“What do you want me to look up?”

“Anything. Anything you can find from who her neighbors are to who works at the local businesses around her house. It’s kind of a pocket neighborhood in a way and it shouldn’t take too much digging. Maybe look into the schools too.”

“Why the schools?” She asks and I mentally halt. Liam doesn’t know about Jax so maybe she shouldn’t either.

“The middle and high. See if there’s any students that cause problems. You know, in case it was a group of teenagers fucking around throwing shit or something like that.”

She nods, looking down at her laptop and then back up. “Do you think it was teenagers?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment. “No. I don’t.” I turn to walk away but then look back. “Oh and Rose?”

She nods, almost obediently.

I make a zipper motion across my lips and Rose’s lips tip in a smile and she nods eagerly. Then I make my way to Liam’s office.

Liam is a morning man. Always has been. Some shit about how the vitamin D from the sun only counts if you get it on your skin before 9am. He probably heard it on a podcast (he’s a podcast man) that he listened to while chewing raw garlic in an ice bath so he can live till he’s one hundred and five. God help us all.

That said, Liam does most of his in office shit before lunch. Then he takes a long lunch that usually includes a cocktail and comes back in later in the day for meetings and peacocking before he goes home and has another stiff drink possibly in the company of a paid woman. In short, I don’t expect him to be in his office, which works well for me because I am on a mission.

I’m not normally a man who goes snooping through other people’s stuff. But ever since that phone call that ripped me from my sleep and set all my nerves on fire, I have had a sinking feeling in my stomach that the attempted break in was not a group of rowdy teens or even a less than friendly neighbor.

Working in a persuasive industry where everyone you deal with is a salesman, I have learned to have a strong, loud gut when it comes to the genuineness of people. And my gut is telling me Liam is involved.

I go to his desk first, not surprised that most of his drawers are locked, other than the liquor drawer. I am surprised that he leaves his laptop out though, and that the password is his late wife’s birthday.

I’m able to pull up files, articles and even bank information once I am in. But none of that interests me. I don’t care who he’s planning to wrongfully put on blast in the next issue and I don’t need his money. I make enough on my own. But even as I sift through folder after folder and pull up his entire search history, I find nothing. Nothing other than a picture of Izzy.

It’s not recent. It looks like it was taken about seven years ago. She’s standing outside Union Station with a big smile on her face and I wonder why he has this photo, of all photos. Maybe because she looks happy? Maybe they were celebrating something? I don’t know. But I do want a copy of it.

I pull my phone out and snap a photo of the screen. It will be pixelated most likely but I don’t care. Just as I am about to set my phone down, I hear Liam coming down the hall. I slam the laptop shut and drop my phone in the process. It lands inside the still open liquor draw.

“Fuck,” I mutter, standing up and fishing my phone out from between the bottles.

“Hand in the cookie jar, Savage?” Liam asks. He is standing in front of me.

“I was just…”

“Listen. If you’re trying to break into my booze stash, by all means, pour a glass. In fact, pour two because I have some dirt on those jockstraps at The League.” He grins. “You know which one I mean?”

The sports magazine that won’t hire me because you have me shoehorned? Yeah I know it.

“Yeah,” I answer sharply, grabbing a bottle of rye. He grabs two classes off the shelf and blows into them before setting them down for me to pour. And pour I do–a double in each.

Liam swipes his and sits on his desk in front of me. I stand, taking my glass and sucking the hot, dry liquid down my throat. That way I can’t feel the ball of bile forming from how disgusted I am right now.

“So what little tale are you cooking up this time?”

“Oh shit about sports stats that were embellished. They cater to the winning teams to get more readers. Either that or the ones with the highest paid players. Kelce is all the rage right now thanks to that Swift girl. But not for long…”

“You’re going to write about the biggest pop star on the planet?” I arch my eyebrows.

“Of course not! That’s suicide. I mean hell, even I like to Shake It Off when no one’s looking. Nah, I’m going for the artery, not the throat itself.”

I blink, not following.

“The managers! Jesus, Savage, keep up. You getting enough sunlight in the morning? You look pale as a fucking ghost,” he laughs.

I don’t.