Page 73 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

Fuck you. Just—fuck you!

Over and over, he replays their argument.

With a sigh, he sees the scene not from his perspective, but from the vantage point of someone else. He was a dick, saying all the wrong things, evoking all the wrong reactions. For the first time since she left him in a rush on Sunday morning, he acknowledges he’s worried about her. The way she was earlier, her long hair contained, her face clean, preventing her from hiding the truth that something’s wrong—she was a picture of someone on the cusp of breaking. Khalohn wants answers, but he doesn’t have a right to them. Not the way things are. This fact frustrates him. It binds him, the truth that he can’t fix what he doesn’t know. He can’t help a woman who isn’t his.

You don’townme.

Actually—the truth is, you might own Bryn van Doren, but you don’t own me.

Khalohn’s spine straightens as he recalls the last thing she said to him. He repeats it, wondering what she meant.

“Damnit,” he grumbles, reaching for his phone.

He’s spent too much time thinking about her, and he hasn’t gotten anywhere. Sick of wandering in circles, he decides to take the easy way out.

“Morgan?” asks Adams on the fourth ring.

“Sorry for calling you so late. I need a favor.”

“All right. What can I do for you?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

A low chuckle sounds over the line before he mutters, “Khalohn, I said okay. What do you need?”

“I need you to look into someone for me. Her name is Bryn van Doren. I don’t have a picture, I don’t know how old she is—mid-twenties, maybe. I have her phone number, that’s it. Oh, and my accountant has her bank information.”

“I can work with that. What do you need to know?”

“Who she is. Where she lives. How she spends her days.”

Brett Adams is silent for a moment, and Khalohn is certain his private investigator wants to ask him questions. Adams has been on Khalohn’s payroll for a few years now, but only for business deals. This is certainly outside the norm. When Adams doesn’t ask anything further, Khalohn is reminded why he called this man in the first place.

“Shoot me her number then give me a couple days.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As soon as Adams disconnects, Khalohn forwards along Bryn’s contact information. That done, he closes his computer and exits the office. If he wants even a slim chance at sleep, he’ll only get it one way; so, he suits up for a hundred laps in the pool before bed.

Khalohn waits fortwo days to hear from his PI. He does his best to concentrate on his work, and he manages just fine. That doesn’t mean he’s not quick to pick up Adams’ call when his phone rings late Wednesday evening. He’s in the back of the Maybach, heading home for the night, when he answers.

“I don’t have much, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting. Seems you sent me after two women, not one.”

With a furrowed brow, Khalohn mutters, “Excuse me?”

“Bryn van Doren—mid-twenties, can’t hold a job to save her life, trying to make it on Broadway; from the looks of things, she should hang it up. She’s got the face but not the talent, and she’ll likely be out on her ass after she’s evicted from her spot in Greenwich Village.”

“What? What does she do with her money?”

“Morgan, she’s got none. I don’t know what your connection with her is—or what youthinkyour connection with her is—but the informationyouprovided pointed me to a Jessica Chapman. The two are tied to each other because they both graduated from Brooklyn School of the Arts. Chapman is twenty-four, born and raised in Bay Ridge, and still lives with her mother. Can’t tell you what she does with her days, but I know her bank account isstacked.” He pauses, as if giving room for Khalohn to contribute to the conversation. When he doesn’t, Adams continues. “Her last job was at a dive bar, but she got let go more than a month ago. Sat on her place last night into this morning, but she neither came nor went. If she’s who you’re after, I can sit on her a little longer. Just say the word.”

“No,” mutters Khalohn distractedly. “That won’t be necessary. Send me the address you have for Jessica.”

Saying her name out loud is strange. It makes him feel unsettled, but he shoves aside the weirdness long enough to wrap up his phone call. When the two men disconnect, he stares down at his device, lost in thought until Adams sends over the address he has for oneJessica Chapman.

Glancing out the window, he tries to piece together the fragments of information he knows, but he falls short. As the city of Manhattan passes by him, the thought of going home is off-putting. He won’t find anything there. Sick of his head being crowded with questions he can’t answer, he decides to shift course.

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