they couldn’t produce badges. But Angela smiled and briefly mentioned a painful connection they shared with Dwayne and their hope to touch base with him for only a moment. Her charm worked, and Dwayne came out to meet them.

They stepped outside. Introductions were awkward, since Sawyer and Angela were less than forthcoming. But Dwayne made himself clear. No matter what Mark’s crazy, homicidal wife had thought, he wasn’t a cheater.

They thanked him for his time.

“One more thing,” Angela asked and nodded to his hand. “Are you married?”

Dwayne lifted his hand and showed his wedding band in confirmation. “Five years and counting.”

“Do you share a bathroom?”

His brow furrowed like she was an idiot. “Yeah.”

“Where do you put your toothbrush?”

The lines on his forehead deepened, and Dwayne gave Sawyer a confused look before answering Angela. “On the counter.” Dwayne looked at Sawyer again. “Why?”

“Next to your wife’s toothbrush?” Angela pressed.

Dwayne shook his head incredulously. “What? I have no idea. On the counter.” He gave them a dubious look and left.

“No one lines toothbrushes together,” she said. “I’m telling you, the whole thing was staged.”

Whether that was right or not, Angela believed it.

“Is that question going to be our calling card?”

She gave a quick laugh as they returned to the car. “Maybe it should be.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mylene wasn’t proud of her work. Her assignments were punishment, similar to how Tran Pham had forced her to live with the constant reminder of the loved ones she’d lost.

For the first few years, Mylene hadn’t understood the far-reaching effects of her seemingly insane projects. Pham’s associates would give her names and current events. They’d ask her to pit people against one another or conjure up conspiracy-riddled stories. At first, she thought that was part of the punishment, some sort of creative writing torture that would force Mylene to live in the headlines and denigrate the country that she loved so much.

She was wrong. They’d needed a native English speaker who understood the idiosyncrasies of current events and who had nothing to lose. That was her, trapped in her house of hell with time on her hands.

Mylene proliferated misinformation. Pham’s colleagues fed her storylines to bot farms. Sometimes, she assumed his people sold her stories and code to the highest bidder. After all, information warfare couldn’t come from one source. That would be too easy to spot and clean up.

Once she understood how they were using her, she waited to feel guilty. Regret never came for anything except Mark and Tabby, so she worked like their robotic cash cow.

Her production value had to be a reason Pham’s goon squad hadn’t decided to kill her now that he was locked in a federal penitentiary. It wasn’t as if Pham was in a position to enjoy her suffering.

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