Page 9 of Jericho

I haven't been inside this room very often in the last ten years, but this is the place where my father conducted most of his business. Damien likes to leave the house, and I have no doubt he spends a lot of his time at the strip club the organization uses as a front. Dad wanted to be close to home. I think he felt the safest here and was able to have more control over what was happening in his life if he wasn't always on the go. Dad didn't feel the need to be a showman the way Damien does. Honestly, I don't think Dad even liked people very much, and chose to be in solitude as much as the business allowed.

The room smells different from what I remember. The cloying scent of cigars is gone, and I can only imagine the level of cleaning the staff had to do in here to make it go away. The carpet is different, but Damien having it replaced after he took over wouldn't be the first time it had to have been done. I refuse to think of the stain left behind all those years ago. Guilt threatens to take over, and there's nothing I can do about eight-year-old mistakes. I have to look to the future, to find a way out of this mess, but I can't do that until I get all the information I need.

I rush to the desk, pulling open the first drawer on the right. I shuffle through the paperwork but find nothing of importance. Slamming the drawer closed in frustration, I open the next one. This one has hanging files, and I begin searching through each one. There's nothing that will give me the evidence I need to take Damien down nor information about where my son is.

A rush of urgency threatens to take over, making my hands tremble. I have such a small window of time to go through the things in here. Before long, the house staff will make it to this side of the house, and they'd betray me just to stay in his good graces. I can't trust a single soul in my house, but it's just the very sobering reality of my life. It was like this long before Damien took over. The people who are here are loyal to the man of the house, the one who signs their paychecks, the one keeping them from meeting an untimely end.

Betraying Damien doesn't mean they lose their job and retirement plan. It's more likely they'll lose their lives. Although I've never witnessed someone die at his hands, I know that he has killed before. I shove down memories of what he's capable of because fear isn't going to help me right now.

After finding nothing of importance to me in the second drawer, I attempt to open the third and find that it's locked.

"Want the key?"

I snap my eyes up to the doorway, feeling my skin grow cold, my legs threatening to buckle at the sight of Damien standing in the doorway with a key dangling from the tip of one finger. I know better than to mistake the bored look on his face for anything other than rage. It doesn't matter that he looks relaxed as he leans against the doorway. The man is livid, and all of that ire and rage is focused on me and what I've been caught doing.

I knew it was a risk to come in here before I was alerted that he passed through the front gate of the property.

I stand to my full height which is still a handful of inches shorter than him, despite feeling like a slight breeze has the potential to knock me to the ground.

I don't make excuses or lie because I know from experience that doing so would only make things worse than they are.

He seems proud that I don't open my mouth to come up with some excuse for being in here. Only house staff have a key, and they would never go snooping through his drawers. It seems I'm the only one dumb enough to do it.

"You have new carpet," I say stupidly.

"Do you like it?" he asks as he shifts away from the doorframe and steps further into the room.

"I think the dark red will hide more stains."

He looks down at the plush carpet under his feet, a small, sinister smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

"I didn't want to have to replace it every time I had to teach someone a lesson," he says as he lifts his eyes back to mine. "Come here."

I move because he commands it, my body knowing that any objection would only anger him further.

He's so different from the young man who came to work for my father two decades ago. He’s had a better handle on his rage in recent years. It has made him meaner somehow—less volatile on the outside but even more violent once he's pushed over the edge.

"Look there," he says, pointing to the corner.

I follow the tip of his finger to the blatantly obvious camera attached to the ceiling in the corner of the room.

"Did you really think I didn't know you've been coming in here for years and snooping through your father's things?"

I swallow but don't answer. He isn't looking for a response.

"I didn't think you were stupid enough to do it once I moved in here, but I guess I should stop giving you any sort of credit."

"Where's Eli?" I ask, refusing to stay silent any longer.

"He's safe," he answers, not giving me any information. "More than I can say about you."

I wouldn't say the hit comes from nowhere. It isn't the first time Damien has struck me. There were times when my father was alive that Damien left the evidence of his anger on my face. My dad would simply look at me and shake his head as if he was disappointed that I'd do anything to upset my husband.

Pain radiates from my cheek, spreading to my jaw and eye socket, but before I can lift my hand to cover the wound, he strikes me again, this time splitting my lip and making mecry out in pain. I drop to my knees, my head focusing for some reason on the drips of blood hitting his new carpet and disappearing as if it never happened.

I feel the warmth of his breath on the side of my face as he crouches beside me. I whimper again when he clasps my chin, his thumb digging into the wound on my mouth before he speaks.

"You have no business in this room. You have no business asking me questions about Eli. If you so much as look like you're questioning the choices I make, I'll fucking kill you both. Do you understand me?"

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