Page 8 of Jericho

"Nothing else on her. She doesn't get out much. Goes to the hair salon once a week, but that's about it. They have staff that does the shopping. They don't have any deliveries to the house. Their son is in some sort of prep academy, but as I expected, the name and location are hidden. Gaines wouldn't want anyone having access to him."

Of course, they'd have their kid in a special school at such a young age. That's what money does to people. It keeps them from raising their own kids because they have other important things to do.

"Thanks, man. You got your fee?"

I know he did. The payment had to clear before he'd even call me back. At the end of the day, he's a businessman, and he's not going to waste his time.

"Yep. Let me know if you need anything else."

The line goes dead. I know I could call him back right now at the number he called me from and it wouldn't connect, orsome grandma in Oregon who has had the number for a decade would answer the phone.

As I stand on the porch and stare off into the snow-dusted trees, I consider that maybe I went into the wrong line of work. Ricco doesn't put his life on the line. I bet he's never been shot at, much less actually shot. He's never had a knife to his throat or one slicing down his face because he trusted the wrong woman.

As much as I know I'll hate myself more for doing it, I head back into the house and up the stairs to my room. I flip my laptop open and, once again, log back into the email account. I pore over every word again. As sad as she seems, I know she chose this life.

I begged her to run away with me, to get out from under her father and his promise of her to another man.

But who was I to her? Another grunt in her father's army. She was accustomed to prestige and more money than she knew what to do with. She didn't want a man who was sharing an apartment with three other goons who also worked for her father.

I didn't have anything to offer her. I promised to keep her safe and told her we could have a life where we didn't have to look over our shoulders and wonder if the police were going to come knocking on the door. But it was clear the day that Damien caught us together that she didn't want that. A life that consisted of working hard for your money as a law-abiding citizen didn't interest her. The easy money that came with selling guns and drugs was more appealing, even if it meant marrying a man she didn't love. He was able to give her everything she wanted.

I couldn't see her need for so many material things when I was standing in front of her. I was blinded by her beauty and the soft words she whispered to me. All I could hear from her lipswere the dreams she had. Thinking back now, I realize they were tainted by her lack of experience in the real world. Money isn't just handed to you. Someone has to work for it. It was very clear when she kept her eyes locked on the floor while Damien was scarring my face that she wasn't interested in contributing to the life she whispered about when we had time alone.

I guess it's just my shitty luck that the girl I went into the organization to flip got one over on me by making me fall in love, risking not only my career but also my life to try and pull her from the organization.

Reading the emails for a third time, I realize she is still just as manipulative and self-centered as she always has been. There isn't one mention of Damien or their son, Eli. There's no reason for her not to mention either one of them. As far as she knows, I'm dead. I don't know why she'd leave that information out, especially because she hints at the organization causing her suffering, and her husband is the head of it.

She speaks of wanting to escape, but I know from firsthand experience that she'd never do anything to inconvenience herself to get away.

Irritation begins to transition into anger, and within minutes, I'm more outraged than anything else.

Yanking the chair out from under the desk, I drop into it and start typing.

I pour out every minute of frustration that I've felt over the years. All the hatred flows from my fingertips, and I'm so livid I don't even worry about the typos. I fucking hate her. I hate that she made me love her, only to turn her back on me at the last moment. I hate that I've wasted so much fucking time thinking of her and worrying about her despite her betrayal. I fucking hate that she let a man she swore she hated touch her.

I hate that I ever fucking met her because my life would be a hell of a lot different if I never had.

I hate that if I concentrate hard enough, I can feel her skin under my fingertips, and all it takes is one deep inhale and I can smell her skin.

I type it all out, my mouse hovering over the send button when I'm done, the email looking angry and aggressive, all the red lines rotating the errors fitting for my mood. They're like all the tiny cuts her memory has made on my body, both the email and I bleeding red.

I hit send, but then the memo pops up on the bottom, asking if I want to unsend. Like the fool I am, I click yes, sending the email to draft rather than to the woman whom it's directed to.

I roar with frustration, standing so quickly from the desk that the office chair rolls backward, crashing into my bed frame.

I head to the door, thinking a walk in the woods might clear my fucking head, or maybe I'll find a fucking bear willing to put me out of my misery.

Chapter 4

Aspen

My heart is racing before I can even make it to the office.

Living in the same home I grew up in has its perks, despite Damien's insistence that we move into my father's old part of the house. He demanded the house staff to move out and burn all of my father's things and then move our stuff into his bedroom. That's how I found out that my father was never coming home.

When his body was discovered last week, Damien insisted on a small service. The same day his body was released from the coroner's office, he had him cremated, something my father was very vocal about not wanting. I imagine it had more to do with getting rid of evidence the authorities might've missed than anything else, although sticking it to my dad one last time could've been Damien's goal as well.

I pull the key I've had for nearly fifteen years from my bra and insert it into the locking mechanism. I swear I'm on the verge of a stroke with how loud my pulse is in my ears, but it doesn't stop me from stepping into the office.

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