Page 51 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
Tabby swallows, and then nods. “He came through the window and beat my foster father to within an inch of his life, and I crouched on my bed and watched him do it. And did nothing to intervene. There was…” She clears her throat. “A lot of blood. Afterward, Søren told me that he saw me in class, that he knew something bad had happened to me just by looking at my face, and that he wasn’t going to let anything bad happen to me ever again. Then he left.”
Her voice grows quiet. “It didn’t occur to me until much later that I might not have been placed in that foster home by chance…or that my uncle’s death might not have been a suicide.”
Horrified, I lean forward. Harry murmurs, “Go on.”
As if gathering her strength, Tabby inhales and then lets the breath out slowly through her nose. “From my first memories, I was used to being different, which meant that I was used to being looked at oddly. That was a disadvantage. For all my precociousness, I never learned to recognize when a strange stare in my direction was dangerous. I was naïve.”
Lost in some dark memory, she closes her eyes. “When I later investigated my foster parents, I found that they had multiple complaints against them which had somehow been erased from the DCF’s files. When I further investigated my uncle’s death, I found it troubling that there was no arsenic found in the house, and the level in his blood indicated he’d been ingesting relatively small quantities for a long time. Which—if you’re going to kill yourself, why do it slowly? He owned several handguns, could have shot himself, jumped from the roof, any number of options seemed more logical than poisoning himself over a period of months.”
“But there was a note,” Harry points out. “In his handwriting.”
Tabby looks at him. “And some people can forge a painting so perfectly not even an expert can tell it isn’t an original.”
I say in disbelief, “You’re saying Søren met you at school, became obsessed with you, murdered your uncle so you’d be put in foster care, manipulated the system so a rapist would get you, and then waited for his chance to rescue you so you would then feel…grateful to him?”
“Pretty sophisticated for a teenager,” says Harry doubtfully.
“He was twenty-one,” replies Tabby. “And already a multimillionaire from stock market speculation. And yes, I think that’s exactly what he did, though I have no proof. All I know is that Søren is a master manipulator. He can make people do things and convince them it was their own idea.”
There’s something strange in Harry’s face that I can’t put my finger on, something darker than doubt. Studying her, he tilts his head in thought. “Or maybe the master manipulator is someone else.”
Suddenly, I’m out of breath.
I look at Tabby with wide eyes. When she sees my expression, she looks as if she’s been slapped.
We stare at each other. My brain says No, no, no.
And then, more faintly, something not so unequivocal.
Into our silence, Harry says, “I have no proof this person Søren exists, except for your insistence that he does. I do have proof that you’re perfectly capable of breaching extremely sophisticated network systems, because you’ve given me a lovely demonstration. I also know you recognized me the minute you saw my ugly mug, which strikes me as incredibly coincidental. Too coincidental. And judging by the way our boy here keeps staring at you, I’m guessing there’s a lot more going on between you than could be considered strictly professional.”
When he pauses, I look at him. He says, “Which may or may not also be coincidental.”
I cut my gaze back to Tabby.
She whispers, “Connor. You can’t believe that.”
I stare at her, remembering how upset she was when I kissed her against the wall at the hotel, only to show up in my room half an hour later, demanding sex. My brain is recoiling in horror from the idea that…she…
“You came to me for this job!” she cries.
You knew I would, I think, but can’t bring myself to say it.
Harry muses, “I also find it interesting that Victoria Price, your employer from the time you left MIT until she disappeared under mysterious circumstances three years ago, left you everything in her will. Including a twenty-five-million-dollar penthouse in Manhattan.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Her body has never been recovered, correct?”
A crackling pause follows.
In the moment before Tabby jumps to her feet, time is suspended. I see her lips flatten, see outrage flare in her eyes, see the exact moment her opinion of me goes from “not sure if I like you” to “wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.” Then, with a lightning-fast unfolding of limbs, she’s up, and then I’m up too, and my hand is wrapped firmly around her bicep.
Stiffening, she bites out, “Lay another uninvited finger on me and you’ll lose the whole goddamn hand.”
Looking back and forth between us, Harry says, “Well. At least I know one of you isn’t in over your head.”
I growl, “Tabitha—”
Before I can finish the sentence, someone calls Harry’s name from the other side of the room.
He rises. I turn and see one of his agents, the one named Chan, at the entrance to the cafeteria. He’s holding out a cell phone.
