Page 70 of Rebound

Less than an hour after I first spoke to Shane Ryan, he calls me back. “The information you requested has been delivered to your office,” he says. He’s no-nonsense, and I like that.

“That was… quick.”

“Our girl is the best in the business. Plus, she says this asshole was so arrogant he didn’t bother covering his tracks. It was all there on his laptop, waiting for someone like her to come along and find it. Not that there is anyone else like her.”

“Well, I appreciate it. How do I compensate Jessie for her time?”

“No need. She’d be insulted if you tried. She considers it her honor to take down scum like this. What are you going to do with this information? I hope I don’t have to point out that it can’t be used in court, and it can’t come back to her.”

“No, I understand. And I’m going to use it to fuck him up. It’s possible I may also beat the crap out of him.”

He laughs, and it’s not an especially pleasant sound. “Sounds like a plan. You need any help with that second part, you know where we are.”

As I hang up, Beverley knocks on my door and brings me a thumb drive in the shape of an actual thumb. Huh. I take my time familiarizing myself with its contents, and by the end of it, I have a clear picture of what Freddie has been up to. Amber was far from the first woman he abused, as we suspected. He’s done the same thing to several clients and female employees. There are emails about it going back years, and I’m guessing this is only the tip of the iceberg. Most of the women will have done what Amber’s first instinct was, try to forget about it, and who can blame them? The man is powerful and rich, a master manipulator.

The ones Jessie found details about are the ones who tried to take him on. Several threatened legal action, and one went so far as to file a police report. That went away because there was no evidence. It was her word against his, and she was an office cleaner who had only recently moved here from Puerto Rico. I wouldn’t be surprised if cash exchanged hands with law enforcement also. The other women he basically threatened right back—but bigger, better, and with more bite. He told them he’d take their homes, their jobs, their whole lives. If they told, nobody would believe them anyway, he said—he was too well connected, too well respected.

Fuck, it turns my stomach. I have no idea if he really could have done all the things he threatened, but eventually, they all believed he could and went away. And Freddie just carried on hurting more and more women. I despised him when I thought he was merely an adulterer and a creep—now I’d like to wipe him from the face of the earth. I force myself to sit and think this through, because anything I do now will not be done with a sound mind.

I print out the information, along with photos of some of the women. Once that’s done, I sit a while longer. After twenty minutes, I still don’t seem to be getting any calmer. My quest for a sound mind is doomed. When I went home to shower and change, I put on one of my favorite shirts, but fuck it. I can get a new shirt.

Freddie’s office isn’t far and I have a lot of excess energy to burn off, so I choose to walk. Without engaging with the receptionist, his assistant, or anyone else—I’m too mad to behave like a civilized human being—I storm right into his office and slam the door in the face of the spluttering young man chasing me.

“You want me to call security, Mr. Kemp?” the kid yells through the door as I stalk toward Freddie’s desk. I loom over him for a few seconds, then sit down in the guest chair, enjoying his confusion. I can pretty much hear the wheels of his brain turning, working to figure out all the angles.

“No thanks, Tom,” he calls back. “Mr. James here is an old friend.”

“Are… Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure. Go away, Tom.”

Freddie finally gives me his full attention, and I glare back at him, beyond furious but keeping it under control. “What can I do for you, Elijah?” he says, smiling smugly.

I want to put my fist through the little runt’s face. Instead, I lay the photos on his desk so they’re facing him. “Samantha Salazar. Michelle Lowe. Andrea Sherman. Cindy Hernandez. Charlotte Carter. These names mean anything to you, Freddie?”

He gazes down at them, and I have to admit, he’s good. Like Drake and Nathan, he has a superb lawyer face. I wouldn’t want to play poker against any of them. Other than the slightest twitch of an eyebrow, there’s no reaction whatsoever. He turns them back around to me. “Nope, not a thing. Why are you here, Elijah?” He leans back and folds his hands over his flabby gut. “Drake not cutting it as a divorce attorney?”

Is he fucking serious? Does he actually think I’m here to ask him for representation? Unreal.

“You know why I’m here, Freddie, so let’s cut to the chase. You assaulted my wife, and you implied you were her lawyer.”

“Be careful with your baseless accusations, Elijah. I could sue you for defamation. As for the other… Well, I told you the facts. Your inferences are your own. Now, if that’s all, I’m a busy man.” He gestures toward the door and turns his attention to his computer.

I slam my palm down on the desk, and his chair squeaks when he jumps back. His lawyer face fails him, and as I lean closer, he goes pale. There must be something in my eyes that tells him I’m not fucking around here.

“You. Assaulted. My. Wife.”

He stands up, and I know he’s going to make a run for it. All the blinds are closed, cutting off any visual contact with the rest of the building. He probably keeps it like this to allow him to play his sick games. To hide what he was doing to Amber, to the others like her. He takes a few steps toward the door, and I block him. I have maybe seven inches and a hundred pounds on this guy—there is no way past me.

He looks scared when he realizes he’s trapped, and I enjoy it. That’s exactly how Amber must have felt. I move forward, bumping into him and forcing him to take a step back. Each time he steps back, I step forward. He frantically searches for an escape, his hands held up defensively in front of him.

“There’s no way out, Freddie. I have you cornered. Just like you did with Amber. How does it feel? You want me to touch your dick, Freddie? You want me to bend you over the desk and shove a stapler up your ass and tell you you’re enjoying it?”

He shakes, and I smell urine. A wet patch spreads across the front of his pants, and he whimpers, “Elijah, please—I can explain.”

“Really? Go on then.”

Despite his terror, he blusters and splutters, managing a few incoherent sentences about “a misunderstanding” and “mixed messages” and “reading the signals wrong.” It’s an impressive amount of bullshit for a man who just pissed himself in fear.

---