Page 59 of Only the Devil
“They said that they’d dropped it because they didn’t have the resources to invest in finding harmed parties—that’s something Reed was doing. When they take on a class-action lawsuit, they don’t charge. They only take a percentage if they win the case. But before they invest manpower, they want to know there’s a significant plaintiff pool. They said that if they get a list of names with a combined loss exceeding ten million, they’ll take the case.”
“That’s a pretty big number. Was Alvin anywhere close to that? Weren’t his buddies folks in Gamblers Anonymous?”
“Not all of them. Alvin Reed lost upwards of four hundred thousand. I’d say the average loss is around two hundred and fifty thousand from those I’ve spoken to. At two fifty, if he found forty people, the firm would take the case. By my math, he was close before he died.”
“Did you tell them you’d give them the names you find?”
“Yep. I’m working off of Reed’s list, but I’ve added a couple that weren’t on his list, following up on leads from the folks I’ve spoken with and from Quinn’s search of online groups. I think we’ll get there.”
“They’re supposed to be giving me names, as that’s the theoretical reason they hired security. I wouldn’t hold my breath, but if they hand over any names, I’ll pass them on.”
We end the call and I can’t help but think he doesn’t have much. I know the guy’s pounding the pavement and knocking on doors, but the investigation’s moving about as fast as a freshly hatched turtle. I can’t see where he’s found anything to indicate Sterling Financial broke the law. Even if the sales guy wasn’t straight, I’d bet money whatever they signed when they made the investment includes thorough disclosures.
By the time I swing the door open to the condo, it’s been a long day. I ran up to the data center for a quick meet and greet with the facility security there, got stuck in traffic on the way home, and now it’s almost eight. If it weren’t for a quick stop at Mickey D’s, I’d be famished.
Two longneck beers sit on the counter, tops off, bottle opener beside them.
The condo feels like what it is—a temporary place to hang my hat. Clean lines, neutral colors, furniture that belongs to no one. Nothing here is permanent. My go-bag sits in the hall closet, same as in every temporary billet I’d ever had. The only signs of life are Daisy’s tech scattered across the kitchen counter and the faint sweet scent of whatever she uses in her hair, which is enough to lift my mood that torpedoed this afternoon.
“Daisy?” I call out, dropping my backpack in a heap by the door.
Footfalls pound the stairs and she appears in cutoff jean shorts and a faded tee that in plain black script says, “Trust is earned, not given. Just like admin access.”
My eyes scan her scrumptious, lean legs. The shorts are short enough that the white cotton pockets peek out beneath the frayed hem, and I have to force my gaze back to her face. Who can blame me when I share close quarters with someone who looks like that—and who last night let me all the way in?
“Hot damn. I like that outfit.”
“I had the T-shirt made at an old company I worked for. It’s a good one, right?”
I wasn’t talking about the tee, but I let it ride.
She bypasses me and holds out a beer, her fingers brushing mine as I take it. “Thought you could use one of these. Tracked you. Knew you were in the building.”
The casual way she says it—like keeping tabs on me is natural—does something to my chest that has nothing to do with that measly heart condition.
“Nice.” I’m supposed to be protecting her, not cataloguing the way her T-shirt clings to her curves or how her hair swishes and catches the light, but there’s no present danger.
“Want to sit outside?” she asks.
“On our little balcony?”
“Come on.” She leads the way, treating me like I’m a pup who’ll follow wherever she goes. And of course, she’s right. It’s a relief that things feel normal.
The days are long and the sun’s still up, although it’s setting down below the buildings and it’s no longer a cooker oven outside. The heat that had baked the area all day finally lifted, but the air still hangs heavy with exhaust. Even the wind carries the scent of other people’s lives—charcoal smoke from a grill I can’t see, the faint hum of air conditioners working overtime. Everything layered, everything connected, everything observed.
We each take a chair, and when she props her feet up on the balcony railing, I get a perfect view of those legs again. I lean my head back and take a long, deep swallow, trying to focus on the beer instead of the way the waning light makes her skin look golden.
“How was your day playing security guard?” she asks with a smile.
“About as thrilling as you’d expect. Walked in circles, checked doors that were already locked, pretended our surveillance setup could stop a determined toddler.”
“That bad?”
“Put it this way—if this is what retirement looks like, shoot me now.”
We’re sitting close enough that I catch her scent when the breeze shifts—something clean and warm that makes me want to lean closer. Instead, I grip my beer a little tighter.
She stares off across the way, her expression dazed, like maybe she’s a little stoned. “You will not believe what happened to me today.”
