Page 20 of Cruel Lies

He disconnected the call, and I got to work. If both my brothers were going to lose their heads over this contract, I would see it through for the sake of our reputation. I might be the pretty boy of the group, but damned if I wasn’t just as good at my job as they were.

The single-minded determinationonly lasted an hour and a half. I had migrated to the work office, as we called it, tearing through social media, public databases, and anything else I could get into that might hint at her trail. All I could find were some school documents for her mechanic’s license and her current pay stubs from Big John’s Garage. It was like she’d just popped up out of thin air one day, two years after we’d apparently failed at killing her, as a fully grown human. Her name had nothing else tied to it, so whoever had created her alias would have had to plant false documents in government databases.

And I only knew one guy with that kind of ability who would mix with guys like us. Only one who went back far enough to have helped Rowan then.

Rick Royston.

Grade A asshole, but a damn good hacker and the best document forger this side of the fucking ocean. I dialed his burnernumber, but it went to an overflowing mailbox, which didn’t surprise me in the least.

The fucker had a system designed to weed out the less persistent/serious clients. He would leave his message box full, and the clients who’d worked with him before would know to shoot him a text with a callback number. I followed his convoluted protocol and waited.

Sure enough, after about ten minutes, my backup phone rang, and I answered it on the second ring.

"Royston."

His tone was dry, but he knew who I was. "Blackwood. Can’t say I wasn’t eventually expecting a call, but I never thought it’d be from you."

The couch swallowed me whole as I sank into the cushions, ready for the worst of my fears to be confirmed. "I have some questions, and I know you’ve got answers."

Rick’s laugh was dry, but his tone was guarded. "What if I don’t want to give you the answers?"

I cleared my throat, already pissed off as I tried to keep my tone neutral. "You will."

"What do you want to know?"

"You helped a girl disappear for Rowan seven years ago. He swears he didn’t know the details, refused to let you tell him anything, other than she was safe." I paused for a moment, listening to the hum of the recording device Rick used on his calls to keep collateral should someone decide to turn on him. "That true, Rick?"

"Mmm," he hummed, "it is. However, I don’t know why. She seemed important to him." Now, it was his turn to pause, weighing the words that would come from his mouth next. "He know you called me?"

"I’m sure he suspected I would. I didn’t go out and tell him, though. We’re not exactly on speaking terms."

I knew how to lure Rick in with the juicy tidbits that had him salivating. At his core, Rick Royston was a gossip. He dealt in information, and if he thought there might be something there, he’d sniff it out like a hound on the hunt.

"Something happen between you two? I thought you Blackwood boys were thick as thieves."

Hook, line, and sinker.

"Let’s just say he didn’t plan to ever share his involvement with her, or her existence, with the rest of us. His hand was forced."

Royston was silent for a hot minute, the gears in his head turning at a mile a minute. "Do I need to hide this girl again? Because that’s gonna cost extra, Angel."

"No, no, we don’t need her hidden again. Let’s just say it was destiny that she ended up on our radar now."

"Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

He didn’t wait for me to end the call; he had what he wanted—the latest gossip and confirmation that his services weren’t yet needed. Rick was in high demand, and time was money.

I tossed the burner across the floor and groaned to myself, flexing muscles that had begun to cramp.

An hour went by as I reclined on that couch, then another, with no sign of Nash and no indication that Rowan planned to come in and confront me. I was half convinced that if I fell asleep here, he’d sleep in the living room in protest so he wouldn’t have to walk past me to get to his own room.

He’d cut off his nose to spite his face before he’d admit he fucked up. He was Mister Perfect. Couldn’t stand to be out of control of a situation or not know what would happen next. Never mind that we all really needed to have a talk about what was going to happen, or where we planned to go from here. No, he’d rather stew in his own self-pity and frustration than open up to his brothers.

Fuck him, then.

I could handle this all on my own.

But first, I’d need a few things . . .

---