Page 132 of Double Down
“Not really. He’s tall. Wore a hat. Kept his badge tucked inside his shirt like he knew where the cameras were.”
It’s enough. It’s more than enough.
“You did good,” I tell her. “Really good.”
Her mouth twists. “I hate all of this. Am I going to lose my job?”
“I know.” I squeeze her hand on the counter, tracking her chipped lavender nail polish as I do. “And no, of course not. And if something happens with the manager before we catch it, come to me. I will make sure you are placed wherever you want in the casino or resort.”
Then I glance toward the hall. Conrad’s still working on the manager, voice low and inaudible. Storm is in a doorway with one of the techs, all charm on the surface and steel underneath. Maverick has a masseuse laughing. And Atticus—he’s reappearing now, a folder in his hand, eyes sharp as blades.
I lift my fingers, signaling him over.
“Come here; show her the picture,” I say when he reaches us.
The receptionist nods as he pulls it out, already bracing herself. “Yeah,” she whispers. “That’s him.”
Atticus and I share a look. Finally, a crack in the wall. And this time, there are no secrets between us.
When my phone starts to vibrate, I pull it out and see it’s Conrad’s father calling. I turn slightly away while Atticus continues speaking to Rachel.
“Mr. Masterson.” I say as soon as I answer.
“I expected an update this morning, and did not receive one.” His voice cuts through, all business, like always.
“I’m sorry, sir. There was an issue here.” I debate on how much to tell this man that I hate. “I’ll have an email to you this evening.”
“Don’t bother,” he snaps. “Every family has a dynasty, Ms. Jones. You signed a contract tying you to the Titan empire, and I expect top performance from my employees.”
“Sir—” I try to get a word in. Panic is clawing its way up my spine. Does he mean I’m fired?
“No,” he snaps. “I’ll make arrangements, and you’ll come to me for a meeting. There are details that you failed to mention in your last report. Things that change the very basis for the contract in the first place.”
“How?” I manage. “You’re overseas.”
“That’s what private jets are for, Ms. Jones.”
35
Atticus
Phoenix walksinto the spa’s small back office, the shaking girl from the receptionist desk a step behind her. The girl—Rachel’s—shoulders are drawn tight, like she expects someone to hit or yell at her. Conrad and I sit across from her, a desk between us, though the desk isn’t much of a shield if she decides to lie to me.
I’ve got no patience left for liars. Not that I would hit her, but I might threaten to give her to Storm. Usually, that threat is enough.
The air in here is sharp with disinfectant and the faint, electric breath of a printer left on, a marked contrast to the calm of the rest of the spa beyond the door. The waterfall’s whisper seeps through the wall, serenity piped in like elevator music.
Rachel twists her fingers together, eyes flicking from me to Conrad, then to Phoenix. Phoenix gives her an encouraging nod.
“I thought you knew,” she blurts before either of us asks a single question. “That’s why I never said anything. The way Ms. Drayton acted, the way she?—”
“She’s lying,” the spa manager snaps from the doorway. Her voice is shrill, brittle. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
I don’t even bother to look at her, but Conrad does. He gives her one flat, stony stare that could—and has—made grown men shit themselves. She shuts up fast.
“Start from the beginning, Rachel,” I say to the receptionist, voice clipped but as kind as I’m capable of.
She nods and takes a long, shaking breath. Then words spill out like she’s been holding them back for months.
