Page 17 of These White Lies
My stomach turns cold. “No forensics at all?”
I hear him clicking on his keyboard. “No. No fingerprints of any kind, and no DNA on the body, though they’ve sent someswabs out.” Finn’s tone changes. “Which means someone wiped the entire house and was extraordinarily careful. That doesn’t sound like a home invasion.”
“No, it doesn’t.” The feeling in my gut is growing, and my eyes go to Elizabeth’s closed office door with a sudden need to put eyes on her.
“She used to be married to a guy named Carrow. Finalized a fairly ugly divorce about a year ago.”
Carrow.
Motherfucker.
That’show I know the name. Natalya Solokov. Carrow’s fiancée when I knew her. It was at their masked engagement party that I met Elizabeth.
“Good work.” I end the call before he can pick up on my agitation. Any hope her client’s death was a coincidence is rapidly disappearing.
The rest of the day passes quietly. Elizabeth works nonstop, barely taking a break. She comes out of her office frequently to remind one of her associates or paralegals of something they need to stay on top of. No one seems outwardly annoyed by this micromanaging, but they don’t look happy about it either, and that reminds me to send Sera the employee list.
Late in the afternoon, when she hasn’t emerged in over an hour, I do a visual check-in.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” She doesn’t look up from what she’s typing, but one hand lifts to rub at her temple.
I hesitate. Discussing feelings isn’t really part of my job, but it’s already becoming increasingly apparent that I’m not going to be able to keep my normal mental distance on this one.
“It’s totally understandable if you’re not. The man you were married to died?—”
“Weremarried,” she bites out. “Past tense. I already grieved the man I thought he was years ago.”
I decide to give it another shot, not liking her pallor or the tense lines on her face. “Elizabeth, you’ve been through a traumatic event, and now your client?—”
“Are you a therapist, too? Is that part of the bodyguard specialty?” Her eyes are a little wild, and I can tell she’s barely hanging on despite the front she’s putting up.
“I prefer executive protection services,” I joke with a grin.
“I don’t care what you call it.” She gestures at the computer in front of her. “I have work to do.”
Much as I enjoy antagonizing her, I don’t actually want to make her cry, and her eyes are glistening suspiciously.
“I’m right outside the door if you need me.”
“I know,” she growls, head already back down staring at her screen.
Closing her door with a click, I lean against Daria’s desk. “She always like this?”
Daria smiles. “She’s a workaholic. Ms. Gowan always goes above and beyond for her clients and just wants to make sure they are all taken care of.”
“That must be exhausting to work for,” I probe.
Daria shrugs. “She’s fierce but fair. Honestly, she’s one of the best, and I’m learning a lot working here.”
“So, what does an entertainment lawyer do exactly?”
It’s not that I’mnotinterested. I’m surprisingly curious about what Elizabeth does all day. However, the primary purpose behind my questions is to see how easy it is to get the assistant to talk, to give up personal details about her boss and better assess her feelings about Elizabeth.
More than people would like to admit, enemies are most often someone they know rather than a stranger.
Daria rattles off a list—contracts, endorsements, intellectual property, deal negotiations. There’s definitely pride in her voice.
