Page 92 of Stutter

I fuck my wife that night and never again.

Three Weeks Prior…

“We've decided to investigate thisinternally.” Stephen says, his voice low like thunder and Jonas steps back into his place, bowing his head. I hate how fucking happy he looks, I mean, well fucked. I keep my smirk to myself, Andrew Mikaelson keeps shifting from foot to foot. He always hated having to standaround at these meetings. You’d think with all the Adderall he’s on, he'd be able to keep his shit together.

He finds me, after the meeting, cloak off and hair a mess from the hood. “Looks like I missed a lot while I was gone.”

“No shit, Andrew.”

“I can’t make sense of it.”

“Of what?”

“Jacob Cartwright died what, two years ago?”

I nod.

“Even if Riordan was right and Raven is doing this, that’s impossible. She was at Lorne Wood. It couldn’t have started then.”

“Jonas killed Cartwright. It’s in the ledger.”

“Didn’t anyone contend it?”

I shake my head. “Mr. Cartwright died the year before. That’s why Jacob was so gung-ho about killing Raven and taking his father’s place, keeping the legacy going. She was supposed to be an easy kill. I mean, five plus the witness.”

His face is somber and then he shakes his head. “Now there’s someone between the cloaks killing us off one by one.”

I grunt. “Everyone who signed their name beside hers.”

His eyes darken, still staring at me as he’s called away. Because he knows what I know. There are only two of us left that were there that night.

Two weeks prior…

Me: I’m pretty sure Clarissa is trying to kill me.

Father: ?

Me: I found strawberries in the refrigerator.

Father: That’s not enough evidence to end the contract. Are the strawberries touching any of your food?

Me: No. But I’m also pretty sure she’s cheating on me.

Father: You’ll have to dive deeper. Put a cloak on her. Have her followed.

Me: *OK hand emoji*

I throw my head back, looking at the ceiling in exasperation as Cheryl, my executive assistant, brings me another cup of coffee despite it being five in the afternoon. I thank her and turn to look out of the window Hoover & Sons Enterprises’ Boston location. I’m here, instead of D.C., because Father is in London for some charity gala on behalf of our company since I’ll be going to the Athletic Holiday Banquet at RMU. We’ve poured millions of dollars into the athletic department, even though RMU doesn’t really need more money. At this point, it could be considered a bank.

“Mr. Hoover?” My assistant calls for me from outside of my office.

“Yes, Cheryl?”

“Your wife called, she’s on her way to the banquet.”

I thank her again, still looking out at the Boston Harbor, wishing I didn’t have to go to this thing. But, as luck would have it, I arranged for us to be sitting by the Andersons, seeing as my father and I donated over ten million dollars alone. I’m sure that could have gone to the poor or… their spawn, made the world a better place. But in the end, their money goes back into our pockets so why bother?

I grab my coat from the coat rack and begin dressing myself to step out into the bitter cold the Northeast has to offer.

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