Page 109 of Only the Devil
“Poisoning,” I say quietly, scanning behind him for any sign of Jake. “Same as Jocelyn. That’s why?—”
“Jocelyn died in a fire.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I inquired. I saw the police report.” He’s insistent, but all the same, Brie’s warning to stand away from him has me backing up, keeping my distance.
“I found her dead in her office. I didn’t call it in. I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been in the office.”
Phillip’s long wrinkled fingers curl in on themselves.
“That woman in Singapore, I don’t believe she committed suicide.”
I watch him carefully, wondering how to pull movie magic and get him to confess to the murders.
But he looks dazed. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep inhale and exhale. “I didn’t have anything to do with their deaths. I’m not a murderer.”
“You rip people off,” I say with my best prosecuting lawyer imitation, wanting him to say something incriminating, to admit guilt.
“Some of these crypto schemes are making serious money. We took advantage of opportunities—calculated risks. The fund that failed? A major investor got cold feet and pulled out at the worst possible time. The short position should have been guaranteed.” He looks off into the night, toward Jake and Thompson. “I’ve lost control of the situation. There are people involved now who don’t think like businessmen. If you’re smart, you’ll disappear for a while. Don’t go back to the office.”
I study him and–I don’t want to be naive, but I’m reading him as sincere.
“If you didn’t arrange for the murders–who would?” He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me. With his back to the light, I can’t see his eyes, and I probe. “Why shouldn’t I go back to the office? Is there someone?—”
Thompson emerges from behind the hangar, purposeful, deliberate. No sign of Jake.
“Where’s Jake?” I call.
Sterling steps forward. He’s tall, and his body blocks my view of Thompson. I stare at his back, processing, then scan the land surrounding the hangar.
Where is Jake?
A loud, shrill gunshot pierces the air.
A spray of red coats my fingers, the white of my tank, my face.
Phillip’s body sags, the angle to the ground awkward, and he crashes down. The white of his skull shows, and a river of red pools along the concrete.
My gaze lifts, and I take in a barrel, pointed directly at me.
For a heartbeat, I meet black, soulless eyes.
My chest squeezes, and I’m off.
Running.
To the plane.
For cover.
A bang pierces the air, but I don’t stop.
The second my boot slams the concrete it’s up again, a cycle.
Keep running.
I duck the wing of a plane.
