Page 27 of Relinquish

“You’re right. It might not be glamorous, but even with your back against the wall, you wouldn’t break the law. You should be proud of yourself for doing everything you could to take care of your mom. Not be ashamed of what you did.”

“Stella, sit back down.” I stand and walk her back to the recliner. After she’s seated, I pace the tiny living room. “I know you’re right. But being around Lola has brought up a lot of old feelings I thought I’d dealt with years ago. She grew up with the best–private schools, chauffeurs, gardeners, and who knows what else. I can’t compete in that world.”

“Cade, you don’t have to compete. You may not have the same experiences she had, but you’ve taken your harsh beginnings and accomplished amazing things. You graduated from high school, served your country, and won some well-deserved medals.”

“They weren’t well-deserved. I was doing what they paid me to do–what they trained me to do. Every other soldier had done the same.” Except for screw up their last mission. I’ll never get over the sound of gunfire, the taste of sand in my mouth, and the crushing weight of the building as it collapsed around us. Or the guilt from screwing everything up.

“Hush, young man.” She raises her index finger to her lips. “I wasn’t done speaking.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You received some well-deserved awards, and now, you’re working as a senior member of a security company. You would help anyone who asked–despite what comes out of your mouth. More importantly, you’d do anything for your friends and family, and they feel the same about you. If this Lola girl knows anything about you and doesn’t appreciate who you are, you’re better off without her.”

I chuckle. I hadn’t come here for a pep talk, but I should have expected it anyway. “Thank you, Stella. I know I don’t always say it, but I appreciate all the support and the vote of confidence.”

Is it time to respect what I’ve achieved? How do I do that? I’ve spent so long burying the past and not embracing it. I’m not sure where to start.

Chapter Fifteen

Several Days Later

Lola

I roll my chair out from under the desk and stretch my back and shoulders. My muscles are stiff from sitting in one spot for so long. I’ve spent hours poring over everything I can find about the four potential culprits for the robbery/burglary ring back home. But I can’t keep my thoughts from shifting to Cade.

The memory of his mouth on mine and the feel of his hands stroking my skin are never far from my consciousness. Stop thinking about him. I haven’t seen him since he left my house with his tail between his legs, and there’s no use trying to have a relationship with someone unable to handle my family’s over-the-top personalities.

I shake my head, leap out my daydreams, and I scour the page I’d clicked on before my mind slipped into a Cade coma. All four of the individuals were at the events during the time when something was stolen. Some items were taken from the victim’s homes while they were at the event. Others were pilfered while the party went on around them. And some had jewels lifted while they were at the event. However, no one can identify a suspect. The few incidents where someone was robbed, the lights were out, and no one saw anything.

The first of the four suspects, David Brown, is a man in his late sixties. He comes from old money and doesn’t appear nimble enough to slip diamonds off the neck of an unsuspecting socialite or maneuver his way through digital laser lights on his way to a safe. I shake my head. If it’s this little old, white-haired man with a handlebar mustache, I’ll eat a bar of soap.

I click on the mouse a couple of times and return to Randall Maitland’s investment website. The website displays several photos of a sharply dressed, middle-aged man with a sprinkle of silver at his temples. He’s likely approaching his mid-forties. The website’s banner is of him in a three-piece suit, resting his forearms against an enormous wooden desk with an American flag behind him. I’ve seen this type of photo numerous times in the political realm.

Another photo depicts him shaking hands with well-known entrepreneurs and celebrities, while another shows him playing tennis. At the bottom of the page is a large photo of him standing at the helm of an elegant yacht. His overall brand is of a powerful, physically fit, established businessman. The rest of the site is packed with testimonials and contact information. He has way too much money to be picking pockets or dabbling in selling jewelry on the black market.

The next individual is Leanne Bell. The only female of the bunch. She’s in her early twenties, and according to her social media accounts, she’s attending college at a New York University. Everything about her screams American beauty, long blonde hair, straight nose, high cheekbones, and a dark tan. Nothing about her shrieks thief, unless she’s dabbling in drugs and using the items she steals to supply her habit. I wrinkle my nose. Not feeling it.

I switch to the last name on the list, Chad Atkinson. This one seems to be the most likely candidate. He’s in his late thirties and has had to file bankruptcy on himself and his business. The man reeks of money troubles. I flip over to his social media account and scan through his timeline.

Six months ago, he finalized his divorce–the same weekend the first burglary occurred. Is that a coincidence? I think not. Early in the evening of the first burglary, he took a photo with Ava Barton, whose necklace is prominently tucked between her breasts and was later stolen.

After clicking on the image, I squint. I study the necklace and shift my attention to the man. His arm is around the woman’s waist as he grins for the camera. For a man whose divorce papers weren’t even dry, you sure seem happy with yourself. He has a photo of himself at all the events when items were stolen. Are these images his trophies?

I grab the folder Cade brought to me from Mr. Truman and flip to the list of people who had items stolen. I would call the client, but the insurance agent isn’t going to know any of the players. These are the types of people I grew up around.

As I wait for Ava Barton to answer my call, I scoot my chair under the desk.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Ma’am, this is Lauren Wilson from your insurance company. I wanted to check in with you to make sure you were satisfied with your insurance service.” If I use my birth name, she’ll recognize it. I’ve never met her, but she’s in my father’s circle. Anyone with money who lives on the East Coast is in my father’s clique.

“Is this a new service?”

Don’t sweat, or she’ll sense a weakness. Dumbass. It’s not like she can see you. “Yes, Ma’am. We’re under new management and checking in with all our loyal customers.”

“When did Fred leave? He was a doll.” Ava is in her early forties.

Shit. Of course, she knows the agent. “I’m so sorry for the confusion. I’m out of the regional office in Albany. As far as I know, Mr. Sadler is still operating your local office.” Thankfully, I researched the file before making calls, or I wouldn’t have known her local agent’s name.

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