Page 195 of Dirty Damage

“She is.”

Artem throws me a skeptical glance. “How can you be sure?”

The truth is, I have no clue why I’m so sure.

It’s more… a feeling.

The certainty that Sutton is still in Palm Beach, closer than I think.

“She doesn’t have enough money to get out of the state. There’s no way Sydney was able to get her the money that fast, either. Which means she’s going to be lying low somewhere in the city. We just have to figure out where.”

“Did she mention any place sentimental?” Artem asks. “A park she’s fond of? For what it’s worth, maybe we should check out the airp?—”

My phone cuts Artem off with a sharp ring. I can’t believe my eyes when I see the caller ID.

“Drew Anton.”

“My God.” Artem’s jaw drops. “Fucker’s got a pair of balls on him.”

“He’ll be parted from them soon enough,” I promise as I transfer the call to speaker phone and answer it. “Hello?”

“I’m guessing this is the great and mighty Oleg Pavlov?”

“And I’m guessing this is the pathetic and moronic Drew Anton.”

He laughs bitterly. “If you know who I am, then you know what I am to Sutton.”

I’m willing to bet that the only reason he’s so free with her name is because he’s far, far away from me. “The cancer she can’t get rid of?”

“She was playing arole, man. She may have talked shit about me, but I am her person. She confides in me, trusts me,lovesme. You were just a fucking job. However she was with you was fake.”

“Trust me,” I growl, low and menacing. “There are some things no woman can fake.” His breath catches. Then I hear a furious groan from his end of the line. Before he can rebut, I keep talking. “Why the hell are you calling me?”

“We’ve got something very valuable that you’re gonna want.”

“There’s nothing you have that I want. If that’s all?—”

“No!” he yells, the catch in his throat betraying his desperation. “Trust me, this is something you’re definitely going to want.”

“You’re full of shit, Anton.”

I’m about to end this waste of time call when he shouts, “She’s pregnant!”

I freeze. Artem does, too. His eyes snap to me but I’m focused on the call, the voice on the other line that’s giving me news she should have given me herself.

“What?”

He lets out a cackle of laughter. “She didn’t tell you, did she? Well, she told me. The kid’s yours and—for a price—I can tell you exactly where she is.”

“For a price, huh?” I snarl, fist pressed knuckles-down into the seat.

“That’s right. One mill?—”

“One thing before you name your price.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck you.”

---