Chapter Twenty-Seven
Asher
After a morning of intense Muay Thai training, I would have thought I’d be less on edge. But when my phone rang, interrupting my shower, annoyance bolted through me and in a fit of sudden rage, I seriously considered flinging the phone across the room. Clearly, there was more stress and frustration built up inside me than I had realized. Even an intense sparring session hadn't been able to get it all out.
I took a breath, turned off the shower, and answered the call instead of tossing the phone.
“Asher, who's this?”
“Morning, Asher, it's Matt Eaton, PI.”
“Ah. Hi, Matt. Have you found something new?”
“Yeah. Me and the rest of the city that is.”
“What?”
“Do yourself a favor, Asher, and go look on page three of today's Times. Do that, and then tell me whether you still trust that bird in your office.”
“All right, give me a few. I'll call you back.”
“Sure.”
My heart began to pound. What the hell was he talking about? Page three of today's Times?
I pressed an icon on the video touch-screen in my bathroom, and my driver's face showed up.
“Yes, sir?” Alfred asked.
“Go pick up today's copy of The New York Times, will you? And, uh, pick up a fresh bottle of Glenfiddich for me. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.”
“Certainly, sir.”
I turned off the screen and stepped back into the shower, anxious to find out just what the private investigator had been talking about. There was only one way to find out, though, since I didn’t have an online subscription to the paper. That way involved waiting. I shook my head, sighed, and turned on the faucet for the rain shower, grateful for the temporary escape the relaxing heat the water provided.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at the breakfast table having a smoothie when Alfred returned with a copy of The Times and a bottle of whiskey. I thanked him for his help, then asked him for a little privacy. My gut told me I didn’t want anyone around when I saw what was on page three.
After he had closed the door behind him, I plucked up enough courage to open the newspaper.
I almost wished I hadn't.
There, splayed out across half the page, was a full-color photo of Brendan Savage arm in arm with Lilah. She, I have to say, was dressed in an absolutely stunning gown. The headline of the article the picture was attached to said something about the opening of a new restaurant in town owned by a celebrity chef from France.
I wasn't interested in the article itself, though. All I could see was the image of Lilah, arm in arm with my biggest rival who had the smuggest grin on his face I'd ever seen. He had probably timed it just so that he'd walk past a press photographer, knowing I’d see the photo.
I crumpled the newspaper into a ball and hurled it across the room, shouting with rage as I did. With anger-quivering hands, I picked up my phone, skimming through until I reached Lilah's number. My finger hovered just above the screen, ready to press the dial key. I felt like unleashing a tirade on her. How could she have done this to me? After everything I'd done for her, after everything we'd been through together, done together—she did this?
I was about to hit dial, but then a different part of my brain took over and held my finger back.
“Wait,” the voice said—a voice that sounded almost like Colonel Tanaka's. “There might be an explanation for this. As blatant as it seems, there may be something else going on.”
I set the phone down on the table and leaned back in the chair. My mindset wasn’t where it needed to be at the moment to talk rationally to Lilah, so the best thing to do would be to simply not speak to her. Not until I'd calmed down and maybe not until I had a better idea of what was really going on.
Maybe it was time to have Matt start following Lilah. I gave it some thought before I picked up my phone and dialed.
“Matt speaking,” he answered.
“Matt. It's Asher Sinclair.”
“You saw the paper. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“And now you want me to follow the girl, right?”
I paused and stayed silent for a few moments as I considered my options. Whichever path I chose, there would be no going back. My relationship with Lilah would not be the same after this. Even if she never found out about it, I would know about it. I would know what I'd done.
“Hello? So, you want me to investigate her or not?”
Matt needed an answer, and I gave him the only one I could, the one that came straight from my heart. “No. I don't want you to follow her. I don’t want you to tap her phone or investigate her.”
“Are you sure? Listen, Mr. Sinclair, it's my opinion, as a professional who's been in this business for decades, that—”
“I don't care. I don't want you to follow her, and that's the end of this discussion. Focus your attention on Brendan Savage and his lackeys, and them alone. Leave Lilah out of this.”
“Yes, sir, but don't say I didn't warn you. When it all hits the fan, don't say I didn't warn you.”
“Understood, Matt, loud and clear.”
“I'll update you if come up with any new dirt on Savage.”
“Do that. Enjoy your Saturday.”
“It's just another working day for me, Sinclair. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Just keep me posted,” I added.
“Will do.”
I put the phone down and stared at the wall in silence. Then I stared at the whiskey bottle for a good long while. I was seriously considering getting drunk, even at that hour in the morning. It seemed like the only effective escape from the horrible feelings plaguing me, the confusion I was wrestling with.
But then, clear as a bell, I heard Colonel Tanaka's voice in my head again.
“Drowning oneself in alcohol is the way of cowards, of the weak. The truly strong face their challenges and fears with a clear mind and a sword in hand.”
He was right. I was right, rather. I put the bottle to the side and called up my Muay Thai instructor.
“Mr. Sinclair?” he said as he answered his phone. “Is something wrong?”
“I want another sparring session,” I said.
“Before next week? What day?”
“Now,” I responded.
“Right now? But we just had one. You were exhausted.”
“Not exhausted enough. I want to get back in the ring.”
“Umm. All right. But don't you think you're pushing yourself a bit too hard?”
“Who ever achieved anything by not pushing themselves past their limits?”
“Good point. Luckily I stopped on the way home to grab a coffee, so I'm not far away. I'll turn around. Wrap your hands, get your gloves on, and warm yourself up. I'll see you in your gym in 15 minutes. I'm warning you, I'm not gonna go easy on you.”
“And, that's exactly how I want it. Exactly how I want it.”
***
Come Monday morning, I was at work an hour before everyone else. This was partly because there was a lot I needed to get done, but also because I wanted to be there when Lilah walked in. You see, I'd locked her office—I'd blame it on a mistake made by the cleaning lady, but she wouldn't be able to avoid me. She'd have to come to me to get the master key. Then she'd have to face me, after what she'd done behind my back.
I wanted to see if she would wear the guilt on her face like a scar or cover it up completely, hide it with a sweet smile, and pretend as if nothing had happened. Either way, I wanted to look her in the eye and see what was there for myself. No more of the games, hiding, or avoiding one another.
I waited patiently as the clock struck the hour, knowing she had to be in the building. Probably coming up in the elevator. I waited for her to discover that her door was locked and go to my secretary to ask about it. Then she’d be told that she'd have to come into my office and speak to me about getting the key.
Then, there it was: a knock on my door. My pulse quickened.
“Come in,” I called out.
She walked through the door. I locked a cool stare with her eyes and held it.
“Lilah,” I said nonchalantly, “I hope you had a good weekend.”
She looked away, unable to hold my gaze. Guilt practically tattooed across her face.
“I . . . It wasn’t too bad,” she answered softly.
“Oh, really? Did you go anywhere? Meet up with anyone? Try out any new places?”
“Can I just get the spare key, please?”
“You don't want to tell me about your weekend?”
She looked down at the floor in silence for a few moments. Eventually, she looked up, and her face now wore a strange expression.
“You saw the picture in The Times, didn't you?”
“I did.”
She nodded. “I thought so. And yet you didn't message me even once over the weekend.”
“Message you? Whatever for? I mean, I saw with my own eyes who you're choosing to spend your time with these days. What would have been the point in messaging you? You’ve been avoiding me for days.”
Anger heated my blood. I hadn't wanted to argue, but it appeared that’s where the conversation was heading. Like an avalanche crashing down a mountainside: if it began, there would be no stopping it. I could almost feel Lilah's temper heating up from across the room, as well. I knew things could get explosive but despite realizing that, I couldn't stop myself.
“If you actually cared, you would have called me up. You would have messaged me and asked me about it. But you didn't, you waited to ambush me this morning. And that silence told me more than your words and this ambush ever could.”
“What?! How . . . How dare you? You go out on the town with my biggest rival—whom, I might add, is the prime suspect behind the break-in at this company—and don't say a word about it to me, leaving it for me, and everyone else in this city, to discover by opening up Saturday's issue of The Times. Now you're trying to turn it around and make it all about how I'm the bad guy here?! Like I'm the one who was at fault? I can't believe this! I can't believe you'd have the audacity to even try to pull that sort of bullshit on me!”
She stared at the ground again in silence.
“You're right,” she said softly.
I was shocked. I'd been expecting a vengeful, angry response yelled at me at full volume. Not that. I didn't know what to say.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you that Brendan was after me. And when I say that, yes, I mean romantically and professionally, as well. I had no right to keep it from you. It's just that . . .” her voice trailed off as if she was trying to maintain her composure, trying not to cry.
“Just what, Lilah?” I asked, my tone calm.
“It’s just that I've been so confused, so uncertain about everything . . . about this job, about my career, about you and me . . .” Her eyes met mine, and I just wanted to jump across the desk and hold her. Tell her it would be okay. But, I wasn’t so sure it would be.
She exhaled hard before she began again. “And now this. This . . . It's all so . . . It's just been too much to handle, too much to process, all right?
“Jesus, couldn't you just cut me a little slack? I've been thrown into the deep end from the start, and it's just gotten deeper and deeper! And now I'm at the point where I just don't know what's going on anymore.”
“I'm sorry,” I murmured. “I don't know what to say.”
“I don't, either,” she replied softly. “I don't, either.”
And with that, she turned on her heels, walked out, and closed the door behind her. Without the key.