Page 91 of Blackmail
I open it, finding a tall Black man wearing glasses and a robot T-shirt, holding what appears to be a lunch-sized cooler.
“Sebastian Pierce? Brennan said you needed a pest control evaluation?”
Pest control? “The condo board has a service to spray for ants and—oh.” Different kind of pest. I blame my lack of sleep these past few days.
The man smiles slightly. “Brennan said you’d found cameras and wanted to ensure the place was clean. I’m the person who downloaded the footage for you. Everett.”
After Simon shared what Tony had said at the farm, I scoured the place top to bottom and found a dozen or so devices not much bigger than my fingertip. The footage, much of which had been handed over to the FBI, had included Tony with a handful of different sex workers. Worst of all, Cam Blakely, who was the first of my clients to disappear.
It didn’t look like Tony had slept with the kid, but he’d had him in our living room, given him something to drink, and then walked him out again. The prevailing theory is that he convinced Cam to come here as an intended hookup before he moved on to drugging his victims at parties.
I reach out to shake Everett’s hand. “Ah. Thanks. Can you run a check on my computer too? I suspect my ex may have stolen client information from my laptop.”
It’s the only plausible possibility since Tony never visited my office space downtown. He did have access to my home office. He’d always acted bored about what I did, so I foolishly assumed I didn’t need to worry about him snooping.
I haven’t figured out exactly what Tony’s game was, but the more I think about it, the more I suspect he was targeting my company, hoping to destabilize us financially before leaving me. If I hadn’t found out about the cheating, I might have been too preoccupied with what was happening to the company to fight him in court. If a judge granted him half my assets—a possibility, since his father had been friends with a few—he would’ve been able to liquidate his share the same way his father would have.
Everett wanders down the hall. “I’m going to get started. I’ll let you know what I find.”
My grumbling stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast this morning. I wander into the kitchen and start putting together some sandwiches.
Another knock, and I open the door again to find Jacob from down the hall.
“Hey, Jacob. Everything okay?”
“Oh, sure. Everything’s fine.” His audible swallow and shaky hands tell a different story. “Well, I mean…my stepdad’s home and in kind of a mood. Stressed about some business deal going wrong, I think. I learned it’s better to leave him alone when he’s mad. Would it be okay if I hung out here? Maybe played some video games? I’ll keep the volume down so it doesn’t bother you.”
“Sure.” I slide one of the sandwiches I’ve made onto a second plate. “Why don’t you have something to eat first? I made two of these, but my eyes were bigger than my stomach.”
He grins and slides onto a kitchen bar stool, biting in without asking what’s on it.
“Here.” I gesture to the loaf of bread and other ingredients. “I’ll leave the rest of this out. Help yourself if you want more.”
Suddenly, the door swings open to reveal Brennan, who struts in as if he lives here.
“You heard of knocking?”
Brennan gives me a look. “I knew you were here. The kid walked in about thirty seconds ago.”
I look around. “This is the most people I’ve had in this place since the movers left.”
He laughs. “Not surprised. But I am surprised not to see Simon here.”
“He’s talking to his brother.”
“Well, I want to have a conversation with him. Got a new job offer. Oh, shit. Sandwiches.”
Brennan gives a cocky grin to Jacob, who’s staring at the man a little too wide-eyed for my liking. The asshole’s already spreading mustard on my sourdough when I charge in to confront him.
“You want to offer him a new job? Like the one you offered him when he was injured and desperate and homeless?”
I ignore the way Jacob’s eyes get even wider. Brennan simply lifts a shoulder.
“I get it,” he says. “You think I’m a bad guy, which is fair. I’m not a good one. But your boy was bleeding out on the road when I found him. Almost hit him with my fucking car. I took him to safety, got him the best medical care dirty money could buy, and gave him a loan so he could rent an apartment and get himself an education. Did I expect him to pay me back? Of course I fucking did, I’m not running a charity. But he had plenty of options, and he decided to go with the one that would make him the most money in the shortest amount of time. That was his decision.”
“How about your decision to fuck him?”
Jacob’s eyes shoot back and forth as if he’s watching a tennis match. I’m too angry to care that this isn’t exactly an appropriate conversation for a teenager. I’m sure I’ll hear about it from his stepfather later.
