Page 103 of Ugly Truths
Chapter 40
Davey
My fingers rake through my hair, digging into my scalp as I wait for the elevator to make its descent. Getting here was a goddamn nightmare. I stupidly assumed that I’d have no issues leaving at five in the morning, but the paparazzi were peaking over our back fence before I even walked the short distance from our townhome to the carriage house.
A pack of vultures was camped just outside the garage doors as they opened. The flashes were going off before I even took my car out of park. Steven stood guard at the back just to make sure none of them tried to sneak in behind me.
They were disappointed to find it was just me behind the wheel, but not too disappointed to put their cameras down. One of them had the brilliant idea to step directly into my path as I pulled into the alley, daring me to commit vehicular manslaughter before sunrise.
The last time we had cameras outside our door like this was in the weeks leading up to our wedding. Thank God I had the foresight to ask Cora and Steven to come to the townhouse before we parted ways last night. If they hadn’t shown up just as I was putting on my jacket, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving Natalie to sleep alone. William’s death has put a microscope on everyone. From what I’ve heard, Jeremy is dealing with the same swarm.
Don’t these people have lives?
We’d been discussing the idea of Natalie and me investing in our own team. It first came up in the spring, but we shelved it when we assumed Elena was behind the threats being made against my wife. Since then, we’ve relied on Silas’s crew as we always have. They’ve been generous, and I’ve come to see them as extended family, but they’re at their limit. Between whatever Peter Lynch might be up to and this latest surge in media attention, the cracks are starting to show.
My body sways when the elevator jerks to a stop. The biometric scanner blinks awake beside the door, waiting for my passcode and thumbprint. I give it both. It flashes green, then the doors slide open with their usual groan.
The hallway is mostly empty, aside from a few folding chairs stacked against one blank wall. Down at the far end, a closed door muffles a sharp voice. I don’t slow down to listen. Instead, I turn to the unmarked door just a few feet to my right, twist the handle, and push it open.
It’s not a big office, but it’s enough. A handful of chairs, a coffee machine, a mini-fridge, and a tower of monitors stacked along one wall. Only three screens are lit. Silas and Elena are perched at the edge of their seats as they watch Brenden Mercer’s head snap back when Cillian’s fist connects square with his nose. Blood pours down his face from multiple angles.
Neither acknowledges me. Their eyes stay glued to the man who might hold some or none of the answers we’ve been looking for.
I grab a chair near the door and drag it beside Elena before settling into it. “How long have they been at it?”
“Hour and a half, give or take,” Silas says, leaning back.
“When did you get here?”
Elena shrugs, her gaze fixed on the screen. “About an hour ago.”
“You arrived just in time. I think Cillian is done playing around,” Silas admits, nodding towards our friend’s face on the screen, each line around his mouth etched with frustration.
Though we’re confident that no one has immediate access to the files William hid on the servers, we’re still not entirely sure who might’ve known about the facilities just by proximity.
Last night, I asked Natalie if she wanted to come with me this morning. I knew Elena would be with Silas. It wasn’t that I wanted her to witness this, but she has just as much right as the rest of us. Regardless, she turned me down. For all the fire she had in her just days ago, it vanished the moment she walked away from that final lunch with William. I don’t blame her.
He knew about what Shaw did to her, and he didnothing.
I’ve never wanted to kill a dead man more in my life. Drag him out of the morgue just to put a bullet between his eyes. Since that lunch two days ago, Natalie’s gone quiet. I hate it, but if that’s what she needs to process it, she can take all the time she wants. I’ve got nothing but time when it comes to her.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Brenden’s purple-ringed eyes dart wildly from one captor to the other as Lloyd steps behind him. Blood still pours from his nose, thick and steady, down to the front of his shirt’s collar. Thin, red lines streak down his forearms.
Lloyd’s always had a preference for scalpels. They’re efficient. Maybe there’s something else he likes about them, but I’ve never asked.
Brenden Mercer is in his early forties and spent almost fifteen years at William's side. Officially, he’s been called everything from senior advisor to executive liaison. Truth be told, he’s a glorified PA. William strung him along with title changes and raises, but his role stayed the same. Still, he’s the most likely to know something about Deming and Sierra Blanca, or maybe just enough to point us toward someone who does.
Still, I have to give credit where credit is due; I didn’t expect him to hold out for more than a few minutes, let alone over an hour.
Lloyd grips Brenden’s thinning hair and yanks his head back, exposing his neck. Cillian saunters closer, a slim blade twirling expertly between his fingers. His dirty-blonde hair is slicked back, as if he's dressed for the occasion.
“Come on, Bren,” Cillian says. “Just give us something to work with here.”
Brenden stutters out the most pathetic sob. “I–I d–don’t know anything!”
Cillian exhales, long and slow. Tired. Disappointed.
Wrong answer.
