Two more days, and my research has split.

I’ve been forced into a rather uncomfortable pair of possibilities. And either one is dangerous for Thomas.

One, there’s an outside puppet master involved in all of this, someone pulling strings inside Goldstone. If that’s the case, I just don’t have enough data. This puppet master could have multiple agents inside the company, and I would be chasing phantoms for years without knowing where to focus attention.

Goldstone has so many business rivals, so many enemies, that I’d have to do an active investigation, and I’m no private eye.

I’m just a data hound.

I don’t care if I want to call myself Velma while I’m working at this and I don’t care how sexy I think I look in glasses. I’m not an actual private eye.

The more dangerous possibility, though, is that there’s a high-ranking traitor involved. I consider every angle of how the decisions are being made, from data pulls to meetings to PowerPoint presentations.

As hard as it is, I even consider Kerry as a suspect. I mean, in most mysteries, the butler does it. And while Kerry definitely isn’t the butler, she’s the one who filters all of Thomas’s info to him. Thankfully, after a whole day of work, I can’t find any data that supports that and I happily cross her off my mental suspect list.

Past that, I look at those with corporate powers. And considering the number of investments and the scattershot way I’ve seen them done, it would have to be a major shareholder or one of the Executive VPs. Only they have the ability to see all the projects that the company is undertaking, and only someone with such power would be able to apply pressure in the right way.

But why would a major shareholder or VP want to see the company hurt? Their fortunes rest on the company’s continuing to do well. Why would a VP, who would want a good track record with the company even if they wanted to jump ship, undertake a complicated exercise in corporate sabotage?

And why would the shareholders, whose wealth is literally pegged to company performance? Thomas certainly wouldn’t, and he’s the largest shareholder in the company.

Looking over the list of major shareholders who would have access to enough information to slit the throat of all the projects I’ve found, there’s only one name who’d have potential reason for wanting to hurt Goldstone . . . and it’s a Goldstone after all.

Not Thomas. Dennis.

But would Dennis Goldstone really want to hurt his son that much?

Would he be so hateful and hellbent on ensuring Thomas’s failure that he would sabotage him just to prove a point? Thomas told me about their argument, but even if Dennis is a greedy bastard, this seems unfathomable.

And then I remember the other unimaginable things Thomas has told me.

I might not be a private eye, but I can at least do some investigating.

I grab my phone, dialing Kerry and saying another prayer that I think she’s legitimately a good thing for Thomas. “Hey, Kerry! I had potential lunch plans with Thomas today? Any word on his morning meeting?”

She scoffs, and I can imagine her shaking her head at her desk. “Definitely a no-go. His meeting is running long. He sent me a message a few minutes ago to give you apologies and order lunch in for the whole group downstairs. Bunch of bloodhounds are probably just yammering away in the hopes of getting a free lunch anyway. But he says sorry, and I’ve gotta run. Unless there’s something else?”

I smile, relieved. “You’re the best, you know that? But that’s all I was checking on. Thanks!”

“Just make sure your man knows that and we’re golden!” she replies, and then she hangs up without another word.

It seems like a sign, a perfect maelstrom of opportunity, information, and curiosity. And I’m going to Sherlock the hell out of it while I can.

I use my downloaded records to get Dennis Goldstone’s address from the corporate database. Despite his supposed disdain for Thomas, he actually lives in Roseboro, having moved to town approximately one year after the Goldstone Building opened up. He even has a business address, a law office in a suburb just outside Roseboro.

I grab my keys. It’s time for a road trip. Feeling good, I flip on the tunes as I drive, singing along in my terrible voice as I head out of town and into the pleasant suburb.

I’m a little surprised when I get there. I expected more, considering Dennis Goldstone’s history of being a partner in a law firm. But Dennis’s office is small, not much more than a pleasant-looking medium-sized house, and if it weren’t for the plain wooden sign out front, I wouldn’t be able to tell it apart from any of the dozen other small offices and houses that dot this tree-lined street.

I get out, noticing that there’s only one car in the driveway, and go up to the front door, knocking three times and waiting. I wonder, does he work by himself?

Or maybe I’m just here when his staff has the day off?

Just as I’m about to ring the doorbell, the door opens and I get my first view of Dennis Goldstone.

I didn’t realize until this moment that I’d expected a monster, not a mere man after the things Thomas told me. But before me is just a man. I can see the resemblance, faintly, if you took away about thirty pounds of muscle from Thomas and replaced it with maybe ten pounds of middle-aged pot gut.

Still, the eyes are the same, and while he’s got the same jawline, it’s obvious that Thomas got most of his good looks from his mother.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Mr. Goldstone? My name’s Mia Karakova. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with you about Thomas.”

At the mention of his son’s name, Dennis snorts, though nothing is funny in the least. But he steps back, waving me inside. “So you’re her, huh? Come to see the Boogie Man, I suppose?” His tone is sarcastic, biting, and I can only imagine that it’s what the voice in Thomas’s memories are like.

I step inside Dennis’s office, and I’m immediately struck by two things. One, that while Thomas’s sense of style tends toward the efficient regardless of the aesthetics . . . Dennis is just cheap. The man made 1.8 million dollars in dividends on his Goldstone stock last year based off the declared dividends, but his office looks like it was furnished with page 62 of the IKEA catalog.

Still, his desk’s nearly military neat, and the carpet looks freshly vacuumed this morning. Okay, he’s gotta have staff working for him. They’re just not here right now because nothing about this man says he does his own household chores.

The next thing I notice as I look around is the total lack of pictures on his wall. He’s got his undergrad and law degrees framed and hanging behind his desk, and he’s even got a couple of other certificates, thanks, and awards from various civic groups in Roseboro and other places.

But there are no pictures. Nothing of Thomas, nothing of his deceased wife . . . no family pictures at all. It seems strange, considering it is his office.

“So, what do you want to know?” Dennis asks, sitting down in his chair. I take the other, immediately wishing I had my office chair instead. The foam’s shot, and I can feel the seat post actually pressing against my butt.

“What do you mean, sir?” I ask, doing my best to stay polite. Thomas may not like his father for good reason, but that doesn’t mean I have to be hostile to him too. Especially when I’m trying to decide if he’s the one trying to hurt Thomas. More flies with honey, I repeat to myself.

“I saw your picture in the paper with Tom, and there’s no reason for someone from the company to come see me. The only people I talk to are my son and that bitch he has screening his phone calls. Unless . . . did he send you?”

Kudos, Kerry. I owe you a cupcake or something.

“No, Thomas didn’t send me. He uh . . . he doesn’t know I’m here, actually.” And the impact of what I’m doing hits me full force. I truly am one of ‘those meddlesome kids’, thinking I have any right to Velma my way into not only Thomas’s company business but his private affairs with his dad.

I squirm in my seat, the post prodding me and making me want to make a run for the door.

Dennis narrows his eyes in suspicion, his face pinching. “But you are dating my son? Are you looking for a payoff?”

I flinch, my jaw dropping in shock. “Yes . . . I mean no.” I sigh, calming myself and speaking more confidently, “Yes, I am seeing Thomas. No, I don’t want a payoff. That’s absurd!”

“Uh-huh,” Dennis says, leaning back. “So then you probably want to figure out why my son hates me so much. Like I said, you’ve come to see the Boogie Man.”

“No, Mr. Goldstone, I wouldn’t—”

“No, it’s fine. He does see me that way, no sense in denying it. I already know it’s true. So I repeat, what do you want to know?” His eyes are sharp, challenging me. No, daring me. This is a test, I know it in my gut.

This man has belittled Thomas, testing him and setting him up for failure since he was a little boy. And I no longer feel the need for polite niceties and falsely civilized conversation. Dennis Goldstone goes for his son’s jugular at every opportunity, and it’s high time someone went for his.

“I want to know why you blame Thomas for your wife’s death? I want to know why you punished him, a six-year-old little boy, for something that wasn’t his fault? And I want to know just how deep your well of hatred goes and what you’d do to hurt him now that a backhand won’t do?”

It’s harsh. I know it’s harsh, but I also know from my time with Thomas that strength is important. And in this case, it’s like son, like father. Dennis stares at me for a moment before grunting, leaning forward and planting his forearms on his desk.

I hold my breath, refusing to bow to the fury swirling in Dennis’s eyes, so similar to the anger I see in Thomas’s sometimes. I’m already expecting the blow, verbal or physical I don’t know, but I’m ready either way.

But I’m not prepared for the way Dennis deflates before my very eyes.

“You’re a ballsy bitch, aren’t you?” He makes it sound like a compliment.

“I’ve been accused of it before.”

“Fine, you want the whole sordid story? Then here you go.” It sounds like he’s about to tell a roomful of kids there’s no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, or Tooth Fairy, and dread fills my gut. I almost stop him, knowing this isn’t my place, but I need to know too badly. I think it might be the only way I can truly help Thomas. So I don’t stop him, instead letting Dennis dive into the past.

“I was a junior associate in one of those big firms when I met Grace. She was so beautiful. And we were happy, for a bit. Until she shattered my soul like it was nothing. Heartless bitch.”

His words are deep, dripping with hurt, and I blink, wondering what they mean. “Shattered your soul? You mean the suicide?”

He bares his teeth at the word, like I just bade him to bite into aluminum foil. “No, she killed me long before that. See, what you need to know about Ms. Grace Lewis was that she was a beauty queen, always thought she’d marry up, live a life of luxury. Eat bonbons or some shit, I guess. But that’s not what she got. She got me. And I was living in a dog eat dog world back then, working from sunup to midnight just to stand a chance at making partner one day. She got bored, told me she wanted to have a baby to play with. So we had Tom, and I thought she’d finally be happy and leave me alone to work. I was getting close by then, you see? Moving off the grunt work, living the American dream, it seemed like it was all going well.”

He pauses, lost in the past, and I prompt him, “But?”

He slams his palm on the desk, his eyes flashing with decades of pain and fury. “But she was fucking everyone from the mailman to the Avon lady behind my back. Some dream!”

I’m shocked and the look on my face says everything. Thomas didn’t say anything about his mom cheating, not that it excuses anything, but it’s another puzzle piece clicking home.

“Yeah,” Dennis growls. “Imagine, coming home early after busting your ass and you walk in to find your wife fucking someone in your own bed. The first time it happened, Tom was over at his friend’s house. Grace even tried to defend herself, saying she’d always sent the boy over to play. Made me wonder just how many people were in on her little games. The whole time, I was being played for a fucking chump.”

I shake my head. “But why blame Thomas?”

“Because he never said a word to me about going over to this kid’s house! I would have known something was going on! While the cat’s away, I guess the mice were having a fucking party.” Bitter pain drips from the words like venom.

Horror fills me as I realize the depth of Dennis’s anger. Somehow, he still blamed his son for all of this. Or at least blamed him for part of it. He hadn’t known, had no concept of what she was doing, and maybe doesn’t even remember that, but still. And in this moment, I’m just as angry at Grace Goldstone as I am at Dennis.

“I should have left her then, but I didn’t.”

His voice catches, and he swallows before continuing. “I gave her another chance. I didn’t even hold it against her. I didn’t need to cash in my chip and play tit for tat. I was trying to fix it if I could, even suggested counseling . . . and then she did it again. Walked in on her with my boss, said she was trying to help me at work, then pulled out that if he could get home by dinner time, then why couldn’t I? She’d set it up on purpose, I think. I told her then that I was going to talk to a lawyer. Two days later, she killed herself while Tom sat munching on chicken nuggets and watching fucking ThunderCats or something.”

And there it is.

“Dennis, he was six years old.”

“So?” Dennis explodes, his eyes glaring in rage and anger. “He was a smart boy. He could have done something!”

I swallow back my own anger, not wanting to get into a screaming match with this man.

He blames Thomas? Where was he?

I’m not saying that Grace was right to cheat on her husband, but he was the one who abandoned her to chase his way up the legal ladder while assuming she was fine being a housewife.

I don’t excuse Grace Goldstone for doing what she did.

But I don’t blame her for what happened to Thomas, either.

Twenty-plus years of torturing his son mentally, abusing him emotionally and even physically . . . and it comes down to one afternoon.

“Did he tell you I got fired then? I was grieving my wife, trying to figure out what to do with a kid, and I was fired because they were afraid I was going to kill the last man who’d stuck his dick in my dead wife. And he was the one signing my paychecks.”

Another nail in the coffin of the life Dennis Goldstone thought he had. And I can’t imagine the pain that caused him, but this story doesn’t end there. Not for Dennis, and not for Thomas.

“Dennis, I’m not going to tell you not to be pissed at Grace. She was selfish, and she betrayed her trust as both a wife and a mother. But your son has suffered for over twenty years, not because of what she did . . . but because of what you’ve done.”

“And what did I do?” he asks quietly.

“You’re not stupid. I think you know. I can see it in your eyes,” I reply, having come to a realization.

Dennis is just as much a pained monster lashing out at the world as Thomas sometimes is, but where Thomas has me, Dennis has no one. His rage and misdirected anger at his wife are hurting Thomas, but I don’t think he’s the villain in the sabotage scheme.

He’s definitely Thomas’s Boogie Man, but he’s not the spy. I’d bet on it, and I only gamble when I know the odds.

I stand up, done with this. “I came here because someone’s trying to destroy your son’s company. I thought maybe it was you, but from what you’ve told me, I’m sure it isn’t. But Thomas has many enemies and not enough friends. He could use another ally. Even more, he could use a father. But make no mistake, if you hurt him in any way, physical or mental or emotional, I will make you wish for the release of death to ease your pain.” I mumble a little Russian threat after I finish. I doubt he could understand, but I’m sure he gets the message either way.

Dennis sits pondering for a few moments before nodding, though not speaking any words.

After two decades, words must be hard to come by.

I give him my office number and email, writing them down on a piece of paper. Dennis takes a look and stands up, offering his hand. I’m so surprised that I shake it, just to see what he has to say.

“You’re a strong woman. Smart, too, from what I’ve heard. Good luck.”

We shake, and I leave, heading back toward the office.

I’d thought I might get a little insight on the man behind the monster, see if he was the one pulling the strings to hurt Goldstone, and I definitely got a lot more than I expected. I’m just not sure if that’s a good thing or a very bad thing.