Page 143 of What's Left of Us

Does Georgia know who Scores Tech is? “We still don’t know who’s actually running it?”

“The addresses listed on their accounts are legitimate ones in both Atlanta and New York City, but Scores Tech isn’t headquartered at either location. There are other businesses at the locations that probably haven’t heard of the investor in their lives.”

Clicking my tongue, I lean back and scrub my jaw as I stare at the notes he’s been taking. “What is all this?” I ask, gesturing toward the arrows that connect to a few different names.

He points toward a name. “This is the bank that most of the transfers are originating from. It’s in the city.”

“Not Atlanta?”

“No.”

Blowing out a breath, I toss the notepad onto the desk. “Every time I think I’ve learned enough, I get more goddamn questions I want answered. How is somebody with that much money still under the radar while still investing in newbusinesses? And why a fucking bookstore? At least concrete and real estate all have a purpose. Turning Pages makes no sense.”

“You want my honest answer?”

“Is it going to piss me off?”

“Probably.”

Grumbling, I nod. “Hit me with it.”

“Turning Pages is a personal investment to this person,” he says, reaching across me to snatch his notepad back. He flips to the next page but doesn’t show it to me right away. “I don’t think it has to do with the business itself but who it’s attached to.”

When he passes me the paper again, I’m left staring at the same bank information that was on the last page. “What is this?”

“That’s the same bank that The Del Rossi Group uses to store their funds.”

Is he saying Scores Tech is run by Nikolas Del Rossi? “Why would he invest in his own company? Where would that money even come from if it’s from a different account with a fraudulent address?”

He grabs his water and uncaps it. “I don’t know if this is Del Rossi, man. But I think it’s someone who wants people to believe it is.”

“Why?”

“Because everybody needs a person to blame to save their own asses.”

I blink, stare down at the information, and realize he’s probably right. What I don’t know is how much of this Georgia might know now that she’s rubbing elbows at the Del Rossi household like this entire marriage wasn’t formed to get away from them.

“You okay?” Conklin asks.

“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m fucking fantastic.”

I stand up and brush crumbs from my button-down. “With skills like these, you should really consider applying for BCI. I don’t know why you insist on staying on the road.”

He grins up at me. “Because that’s where the real action is. Plus, I think this uniform makes my ass look phenomenal.”

If he’s trying to lighten the mood, it’s working. “Tell Riss I said thanks for lunch,” I tell him, patting his back.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to someone.”

*

The younger womanat the desk is wearing her shirt like a second skin, and I wonder if that’s part of the appeal here. “May I help you?” she asks, her lips painted an unnatural shade of pink as she smiles up at me.

“I was hoping to meet with someone about the house for sale on Striker Ave,” I tell the bleach blond, who looks like a modern-day version of Barbie.

Her smile grows. “Of course! I have a few realtors in the office today. Let me go ahead and call—”

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