Page 111 of The Truths that Deceive

In the background, the deep and low and soothing timbre of Smith’s voice washes over me like soft waves. He’s on his phone and I look up to find him leaning on the kitchen counter, back to me, pouring golden liquid into a glass. Scotch, probably.

For a moment I let my gaze linger on the lean, muscular form of him, the narrow hips and long legs, the broad, muscled back. He pushes a hand through his hair as he nods, then drops his hand to the counter, only to push a finger along the rim of his glass.

He’s a conundrum. Soft at times when he should be hardcore and brutal. When he took me, he could have just fucked into me, taken me hard after working me open. Claimed that victory like he could claim a beating heart from a chest.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he waited, went soft, broke his stalker, predatory character. For me, to make sure I felt safe.

I get using a word instead of “no” so I can explore with him the wilds of sex, the taboo, and play in rough games of him taking what I pretend I don’t want to give. It’s a freedom, it’s sweet. And something that needs trust on both sides.

That stops me.

I trust him.

At least on a base level. And sex is as bare-bones as it comes.

I don’t know what it all means. Except it means something.

My computer beeps and I look back at the screen, shooting straight up. After a minute of furious typing, I look at him. “Smith.”

He comes over. “What is it?”

My breath’s caught, and I turn my computer. “I know where the message came from. It’s supposed to have been sent from DC, but we know Riley was here. I… I think someone might be using him. Because…”

He frowns. “Eric T. Brown?”

I pull up another page.

“Remember when I said that Trenton has a son?Tfor Trenton. This guy’s here, and look… he’s got links to Jon Trenton’s offshore accounts. The last name here doesn’t matter, his activity does. Because look.”

I point to another account he has, and the donations made from it.

“They’re accounts in Bolivia. A few are bigger, where if you trace the money, it shows whoever that person is—there are a bunch of different people. It’s a network, so sometimes the money gets hard to trace—this money goes to a film company in Bolivia. Shipping, and?—”

“Rare Birds, Inc.” He shakes his head. “What can you find about them?”

I open up the account for Rare Birds.

It seems on the up-and-up, lots of big and small donations, money going everywhere, but soon I’m deep diving into names, aliases, organizations, companies. And finally, I look at him.

“How did you know?”

He spins the computer. “I didn’t. We’ll call it a hunch and look… These are names of Collectors, their companies, and even shipments of bird cages.”

I swallow.

Did they keep my mother in a cage?

“Can you copy that?” he asks. “If this guy’s in on it, a kid of a Collector who developed a taste, and one who works for the senator up close, then this Eric might be the key. The one that’s hidden under everything.”

I pull up Eric T. Brown’s file from DC. The private one. “It says she had him very young. It’s not a secret, but he went to private school in Canada and was raised by an aunt and uncle?”

“Your Riley might be guilty. He’s in New York, his mom just got remarried, and that might all be coincidence. I need to look into him. In person. With the senator.” But he doesn’t move. “On the bottom of the clothes bag is a phone. Make sure it’s on. And all that stuff you have? The files and code you collected, the things Johnny sent you? I need a copy of everything. Now.”

“If I don’t?”

“Then they probably get away with everything, and I will hand you over because otherwise, they’ll hunt you down.”

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