Page 35 of Cunning Lies
“We all have keys to each other’s places.”
If Uncle Jay and Patrick and I lived in different places, would it be the same for us? Uncle Jay is too particular about certain things, and I doubt he’d let us have free rein over his place. I tell myself that it’s a good thing, but part of me hates it.
Why can’t we have that kind of trust?
“So there’s no such thing as privacy, then,” I say jokingly, keeping my tone light. Inside, I’m jealous.
“If you have a problem with that, take it up with your husband.” He prys through the refrigerator contents again. “Go back to your—” he angles his head toward the side, “—hair.”
Something tells me Niko is not here to make a sandwich, and an uneasiness rolls through my stomach. Niko isn’t like Kenzo at all; he gives me the creeps. But he’s probably not here to kill me; ifthatwas the plan, Kenzo would’ve done it. Niko must either be waiting for Kenzo, or searching for something that Kenzo has.Like me.I go back to the bathroom and actually fix my hair this time, keeping my eye on the door, conjuring a plan.
But I’m not here to be Kenzo’s kept wife. The more I know, the better, and if that means talking to my husband’s weird underboss or whatever the hell Niko is, then I’ll do it.
By the time I’m done in the bathroom, the penthouse is eerily quiet again. I don’t find Niko anywhere, so I check the refrigerator to see if he was truly grabbing a snack. But everything is organized and in its place,untouched,as if nothing happened and I imagined Niko entirely. Either Niko was here to organize Kenzo’s fridge, or Kenzo hires someone to do his grocery shopping for him, because this level of organization isnotKenzo.
I don’t understand his family.
My eye catches on that locked room. The door is pushed halfway open, like it was never locked in the first place.
Did Niko unlock it?
If Niko is the underboss, then why wouldhebe snooping through Kenzo’s locked room? He has to know everything Kenzo is doing, right?
I double check to make sure that there are no security cameras in the penthouse, and then I step inside.
Natural light enters from a window. A wooden desk is positioned at an angle, and a bookshelf covers the back wall. A small globe. A set of books with bookends. Another record player, but this time, only a small set of albums next to it. Reading glasses collect dust on the top corner of his desk. His laptop is closed, stacked with a handful of papers.
My pulse races. It’s almost like this stack of papers was placed there so that I could find them, like this information was waiting for me.
Did someone put these files here?
Golden Honor Firearmsis written at the top of the first page, with illegible notes. I decipher a few:Harry Hayes. GHF. Offer sixty?Then a phone number.
Does the note mean sixty thousand or sixty million? Either way, I type the company name on my phone for later. This is the kind of thing our client wants.
The second page reads:Legendary Analysis. ‘Charity donations’ never went through. Jones used payments for what? Tuesday.
I type that name too, but it seems different from the firearms company. Kenzowantsthe firearms company, but Legendary Analysis seems like a company he wants to blackmail.
The door slams open at the front of the penthouse and a deep male voice bursts with song. I quickly leave the room as fast as I can, meeting Kenzo at the front of the house before he can find me in the office.
“Vi,” Kenzo says as his eyes land on me. “I bought you something.”
As soon as we lock eyes, I realize that I should have closed the office door, and I forgot. My throat aches, but Kenzo smiles at me, holding a thick candle. Gold and red metal encases the wax,Gucciwritten on the front.
Gucci.
Gucci makes candles?
I inhale deeply, taking in that citrusy scent. It’s a paraffin wax with a long wick, and it’s sweet of him. And maybe this gift means we’re onto something. If he actually likes me, then I can get more information out of him. Figure out what he’s doing with the firearms company.
“Thank you,” I say.
He cocks his head to the side. “You don’t seem impressed.”
“I am.” I lift my shoulders. “It’s just—”
I stop, because my thoughts are stuck up. But a designer clothes company makesclothes,not candles. It’s a nice candle; I just know how to make them better.
