Page 109 of Raise Hell

“This is crazy.” I sit back on my heels. “But it doesn’t change anything. We need to get her away from St. Bart’s and gone for good. It’s what is best for Havoc House, and for her.”

“Agreed.”

But even if she’d been a willing participant in this, it doesn’t excuse what happened to her next. Nobody consents to being beaten almost to death.

I counted at least six guys in the video, but all of them were wearing masks. They could have been anyone. Aside from the masks, that video wouldn’t have been out of place on pretty much any porn site.

Except, I’m nearly positive that last night had been her first time.

None of this makes any sense.

“Don’t show this video to anyone else,” I caution him. “The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

He puts the phone back in its aluminum-lined baggie and sticks it under the bed.

But I can’t unsee what I just saw. I’m not sure anyone could.

I obviously don’t have a problem with sex, but that isn’t the kind of thing you expect to see about a girl who sits next to you in class.

And I still don’t have an explanation for why Olivia would stroll back on campus like the queen of the universe after everything that happened. It doesn’t fit.

The only way to find out the truth is to go directly to the source.

* * *

Without traffic,it’s a two-hour drive from St. Bart’s to Manhattan. I manage to make it in an hour-and-a-half by redlining the Ducati’s engine for the entire ride.

My father’s secretary let me know where he would be, but I should have guessed.

Club Havoc is a nondescript brownstone on the Upper East Side. From the outside, it looks like any other building on this street full of upscale residences, designer shops, and restaurants.

But I know there is something very different on the inside.

I step into a dimly lit and smoky interior. The stench of heavy cologne assaults my nostrils, and I have to breathe through my nose to keep from feeling sick. I don’t know what it is about men in mid-life crises leaving chemical trails wherever they go.

Enough Acqua di Gio saturates the air to be detected from outer space.

A thin older man in a dark suit jacket with full tails stands as I approach the large desk in front of another set of double doors. I take a minute to appreciate his expression of shock as I breeze right by him and shove the doors open.

They don’t lock the doors around here, probably because the stuffy bastards assume no one is ballsy enough to bust in without an invitation.

The fat old men sitting in leather armchairs and smoking cigars in the lounge are too slow to respond when I storm past. My father will be in the billiard room at the far back.

He always has a game and a glass of whiskey after lunch.

Anton Van Koch stands at the billiard table with a drink in one hand and his cue in the other. Two other men are with him. I recognize one as the CEO of a company currently facing charges of accounting fraud. The other is probably just some random hedge fund manager.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” my father asks, by way of greeting.

My eyes burn from the cigar smoke in the air. “Oh, I just came to talk about a girl. I think you might know her.”

The aging concierge bursts into the room, huffing and puffing. I almost feel bad for making him run all the way here, considering the effort it obviously took.

“Everyone out,” my father snaps. “I need the room.”

The two other men respond quickly, leaving us alone.

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