Page 7 of Cruel Dreams

“What PI did you say this was? He’s been working on it all this time?” Clayton asks, his voice rough.

I nod. “Since we spoke at my party. I’ve been paying his fee for years. I thought he was charging me so he could fuck around on a beach somewhere, drink, and smoke weed, but the son of a bitch finally found something. Although,” I continue nonchalantly, “the FBI would have offered me the informationeventually.” I’m not a naïve kid anymore. The FBI never would have told me a goddamned thing.

“Yes, of course,” Clayton agrees, sweat glistening along his forehead. “But the PI?”

“Stan?” I muse. “Is that right?”

I actually have no fucking idea. He worked the case for six months, then I fired him. I have no tolerance for people who can’t do their jobs. I paid invoice after invoice. A plane ticket to France, bribe money, hotels, more bribe money, and the man had nothing new to give me. It was only after talking to Mel about his ineptness that she speculated Clayton ordered him not to look for anything at all, and after hearing that, I finally understood the lack of progress.

The same holds true for the PI Ash recommended to help me find Stella when all Mel had to do was turn on the TV. The son of a bitch wasn’t looking for her for me. He was looking for her for Ash.

My trust in the Blacks hurt me in ways I would never have comprehended.

It’s crazy how clear things become when someone who’s on the outside explains things to you. I should have listened to Stella the minute she told me Ash didn’t like her. I attributed that to Ash’s snobbery—I had no idea he knew how badly she would shake things up.

Somehow, he had, and I still wonder how he did. How he had the foresight to make her disappear.

“I don’t think that’s his name,” Clayton chokes out.

“Well, I’ve had other things on my mind,” I say good-naturedly. “He never gave me any updates, only sent in his bills, and those weren’t paid by me personally. I’m happy to say the money and patience has paid off. Obviously, I’m going to meet with my contact at the FBI as soon as I can. I want to know why this information hasn’t been shared with me.”

“Excuse me,” Clayton says, shoving his beer bottle at a passing waiter and striding toward the ballroom’s doors.

He might be going to the restroom to throw up.

I chuckle.

“Excuse me as well,” I say to Ash. “I need a refill.”

I leave him standing alone near the floor-to-ceiling windows, blinking, his hand gripping his glass so hard his knuckles are white.

Clayton’s having a difficult time escaping, our guests constantly stopping him to chat and gossip. I keep him in my peripheral vision and snag a new drink from the busy bartender.

Nodding at the party guests and accepting congratulations as I casually amble along, Clayton impatiently disentangles himself from a couple who trapped him, and I follow him out of the ballroom and watch him round a corner. The hallway’s empty, and I find cover near a large potted tree.

“This is Black,” he whispers furiously. He’s on the phone, but I don’t peer around the corner like I want to. I don’t want to risk him seeing me. “What have you done?”

There’s silence, then he snarls, “What do you mean, ‘What did I do?’ I’m talking about Maddox. I told you not to do any investigating into that plane crash—”

Pause.

“You must have done something. He knows the fucking NTSB found the black box.”

The sound of sputtering drifts toward me.

“If you didn’t tell him, who the fuck did?”

Pause.

“Fucking figure it out.”

They’ll try to determine who told me the black box isn’t still at the bottom of the ocean. The FBI is in the clear. No one there would betray Clayton Black and speak to me. The NTSB will sniff for leaks, but they gave up possession of the box five years ago,and the snitch I said the PI found doesn’t exist. There will only be dead ends.

Clayton’s tux rustles, and I duck into a fire exit, holding the door ajar and preventing it from clicking shut. He huffs by me and doesn’t notice the door’s cracked.

That’s one plan down, two more to go.

The night drags on.

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