I’m back in London with Charles O’Bannion discussing the concerns that Larry brought up with me.

“He said the REITs came from our office?” Charles wrinkles his brow. “I can look into it further, but I’m pretty certain the original suggestion came from New York.”

“Either way, we’re going to continue to put a hold on all further purchases. You should also look into quietly selling at least a few of them off, just so we aren’t too heavily exposed.”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Well, our investors won’t be pleased. They were performing quite well.”

“Too well.”

“Yes, I suppose you do have a point there,” he concedes after a moment. “I’ll make sure that everyone is informed.”

“While we’re on the topic of investing,” he continues, “I should point out that Excelsior has made noise about renewing their offer to buy into Bennett Financial. I suppose, with Kevin gone, they assume—”

“Absolutely not,” I say firmly, giving him a look that prevents further discussion on the matter.

“Understood,” he says quickly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

I settle back into my seat and let that bit of news blow over. Excelsior Investments is a London-based firm that first came to Kevin almost six months ago with an offer to buy into our company. They are much larger than us, but with less of a presence in New York so we were an ideal choice for a merger. My brother and I were in firm agreement that the answer would be no. Bennett Financial started as a family-owned company and it will stay firmly in the family’s control.

“Moving on,” I say, shifting the topic, “With Kevin gone, I’ve decided that you should take over as head of the London office…permanently. Kevin trusted you enough and I have faith in his judgement.”

He straightens in his chair with a smile. “Well…thank you Archer.”

“No, thank you. This has obviously been a huge disruption and you’ve helped make sure that business has continued uninterrupted. You’ve earned this.”

“You can certainly depend on me.”

I just nod hoping he doesn’t get too sycophantic over this. It’s an arrangement made solely out of necessity, and only permanent as long as he continues to perform well.

“So…I understand they have finally found the site of the crash?”

“Yes,” I reply, shifting in my seat uncomfortably. “They’re going down to try and recover the debris and hopefully find some answers as to what happened.”

He just nods with a curious look on his face. “Do they suspect foul play?”

“I can’t imagine why,” I say with a slight frown. “Why on earth would anyone want to sabotage the plane?”

“You’re right of course,” he says shaking his head with an apologetic smile. “It was probably just one of those horrid mishaps. A shame really.”

“Hmm,” I agree, nodding my head, even though he’s brought up the very thing I had been wondering about. A random mishap is certainly more plausible than foul play. I think back to the conversation I had with Stuart. Flying is the safest form of travel. I know for a fact that the private planes we use are extra cautious about this sort of thing, since they cater to the richest men in the world.

Besides, who the hell would want Kevin or Bette dead?

* * *

“What the hell is she thinking?”

I’m leaning forward, staring in horror at the series of pictures that Mike has just sent me.

“I thought these might perk you up,” he responds, laughing over the phone.

I, on the other hand, am in no laughing mood. Mostly because I’m staring at a picture of my nephew, whose hair has been cut into a short faux hawk …and dyed purple.

I’ve already been in touch with the Knickerbocker School to obtain all the necessary paperwork and set up an interview to get the ball rolling on enrolling him next year. The entrance requirements are strict and very rigid. No amount of greasing the palms—a.k.a. money for a new building, perhaps—will overcome an “unsuitable” candidate. I can’t think of anything more unsuitable than a goddamn purple faux hawk.

I look closer at the photo. Perhaps the purple portion can be shaved off. The nearly-bald look may not make the best first impression with the admission board, but it’s better than this hot mess.

Dammit, Simone. What the hell are you doing to him?

“So far the only other thing we’ve got is this school she seems to be scoping out. It’s…unconventional to say the least.”

“She hasn’t enrolled him yet, has she?” I ask with alarm.

“It’s the end of spring, Archer. I guess she figures since he’s five it can wait.”

“So what’s unconventional about this school?” I ask with morbid curiosity.

Mike laughs. “Well, they basically let the kids pick how and what they want to learn.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, no real structure or even any classrooms as far as I can tell. Some kind of new age thing. ‘Self-actualization through auto-directed learning,’ is what the brochure says.”

“In other words, bullshit through bullshit learning.” I sigh. Why the hell am I even surprised? “Any other updates?”

“Nothing major. So far the kid looks healthy and happy—well, as happy as a kid who just lost his parents can be.”

I leave that one alone. The weekend spent in the company of Stuart and Simone seems like a lifetime ago, which is a good thing. There were moments—brief moments—when I seriously reconsidered taking over guardianship. As different as her style of parenting may be, I can tell she truly does care for Stuart and wants what’s best for him.

Now that I’m a thousand miles away I can look at it from a more objective angle. She’s twenty-five, with absolutely no experience raising a child, certainly not one who is now worth eight-figures. That alone erodes any emotion that might weaken my resolve.

At the Knickerbocker School, Stuart will be surrounded by boys who are like him. Boys who will grow up to be CEOs, politicians, maybe even President of the United States. Certainly much better company than CoCo, if that’s even his real name.

“She’s taken him to some child therapist,” Mike continues.

Once again I’m alert. I imagine some frou frou witchdoctor, incorporating all sorts of ridiculous and untested practices on Stuart’s impressionable young mind.

“And?” I press.

“Nothing to report there. Top notch all the way. All sorts of awards, acclaim, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Are you sure?” I ask skeptically.

“As far as ammunition, this doctor is one you should leave out of the arsenal.”

“She works fast, I’ll give her that much,” I say, settling back into my chair.

I suppose I should be relieved that Stuart’s head isn’t being completely screwed with by some quack. Plus, it probably is a good idea for him to have a professional working with him to help him deal with losing both of his parents.

Before I can fall back down the rabbit hole of actually thinking that Simone maintaining guardianship might not be so bad, I shake it off and come to my senses.

“Alright Mike. Have your men keep at it. I want to hit the ground running as soon as my plane lands in New York.”

“Aye aye, cap-ee-tain,” Mike says jokingly.

I roll my eyes and hang up.

It’s late, but I finish going through my work email, handling any immediate fires and leaving the rest for later. Just as I’m about to close out for the night a new message appears in my in-box.

It’s from “A. Friend” which is suspicious as hell. The subject heading piques my interest though:

Looking for dirt on Simone Parker? Enjoy.

What do we have here?