Page 111 of Fracture

“Now Gloria, we’d been led to believe that Dylan was in a relationship with your stepdaughter, Stella. Is that not true?”

“No, it is true.” Gloria’s smile drops at the mention of Stella’s name, in a way that can’t hide her disdain. “At least, that’s what he let her believe, because there was no way we could be open about it, admit to it. He wanted to protect my integrity.”

“So, he was lying to Stella?”

Gloria swallows hard, and her eyes flash uncertainly off camera for just a split second. She has to reel this back in somehow, to make her look like the wounded party and not some greedy cougar who stole her stepdaughter’s boyfriend.

“Dylan cared for Stella, like a sister,” Gloria lilts softly. “He didn’t know how to let her down gently. The last thing either of us wanted to do was hurt Stella. She’d been through enough, being abandoned by her mother at such a young age.”

My rage is incandescent. I can practically taste it, searing acid at the back of my throat. This fucking, dirty ass bitch. Myhands curl into fists, imagining snapping that privileged ivory neck. She’s going to fucking pay for this shit.

The interviewer leans back and clasps her hands over her knee. “So, when you said that you believe your relationship with Dylan was what led to the altercation resulting in your husband’s death, what do you believe happened?”

Gloria takes a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering briefly to her knees as she smooths her skirt over them. “That night, after Dylan and I had… After we’d been together, Harold came home early from a meeting. Dylan’s bike was still parked in the drive.”

“He caught the two of you?”

Gloria lifts her chin. “No, I think Dylan was doing the honorable thing, and telling Harold the truth. That we wanted to be together.”

The video stops playing, the bar at the bottom showing that this part is done, and I search through the list to find part 2. It’s not there.

Fuck, fuck, what else did she say?

Then I see Part Two airs tonight. I slam my fist into the table.

God fucking dammit. What is this bitch playing at?

I pull up a number on my phone, and it rings twice before a groggy male voice answers.

“What?”

“I need a trace, Flea.”

“On who?” The tapping of a keyboard sounds in the background.

“Gloria Fenton-Langford.”

More tapping, and the man clears his throat. “This bitch is going to be expensive.”

“I didn't expect anything less,” I say with a cynical laugh. “Name your price.”

“Twenty-thousand.”

“What’s a hacker living in his mom’s basement going to do with twenty k?” I’m teasing him, he knows I’m good for it. I’m going to pay this kid who just got out of prison, and do it gladly. But irritating him is kind of fun.

Flea sighs audibly. “My parole says I have to be here, so the least I can do is make this shit hole comfortable. Now, we on?”

“Sure.” I chew my lip, a strange feeling settling into my gut. “And one more, too.”

“Who else you need to follow around, huh?”

“Oswald Perlmann.”

Flea makes a choking sound. “The senator?”

“Yeah, that one.”

Flea puffs out a breath, and there’s more clicking in the background as he types furiously. “You know that one’s gonna be extra.”

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