Page 99 of Sinful Bride

Smithson glances at the papers. Then snaps the folder shut. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But you do.” I smile at him even more. “And so does Hamish. It was one of his own employees, wasn’t it? After he left this company and tried starting his own. Joshua Haversham, one of Hamish’s personal assistants. A promising career… for your wife’s ex-boyfriend.”

Smithson presses a hand to his chest. Fifty bucks says he’s trying to muffle the mic.

“You look thirsty. Let me pour you a drink.” I stand and make my way over to the wet bar, taking the opportunity to smirk when my back is turned.

“I’m on the clock.”

“Water, then.”

When I bring him the glass, he does exactly what I counted on: he takes it with his right hand, uncovering the mic in the process.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

I nod and return to my seat with the tumbler of soda I poured for myself. No use getting drunk right before this place becomes crawling with feds. “So, Haversham. Tell me about him.”

“Not much to tell.” Smithson shrugs and avoids eye contact. He’s trying to look and sound calm when he’s clearly unraveling. “Just some guy my wife dated before she met me. From what I understand.”

“Huh. Really.” I reach across the desk to show him one of the photos Hamish’s investigators—and subsequently, mine—unearthed during their digging. “Isn’t this him? With your wife? At the Luxor in Vegas, yeah?”

His face reddens. “From before.”

“Before you? Or before you killed him for sleeping with her?”

Smithson’s eyes meet mine.

He doesn’t say another word.

“See the timestamp on here? That’s fairly recent. A few years ago, but definitely after the date notated on your marriage license. Which is public record, by the way. My daughter could Google it.”

His eye twitches. I’m getting to him.

“He vanished from his office’s parking lot not too long after he returned from his ‘business trip.’ The security cameras were faulty, it seems. Nothing but static.”

I slide another picture out of the file.

“Which, incidentally, is one of the more fascinating projects my company’s been working on in our security division. Did you know that sometimes, technical snow can be reassembled into clearer images? I had my team try out their newest software on this clip and look what we found.”

He shoves the picture of himself talking to Joshua Haversham in the parking garage aside, scattering the rest of the papers to the floor. “Enough! This is about you! And Sidney Ewing! Now, tell me where he is or I’m leaving!”

I laugh. “How the hell should I know where he is? You’re the one who killed him.”

Once again, Smithson freezes. He gapes at me in utter disbelief. “You lie.”

“Do I?” I push my chair back to stand with him, still completely calm and unbothered by his little tantrum. At this point, I’m just having fun playing with my food. “You were seen talking to Ewing in a parking garage right before he went missing, too. Haversham—what was left of him, I mean—was found in a pig pen of a farm about forty-five minutes from here. One of your old high school friends, right? I bet good money your people will find Ewing’s remains there, too.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t flinch at the sound of footsteps thundering up the backstairs.

Or from the opening elevator ding out in the lobby.

Or even when the office door slams open and armed federal agents swarm in, guns raised and aimed squarely at… him.

“You s-son of a bitch,” he stammers.

“My mother is a saint. Your mother should have told you that pigs can’t digest human teeth.”

I don’t know what’s more satisfying to listen to: Smithson’s superiors reciting the Miranda Rights as the slap cuffs on his wrists, or the very long list of charges they’ll be filing against him.

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