Page 14 of House of Lies

A hacking cough cuts me off. Lewis wheezes, and then rambles like he can’t wait to end the phone call so he can curl up and die.

“Just wanted to give you an update. I’ve made some progress on the lead you found.”

“Oh. That was quick.”

“I have good news, and bad news.”

Ugh. I hate it when people say that. “The suspense is killing me.”

He chuckles and then coughs violently. “Good news is, I got hold of Remington’s office.”

“Okay. And the bad news?”

“He hasn’t been near Glenmont Manor for close to eight months. According to his office, he’s been living in the city, confined to his apartment for most of April. Never even set foot outside.”

“Why? Was he sick?”

Lewis violently clears his throat, as if I’m making some kind of accusation against him. “Unclear.”

“What if he’s lying?”

Lewis sighs like he’d been waiting for this. “His office also confirmed there was no meeting scheduled between him and a Rebecca Monroe in April. In fact, he didn’t have any appointments that month.”

“They could be lying about that too! Can’t you go to Glenmont and demand to see his calendar or something? Search his house? I mean, there’s got to be some kind of evidence that he?—”

“I’d need a hell of a lot more than an ambiguous date on a piece of paper you claimed to find in your mother’s things to get a warrant to search someone’s house. Especially someone as?—”

He cuts off, but I know what he’d been about to say.

“Someone as wealthy and influential as Remington?”

“I’m sorry, Cassidy. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear. But right now, there’s nothing linking Remington with your mother except that piece of paper.”

“The one I claimed to find,” I say bitterly.

I feel like a balloon animal the day after a kid’s birthday party, bobbing along with barely enough helium left inside me to clear the ground.

“I still have a few calls to make. I want to confirm his story.” The detective sounds as despondent as I feel.

“I’ll give you an update in a week or two. Try to be patient. If there’s something here, I’ll find it.” He hacks up a lung, and ends the phone with a mangled, “I gotta go.”

I stare at the phone’s screen for a moment after he ends the call, my thumb tapping against the side.

A week?

Or two?

My cheeks feel hot. There’s a slow, thumping anger building inside me.

Is he honestly expecting me to hang around twiddling my thumbs for two weeks?

Every neuron in my brain—at least, those not currently engaged in motor function—are screaming at me to stop when I tap on the Google Map icon. I type in the address for Glenmont Manor and stare at the result.

Forty-five minutes. That’s how long it will take me to reach Remington’s mansion.

Or I could wait until next week for Detective Lewis to call me back.

There’s a reason I saw that listing at the realtors.

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