Page 26 of His Good Girl
My blood runs colder than the Arctic ice.
And that’s why Isaac isn’t here.
“Do you know where she’s gone?” I ask carefully, pouring coffee into a mug before I face him again, leaning up against the counter nonchalantly.
“You’re an asset to the Society, Logan. You always have been, and you are on the path to taking my place when I move up. This is…not good.”
“Admittedly, no, but surely, we can find her. She had her throat sliced open, that doesn’t go unnoticed or untreated.”
“Of course. And we both know some people are born survivors. You, me, and now her.”
“She’ll be in a bad way. I can’t see her resurfacing anytime soon.”
“Find her and deal with it. For good this time. Yes?”
“Of course.”
He nods and stands up. “This is between you and me, Logan. I don’t want anything getting in the way of you taking my place. If you get canceled, then I’m back to square one, and they won’t move me up if I have to find someone else to take my place. Are we on the same page here?”
“Always.”
There is no threat here. I should’ve made sure Shelley was dead before I left. I’m no stranger to a sliced throat and have a one hundred percent death record, up until now, that is. Fucking bitch. I should’ve known she’d cause me grief. But my head was up my ass with thoughts of Serena, and I failed in my mission. This is all on me, and I’ll make it right or throw myself on the proverbial sword. Isaac won’t have to come for me; I’ll hand myself over.
“Good. Enjoy your coffee, and thanks again for protecting my niece.”
The reminder of it tells me all I need to know. He is letting me off the hook from a severe punishment over the Shelley thing because of Serena.
He already knew.
He played me to see if I’d tell him.
I seriously need to sweep this place for bugs and be more vigilant for covert tails when I leave here. Quentin has always made it clear that he recruited me to take over from him when the higher-ups in the global Society promote him. It’s why I’m more untouchable than most. But he’s right. Without a proper candidate to take his place, he will be left behind. I’ve been given two reprieves today, and I won’t take either of them for granted.
Some people are born survivors.
Well, he’s not wrong there.
Fuck knows why he places himself into that category, I may never know, but me…he knows.
Shoving the towel a bit further down my hips, I run my finger over the old scar on my lower abdomen. Before I had a cosmetic surgeon fix it, it was a nasty scar. A deep, jagged wound that healed badly and kept me in the hospital far longer than it should’ve. But I was grateful for the shelter as a young boy who’d just witnessed his entire family be slaughtered and was supposed to be dead alongside them. It hurt more than words can say to have to be forced into the foster system and moved around every few months. Never settling, never loved, never wanted. It’s no wonder the light never came back.
Gritting my teeth and ignoring my coffee, I race back up the stairs and haul out the box from the top shelf of the closet. When this appeared the other day, I was overwhelmed. Unable to focus on the severity of what was inside.
Placing it on the bed, I carefully lift the lid and glare at the contents. Visible through the evidence bag is a decades-old bloody knife, left to gather dust on a cold case that has been forgotten. Forgotten by everyone but not by me.
Witnessing the death of my parents and my sister and experiencing the pain of my own death and rebirth, has shaped my view of the world. In the hospital, I shut down. I blocked out any feelings, any warmth or light, only sinking deeper into the murky gray where I still reside thirty years later. It could be worse. I could’ve fallen deeper into the darkness, but I didn’t really want to. Needing to remember the agony, the loss, the sheer weight of what was thrust upon me to guide me, to help me see that the world is an ugly place and the people in it are vile to their core. It’s why I became a lawyer. To try to figure out where I fit into it. Good or evil, none of it really matters. Replacing the lid and moving the box back to the closet, I search for my phone, finding it in my coat pocket. Quentin gave me the evidence I needed to find my family’s killer and assert my own justice against them. It can be reanalyzed using top-of-the-range equipment not available three decades ago or even two decades ago when the case was dug up and looked at again, only to be replaced in the box weeks later when they hit another dead end.
I could’ve pushed and shoved and, by the brute force of the law, demanded they keep looking, but I’m a patient man, and already settled on solving it myself. I just needed the knife and no connection whatsoever to my name procuring it.
Now I have it.
In exchange, Quentin has given me a temptation that is as dangerous as the path I’m following to my past, but I’ve waited a long time for this.
A really, really long time.
After making a short call with my heart pounding, I put the phone down carefully and then compartmentalize the past, back in the box where the demons lie.
Chapter17
