Page 41 of Concerted Chaos

“This morning?”

“No, he was here when I got home last night, but—”

“So it is what I thought. Cass, you don’t owe me an explanation. You don’t owe me anything at all.” And apparently that’s the end of the discussion. He does an about face and strides off angrily toward his van. Seriously? He won’t stick around long enough to listen to me? How immature.

Fortunately, his window is down as he drives away, giving me the opportunity to have the last word.

“Those pants aren’t pink, they’re fuchsia!”

He doesn’t acknowledge hearing my shout, which is an extra layer of irritation on an already irritating morning. Screw him. I’m going in, I’m eating a donut out of spite, and I’m getting rid of Ethan.

Unfortunately for me, by the time I return to the kitchen, Mike has wrapped the donut box in plastic and disposed of it.

“Sorry, Cass. Don’t know that guy, not taking any chances. I haven’t verified whether that shop is peanut free.” Friggin fantastic. Ireallywanted one of those. At least he didn’t discard the offering in front of Tanner, that would have made this whole situation much worse. Thanks for the apology food, we’re trashing it now.

So, I was wrong. Deeply, disappointingly wrong.

Soon after Ethan leaves—which he thankfully does without asking to be punished first—two FBI agents show up, but that’s all. No big team of hackers. And the agents are both women. I’m not complaining. Women are equally as capable as men, if not more so. I’m just disappointed. I mean, one of them is kind of attractive but I don’t swing that way. All my fantasies involving Agent Sexy dissolve instantly.

Agents Benítez and Johnson sit down with all of us at the dining room table so we can have a frank discussion about Powell’s enemies. Except the problem is, we can’t come up with any. Don’t get me wrong, the guy is not universally loved. Every celebrity gets the occasional hater, whether it’s a disagreement with the ‘politicization of music videos’ (yes, that’s a real complaint he got when he shot Live Free outside of a marriage equality rally), or someone who just hates the celebrity’s fashion/hairstyle/eating habits. But those haters manifest as anonymous online trolls who hide behind keyboards and would wet themselves if they had to have an in-person confrontation. I imagine most of them aren’t old enough to drive, much less old enough to get a job and save enough money to pay someone to blow up a helicopter.

Eventually, they separate us for individual questioning. I expected this, based on my history of being interviewed by the NTSB back when we thought this was an accident. I briefly wonder if we should invite Powell’s lawyer over here, but he’s in California and does contracts, not criminal investigations. And it doesn’t matter, as we aren’t suspects—or at least, we shouldn’t be.

Agent Benítez and I go into the sunroom. She tells me to call her Yasmin, which I’m not going to do. I immediately recognize it as a tactic to make me comfortable, so I’ll be more open. It doesn’t work on me; I’ll be open anyway, without creating the illusion of false friendliness. Why wouldn’t I tell her everything? I want the perpetrator to suffer. I’m not inclined to forgive the person who killed Jace, robbing the world of a phenomenal talent. Plus, they tried to kill Powell, and may try again.

“You and your brother seem pretty close,” she says. It’s not a question, but I still give an answer.

“We are. He’s my best friend. And I work for him.”

“But you didn’t meet until you were twelve?”

“That’s correct. I spent my formative teenage years as his sister. We bonded.” We were both hurting after losing a parent, and it was one of the first deep conversations we had. I think that’s why Powell took me under his wing. He took care of me because we had a shared pain. Besides, he always wanted to be a big brother. He asked for a baby sister for Christmas every year until his mother’s cancer diagnosis. I’m his much-delayed gift, or so I often remind him when we’re arguing. You wanted a sister, buddy, you deal with the consequences.

“And you were close with the other Last Barons as well?”

“I worked on their tours, first as a merch girl and later as a production assistant. We spent a lot of time on buses together.”

“Did you ever date or have sex with any of them?”

Wow, that’s an invasive personal question, and quite the sudden jump. I recognize what she’s doing here, she’s trying to catch me off guard. I read police procedurals, I know the tactics, or at least the tactics in gritty worlds where the heroes are always attractive but emotionally scarred and the criminals always pay.

“Of course not. We were like a family. I knew them too well to have any interest in sleeping with any of them.” One was completely off the table, Devon was always taken, Mason was way too experienced (and I suspect disease-ridden) for me, and Xander was—and still is—to put it politely, gross. And Jace, well, he turned me down.

“According to news reports, you were the love of Jace’s life.”

“According to Jace’s will, I was.” I wait patiently for her to ask more questions, because I’m certainly not going to elaborate on that. None of this should be relevant.

“But you were never in a relationship with him?

“No. It was never the right time for us.” Yep, I trotted out that tired old line. “He made it clear in his will how he felt about me. He didn’t necessarily make it clear in life.”

“So, no sexual relationship with Jace. What about Powell?”

“Excuse me?” She’d better not be asking what I think she is asking.

She looks down at her notebook. “I understand a few years ago there was an article published outlining a certain intimate encounter between you and Powell.”

I swear my vision darkens and I have to clench my hands into fists and take a few long slow breaths before I can answer. “That was a lie. There has never been any sexual contact between Powell and me. We sued the tabloid into oblivion for publishing that.”

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