Page 85 of Capitol Matters

“That’s a bottle of spit,” I grumbled.

Too little, too late.

Holland’s expression turned to aggravation as she barked a gruff command. “Both of you, come with me. Now.”

Tobin marched proudly forward while I lagged behind.

When we passed Holland’s office, my concern grew. She led us out of the Investigative Department and down the halls toward the more ostentatious part of the building. I recognized the path before we reached Maximus Lyle’s private chambers.

Holland didn’t pause or even knock before entering,ushering us both into the room where her father waited. My dread was compounded, and every excuse became paper thin when I spotted the second person occupying a seat in the office. Maximus’s trusty sidekick, Jacoby Thatcher, regarded my arrival with thinly masked surprise.

Curse words populated my brain, but none made it past my lips.

I froze in the doorway while Holland blurted, “There’s a cure!”

Tobin strutted across the floor in front of the fireplace as though he were on display.

Maximus stood, and Thatcher followed suit, and I wanted to shrink into the hall. But the door swung closed and trapped me inside with the rest of them.

Silence answered the declaration that brought presumed doubt from Maximus. I didn’t need to wonder about Thatcher’s feelings. Splotches of red spread up from his shirt collar to stain his face, and his jaw quivered from clenching too tightly.

Swallowing, sweating, and shifting from side to side, I could think of nothing to say. I should have seen this coming but was honestly shocked at Tobin’s willingness to give me credit for finding the cure. More surprised than I should have been, considering he’d twisted what might have been a point in my favor into proof I was keeping secrets that cost people’s lives.

“Your new consultant is a golden goose,” Tobin proclaimed. “Shitting out miracles.”

He beamed a smile as he walked forward with the soda bottle in hand and planted it on Maximus’s desktop.

Holland nodded in agreement, and Maximus and Thatcher continued to stare until Tobin gestured to me and said, “Tell them, Fitch.”

I blamed—or credited, dependingon your perspective—the whole thing on Donovan. Maximus and Holland both knew my brother was alive, and they must have assumed I kept in contact with him. Explaining the plague cure as his discovery and Tobin as our unwitting guinea pig proved a satisfactory explanation. Except Jacoby Thatcher, who nearly gave himself an aneurysm keeping quiet through the meeting, then left the Capitol immediately after lunch.

Worried he might believe my lies and confront Donovan about it, I made a few phone calls. First, to my brother, warning him to clear out of the motel until I had a chance to talk to Grimm privately. Second to Nash to see if I could lay low at his place for the night.

Knowing I needed to explain myself to Grimm didn’t mean I wanted to, or that I wouldn’t take an opportunity to delay it. So after work, instead of seeking out the tongue lashing and getting it over with, I gaveGrimm time to stew by heading straight to the Bitters’ End.

Upon entering the bar, I realized I should have given Nash more details about the reason for my sleepover request. Then he might have warned me that the person I was trying to avoid had already beat me there.

Flanked by Vinton and Avery, Grimm guzzled a half pint of beer. I knew his drinking habits well enough to realize he’d been at it for a while. He tended to start with wine and escalate as the night went on—or day, in this instance.

The rest of the gang was carousing. Newbies cluttered the spaces between tables and lined up along the counter, leaving little room for me to squeeze in.

I did anyway, and flagged Nash down to order a double shot of vodka that I hoped would steady my nerves. This wasn’t how I’d wanted to reconnect after more than a week of giving him the cold shoulder, but it was too late to change that now.

Scanning the room found no sign of Donovan, or Ripley and Maggie, for that matter. That meant Grimm’s inevitable temper flare would be all for me. He’d been pissed off since the gala, and today’s events must have sent him into a spiral. Better that he unloaded on me. Then he might leave Donovan out of this entirely.

While I stood between barstools trying not to get elbowed by rowdy nobodies oblivious to my existence, a familiar voice called my name.

With a scuffle and full body shove, Grimm unseated the man beside me and took his place. He spun toward me, perched on the swiveling stool as he took a longdrink from his pint glass. The foam that stuck to his mustache in clumps should have been comical, but I sure as hell wasn’t laughing.

“There’s no logic, is there?” Despite the ruckus, I heard him clearly. “Not a flicker of common sense in your dim bulb of a brain.” He thumped a finger into my forehead, and I bent back, scowling.

Grimm set his beer on the counter hard enough I feared the bottom of the glass might have cracked.

“Tell me,” he said with the slightest slur. “Tell me, have you always been so fucking stupid?”

Nash came by with a shot glass and lingered across the bar, pouring slowly to the brim of the tiny cup.

I barely waited for the liquor to finish flowing before grabbing the shot and dumping it down my throat. It burned my mouth and belly like liquid fire. I passed the glass back to Nash, then tapped the bar in a wordless request for a refill. He eyed me with one brow drawn in scrutiny. I would deal with him later. I had enough to worry about with Grimm beside me ready to screech like a teakettle.

---