Page 67 of Concerted Chaos

twenty-one

Mypoorexhaustedbrother arrived home at four in the morning, just in time to shower and change and head back out to appear on a morning show. I was waiting for him with a big cup of coffee with cream, the first dairy he’s been allowed to have in months.

After the show, where he carefully made no comments about Tanner’s arrest, despite the hosts asking over and over about Jace and the car explosion and Powell’s contact with the FBI, we finally get to go back to the condo.

No surprise, he falls asleep on the ride home, so I nudge him awake when we arrive.

“Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles, attempting to burrow his head into the tinted window he’s been slumped against. With the assistance of the driver and Mike’s lobby-stationed guard, I drag him out, slip my arm around his waist and let him lean on me as I guide him to the elevator.

Once I tuck him in, I sit at the kitchen table and stare into space. I’m thinking about how angry I am, how betrayed. And how hungry. This whole situation has made me so nauseated I haven’t been able to eat since my green room snacking early yesterday afternoon. I should probably get some food in me so I can keep my strength up in order to plot ways to hurt Tanner back. Not that there’s much I need to do. I’m sure federal prison isn’t a pleasant place, especially for someone as lean and pretty as him. He’d better find himself a protector, fast.

While I’m heating myself up a frozen meal—Powell’s nutritionist keeps this kitchen stocked—the intercom buzzes. I want to ignore it, in case it’s someone from the media. The only people we should be talking to are the FBI agents and it can’t be them since we have an appointment to go down to their offices this afternoon. They wanted a statement last night, but Mike argued them out of it. It would have been bad publicity to delay the big show by questioning Powell.

The buzzer goes off again, so I may as well answer, if only to tell the vultures to go away. And I’m surprised. It’s Whitney.

“Cassidy, can I talk to you?” she asks. I didn’t know she knew where we stayed out here. Maybe Tanner found out as he stalked us and accidentally let it slip. Poor Whitney, I should have called her last night and told her what happened when Tanner disappeared on her. In all the chaos, it didn’t even occur to me. Some friend I am.

“Sure, come on up.” I tap the button to unlock the building door.

As it turns out, Whitney isn’t alone. Her brother Silas is accompanying her. I wish she had warned me—there’s something about Silas that unsettles me. I would have met her downstairs in the lobby instead, under the safe eyes of Powell’s current babysitter. Or bodyguard. Whatever.

Silas’ bulk takes up the majority of the doorframe, so I step aside and reluctantly let them in. I haven’t seen him since our aborted double date, when he brought up the terrible old tabloid story. Speaking of that date, I should apologize to Whitney for hooking her up with a deranged killer in the first place. Though to be fair to me, I was fooled by him too.

They survey the room. “Where’s your brother?” Whitney asks.

“Sleeping, so we need to be quiet. Would you like some coffee or tea?” I’m nothing if not a good hostess.

“No thanks,” they both say, but they willingly sit down at the table with me. I don’t want to eat in front of them, so I leave my food in the microwave.

Then Whitney continues. “The reason I’m here is because I got the strangest phone call, supposedly from the FBI wanting to question me. Do you know anything about that?”

“Did you hear about Tanner?” I respond. I’m not surprised that the killer’s “girlfriend” would be questioned in this case.

“About Tanner? No. Why, what happened? I mean, what happened after he broke up with me and abandoned me at the concert by myself? He totally disappeared. I tried to reach you afterward, to get those after-party tickets you promised, but you weren’t answering your phone. I sort of suspected the two of you ran off together.” That’s a sordid assumption. She almost sounds like Brixley, or at least Brixley a few days ago insisting that Tanner liked me. Yeah, it wasn’t me he liked. He liked the idea of killing me.

“Oh, right, sorry about that. I was busy.” I take a deep breath because I know my next words will shock her. “Tanner was arrested last night. We found out he’s the one who bombed Jace Monroe’s helicopter and Powell’s car. He placed another one in the green room, but the security dog found it before it went off. The bomb squad managed to disarm it without anybody knowing.” Yes, I realize this is all supposed to be kept confidential, but she’s going to learn all those details anyway, when she meets with the agents. If creepy Silas weren’t with her, I’d invite her to tag along with me and my brother. We could get all the questioning out of the way together and then go out for drinks and a long session of bad-mouthing Tanner.

The siblings exchange a meaningful look.

“So they think it was all Tanner?” Silas clarifies.

“Yes, they do. He hid the last bomb in a camera lens. That’s how he smuggled it in, and how they figured out it was him.”

They exchange another look. They’re as good at wordless communication as Powell and me. Or rather, probably better. Powell tends to understand when I’m conveying “let’s get out of here,” or “stop talking now” but he misses out on higher concepts.

“He’s been to this condo before, hasn’t he?” Silas asks.

“No.” Powell didn’t have any photo shoots over here, so he had no reason to come around. Though really, what do I know about the guy?

“Actually, I think he has,” Whitney says. “In fact, I’m sure of it. He snuck in here yesterday, after you two left to prepare for the show.”

“What makes you think that?” I haven’t seen any evidence of a break-in, and surely the security guard would have noticed Tanner sneaking around. Although, given that Whitney was with him, she would know. He told me they’d toured some photography museum, but he’s a dirty liar.

“Because of the killer peanut flour scattered all over the place.” Silas grins at me, showing all his teeth. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I suddenly feel like he’s a predator, and he’s about to gnaw the flesh from my bones.

“What peanut flour?” I ask, but Whitney has already reached into her purse and she flings a handful of nutty smelling powder at me. I try to duck away, but the dust cloud hits my face and gets in my mouth and eyes. The rest settles on my clothing. I am so bewildered by this sudden turn of events that I can’t do anything but wipe at my face and gape at her.

---