Page 24 of Spooked

“Braxton Vale. I do apologise; old habits die hard.”

That part was true—Grey never missed an opportunity to remind people that he knew where the bodies were buried. His apology was as sincere as his smile to Brax’s hopefully soon-to-be ex-wife.

“Ah, and the lovely Carissa. You look radiant tonight. New dress?”

“Naturally.”

“The colour suits you.” Red, just like the blood she was out for. Grey winked at her. “I bet it cost Brax a fortune.”

Carissa’s heavily made up eyes narrowed, and her smile slipped, as if she wasn’t entirely certain whether Grey was getting a dig in or merely making small talk. It was definitely the former. She linked her arm through Phillippé’s, and the band of tension around Brax’s gut eased when she took a step away.

“Let’s take a look at the paintings. I hear the Alfords recently acquired a Picasso. Do you paint, Gregorio?”

Paint? Crayons were probably a challenge.

Phillippé shook his head. “Not on canvas, but some say that acting is like painting with words.”

“What an ass,” Grey said as the pair moved out of earshot. “So, you’re still hitched?”

How much should Brax tell him? On many occasions in the past several years, he wished they’d kept in touch, that he’d said he was sorry instead of letting the wound Carissa had inflicted on their friendship fester and grow.

“Yes, we’re still together. Unfortunately.”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He had, repeatedly. Grey might have come across as glib and a touch too smooth, but he’d always been good at reading people, Levi Sykes excepted. But they’d all messed up there. Anyhow, he’d told Brax on more than one occasion that underneath the pretty co-ed with the striking blue eyes who acted as if Brax were the centre of her world lay a closeted gold digger. At the time, Grey’s assessment had strained their friendship because how could Carissa be out for Brax’s money when he didn’t have any?

The answer?

He’d had potential. She’d seen it, and so had Grey. Brax had told Grey he was full of shit, then graduated Georgetown summa cum laude with a degree in management, leadership, and innovation; a wild business idea; and the ambition to make his first million before he hit thirty. Turned out he’d been underestimating himself.

“I won’t say it.” Brax sighed. “The divorce is on hold until we can agree on a financial settlement.”

He’d filed the initial paperwork over a year ago, well in excess of California’s minimum six-month waiting period. Now they’d moved on to lying about their assets.

“Divorce? I’d say I’m sorry to hear that, but I’d be lying.”

“Isn’t lying your job, Congressman?”

“Touché.” Grey glanced across the room to where Carissa and Phillippé were looking at paintings. “And yet you came here with her tonight?”

Carissa still had her arm looped through Phillippé’s, and Brax knew she was only doing it to annoy him. To give him false hope that she might break the infidelity clause in the prenup first.

“The invitation was a joint one, and we were both too stubborn to turn it down.”

“Some things change, some things stay the same.” Grey glanced sideways. “I need to get some air.”

Air? Grey had never been a fan of the great outdoors.

“See someone that you want to avoid?”

“Margaret Ravensberger is heading in this direction. Every time we cross paths, she wants to know why the government hasn’t done more to ban handguns. Other countries have managed it, so why can’t we?” Another glance. “She lost her husband to gun violence.”

“He was shot?”

“No, he got incarcerated for blowing his mistress’s brains out with a Colt .45. I realise there’s a lot to unpack there. Don’t even try. Margaret’s cuckoo for cocoa puffs.”

Then she’d probably get along with Carissa like a house on fire. Someone should introduce them. But Grey was leaving, and before he disappeared for another seven and a half years, Brax had to get something off his chest.

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