Page 30 of Devious Secrets

At the last moment, she decides to evade the question instead. “It’s none of your business.”

I squelch the desire to throw her across the bed and force her to tell me everything. The anger is too raw right now.

“Everything about you is my business now, Megan. When I get back, you are going to tell me every last fucking detail of the trouble you’re actually in.”

Her eyes narrow on me. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be with you.”

“You gave up all hope of ever getting what you want when you trespassed and tried to take what didn’t belong to you.”

She screws her face into a glower.

“Not one toe.” I remind her and yank the door shut, leaving her alone in the bedroom and me outside in the hall, willing my anger at her recklessness to calm.

Something hits the other side of the door.

I almost smile, but then I remember the name Marco DeAngelo and grit my teeth as I make my way down to my office.

* * *

“What the hell happened?”I ask the moment I step into my office where Ivan and Kaz are helping themselves to my brandy.

Kaz sits in an armchair, one arm draped over the rolled leather arm and one foot hooked over his opposite knee.

“He’s dead.” The crystal decanter top clinks as Ivan drops it in place.

“Yes. I understood your text. How?” I join him at the bar tucked into the corner of the office and pour three fingers of brandy for myself.

“He collapsed.” Kaz gestures with his hand. “One minute he was standing there, telling a boring story, the next he was flat on his back, eyes rolled to the back of his head.” He mimics the motion with his arm, making it look like a tree fell in the woods.

“Why did he collapse?” I down half my drink, trying to wash away the irritation the distracting woman upstairs has caused.

“Don’t know yet. The coroner said we’d have a cause of death by morning.” Ivan brings his glass to the couch. “Nothing happened. The man just keeled over and died.”

“Dexter Thompson was thirty-five years old, Ivan. How does a thirty-five-year-old just drop dead?” I question. Two years younger than me, and he’s just gone in a breath. It’s unnerving.

“He did have some heart condition,” Kaz offers. “Last year, when we were in that meeting with him for the build on the west side, he stopped in the middle of talking about a contribution to some organization to get a pill bottle out of his drawer. He said it was for his heart.”

“Okay, so say his heart gave out. There’s nothing to worry about, then. Right?” Ivan questions.

If only that were the case. But there’s a woman upstairs whose involvement with Marco DeAngelo suggests Thompson’s death is more than just natural causes. The timing is too coincidental. And I don’t believe in coincidences.

“We’ll have to wait until we get the cause of death. Even if he did die of natural causes, we still have someone who was trying to get information on him.” I grab the folded-up paper out of my pocket, unfold the thick stationery, and hand it to Ivan.

He sits up straighter, noticing right away the emblem watermarked on the back. It’s subtle. Someone who wasn’t looking for it would probably miss it.

The Obsidian logo.

Ivan’s eyebrows shoot up, then he hands it to Kaz, who frowns.

“Debts will be repaid?” Kaz reads the top of the stationery. “What is this?”

“That’s what Megan Reed was given as an introduction to the job of sneaking into our records room.” I finish off my drink and pour another, dropping a ball of ice from the bucket.

“I assume you called this number.” Kaz waves the paper.

“I did. No longer in service.” I lean against my desk.

“It worked when she called it, though?” Ivan questions with a wrinkled forehead. “And where was she supposed to drop it off?”

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