Page 21 of Unmasked Rivalry
“I got a visit from Ralston Cupp this morning,” I say. “He brought friends. And pictures of Ruger, beaten half to death. They threatened me, Knox. They threatened my brother. And you didn’t warn me, you didn’t say a word. You didn’t tell me Harper was doing things she shouldn’t have been doing. Instead, you let me move into that place knowing I was in danger.”
His face doesn’t move. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Some tiny part of me actually believes him because there is a look in his eyes that shows me he is shocked.
“They said Harper was working with them, and now I was supposed to finish the job. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
He just stands there, all six foot whatever of him, and his face goes hard as granite. “Callie, I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about.”
I glare at him, wishing I could slap the arrogance right off his face. “Ralston Cupp. Ruger. Apparently, Harper was working with them, and now they claim I owe them a favor. Why the fuck would they say that if it wasn’t true? You think I’m so stupid I’d come here and make this up and actually believe you don’t know that your woman was working with the devil?”
“No,” he says, voice like a barely-tethered snarl.
I watch him, searching desperately for something—remorse, confusion, guilt, a mask slipping—but all I catch is the ridged edge of his jaw, straining.
“Stop lying,” I whisper-hiss.
“I. Don’t. Know. What. The. Fuck. You’re. Talking. About.”
“So you expect me to believe that Harper was going around behind your back, too? That the love of your life, the perfect fucking angel, was in bed with the big dogs, and you didn’t know about it?”
He takes a step toward me, fists clenching, and for a split second, I prepare for him to hit something—maybe the wall, maybe a chair, maybe even me, though I highly doubt his rage would ever veer in that particular direction. I want him to do it; I want him to lash out, to give me a reason to stop believing in him.
“Don’t you ever,” he says, his voice a razor, “come into my home and start accusin’ me of shit I haven’t done.”
I think he might actually be telling me the truth, and that scares me even more because if he didn’t know what Harper was doing, then we could be in deep.
He doesn’t let me go on.
“Ever think they’re playin’ you to get what they want? I would have known if Harper was into that kind of shit. This is them messin’ with you and you fallin’ for it.
My nails dig half-moons into my palms. “Oh, fuck off, Knox. Maybe the real truth is you not wanting to admit she might have been lying to you, too. That maybe she wasn’t the perfect person and you all got fooled.”
I hate saying that because I love Harper. She mattered to me. But she could never do any wrong. She was fiery and beautiful, and people loved her, but that meant she could get away with whatever she wanted. Maybe this is one of those times.
His fist hits the table. I flinch. He shoves his face closer to mine. “Harper was not in bed with Ralston. She was better than that, better than you. If you’re gonna stand here and piss on her grave, then maybe you should just get the fuck out.”
His words sting. They hit me like a knife to the chest. Okay, I came in here looking for a fight, and he gave me one, but the fact that he is refusing to even consider what I’m saying hurts. It hurts because now I’m tangled up in something I didn’t ask for.
“Gladly,” I snap. “Should’ve never come.”
My hands are shaking as I shoulder past him, my heart pinging between rage and something brittle. I make it halfway across the room before I feel the tears sneaking out, hot and traitorous. I don’t look back, not once—not even when he yells after me, “Shut the fuckin’ door.”
I do.
I swing it closed with a blinding rage.
Then, I get the hell out of there.
6
For hours, I go over the documents, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out just how Harper was involved. She was using her father’s, my uncle’s, cattle business to make money for these assholes. Using the books to cover up fake sales, depositing dirty money, inflating invoices, and basically cleaning dirty money by running it through the farm.
Not only are these men making money, they’re doing it in a genius way.
Suddenly, Harper’s death feels very wrong. Did she really just have an accident, or was it something far worse?
Fear clutches my chest as I go through the paperwork, going over all the fake sales and invoices, and as the night goes on, I scribble all over copies I made, figuring out just how much money she was running through this business. An alarming amount.
