Page 68 of Deadly Rival

“Shut the fuck up! She wouldn’t have looked at you.”

He scoffs. “Please. A lonely girl desperate for her daddy’s attention? All I had to do was pretend to give a shit about her. I spent a couple of weeks listening to her pathetic problems and—” He makes a swooshing motion with his hand. “—boom. It was so easy. Too easy to be fun, if I’m honest. I got bored pretty quickly and moved on.”

Sometimes I wish I could turn off my brain and bury myself in comfortable lies like most people do. But I can’t help seeing the plausibility in his words. It could be true. But it could also be horseshit designed to provoke me. “And, what? You’re saying she killed herself because you dumped her? She was smarter than that.”

There’s a look people get, playing poker, when they know that whatever you do next, they win. That look, that smug look, spreads over Harrison’s ugly fucking face, and my stomach turns over.

“You’re not wrong there. A smart kid, your sister. But, as you say, she was only fourteen, and girls that age panic when they get pregnant."

It’s a punch to the gut. A sledgehammer to the back of my head. The numbers click into place, the dice land, and I can see the truth of it in plain black and white. Memories assault me, one by one.

Our housekeeper, bringing in a stack of her patented waffles with cherry sauce. Maggie’s absolute favorite. Maggie, pale, shaking her head.

Maggie wearing a frumpy one-piece on a trip to the beach.

Maggie sobbing in her bedroom. Swiping at her eyes when I go in to comfort her. “It’s just some girls at school. Real bitches.”

My father refusing to let me speak to the coroner after the autopsy. “It’s grown-up business. Keep out of it.”

I never pushed further. Why would I? She was dead. I can now, though. I can access the coroner’s records at the touch of a button. As soon as I’m off this fucking call, I’ll find out the truth once and for all.

As if he’s read my thoughts, Harrison says, “I’m sure you can check with the morgue.”

He could still be bullshitting me, trying to make me act without thinking, but that possibility is a shrinking needle in a haystack. He knows I can check, and he knows I will. If he’s making this up, he’ll look like a fool.

“She rang me, of course. So scared of your dad finding out. She wanted my help, but I wasn’t about to let a stupid piece of ass ruin my reputation. I told her if anyone ever found out I was the father, I’d kill her myself. That shut the little bitch up.”

He’s calculated every word to upset me, but there’s more to it. He’s enjoying the memory of Maggie’s pain. I can tell by the way his fat tongue flicks over his lips. My stomach cramps, and I have to breathe deep to keep my breakfast down.

“I didn’t think she’d kill herself. She could have just made up a story to save face. Said she got raped or something.”

His shoulder lifts, a dismissive little twitch, and I’ve never known hatred like this in my entire life. It boils up from a dark place in my soul, turning every nerve in my body to ash.

He’ll pay for this. He’ll pay.

All this time, I’ve been torturing the wrong Calder.

That realization slams into place, bringing with it a suffocating wave of guilt. Ophelia didn’t kill Maggie. I’ve taken her, and used her, and she wasn’t to blame.

“Looks like I’ve given you something to think about. If you want to have this out, I’m at 14 Layman Avenue. If you come with an army, I’ll be gone before you get there. Come by yourself, and we’ll settle this like men. What do you say? You want to avenge your sister, or keep hiding in your Compound like a bitch?”

My vision swims, the blackness creeping further in. It’s a trap, of course. An obvious trap, but I can’t make myself care. I keep a gun in my bedroom, and I’m going to shoot Harrison Calder right in his smug fucking face.

First, though, I need to get past Jacob. I’m not bringing him, or anyone else any deeper into this shit.

“I’ll be there.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Harrison smirks as he ends the call.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I pace my office, trying to calm down enough to think. To get to the point where I can fake calm, even though I’m nowhere near feeling it. I’ve always put on a good show. Always managed to portray exactly what I want to portray to get what I need. It’s a game, and one I’m very good at.

Usually.

I force myself to stand still, hands pressed on my smooth wooden desk. It’s thin and practical, not luxurious like Kendrick’s office or my apartment. I trace the wood grain with my eyes, moving from one end to the other, until my heart rate slows from its full racing gallop. Until my hands stop shaking.

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