Samara barely stayed home long enough to shower and change. She didn’t trust the wild look in Beckett’s eyes as he’d driven away. There was a confrontation between him and Lydia coming—and coming soon—but he’d be occupied for the next few hours at least dealing with the police and figuring out what was salvageable in his apartment.
She hurried down the sidewalk toward Kingdom Corp, feeling like a spy sneaking into the enemy’s camp. It didn’t make a bit of sense. Kingdom Corp was her territory. There was no reason for the guilt gnawing away at her stomach.
No reason except she was up to no good.
Samara took the elevator up to the twenty-fourth floor and then used the stairs the rest of the way to the executive level. She checked her watch. Noon. Lydia should be out to lunch with her “friend” right about now. She disappeared every Wednesday like clockwork for an hour, and since Samara handled her calendar, she knew Lydia took lunch in a hotel room a few blocks away.
An hour wasn’t much time for what she’d set out to do, but she’d make it work. She padded out the door and down the hallway, her flats not making a sound on the floor. The door to Journey’s office was shut, and the whole floor felt almost deserted. Samara used her key to unlock Lydia’s office and shut the door behind her. She tensed, waiting for alarms to blare or someone to rush in and demand to know what she was doing there.
Nothing happened.
Stop wasting time being afraid of getting caught and do what you need to do before you actually are caught.
She hurried to Lydia’s desk and typed in the password to the computer. Thanks to her years working directly under the woman, what passwords she didn’t know she could guess. It seemed counterintuitive that Lydia would keep something incriminating on her computer, but the woman’s entire life was synced electronically. She abhorred traditional mail, paper notetaking, and anything she considered too luddite. Technology is the future, Samara.
She signed into both of Lydia’s email accounts and did a few quick searches. Nothing popped up for Beckett or Nathaniel’s names beyond a couple of old documents from last quarter about Morningstar Enterprise’s reported holdings. The company itself was in more emails, but they were all directly business related and not any more sinister than normal.
Samara sat back. This was getting her nowhere. What had she expected? A smoking gun with Lydia’s name engraved on the side? Even if she was involved, her boss wasn’t an idiot.
On a whim, she brought up Lydia’s calendar. It was synced with Samara’s system so she knew where her boss was at all times, and anything important was flagged accordingly on both hers and Lydia’s account.
Except…
She frowned and leaned forward. There was a tab at the bottom of the screen, similar to the ones used in her spreadsheet program. Samara clicked it and blinked. New appointments appeared over the top of the ones she recognized. What the hell? She grabbed her phone and snapped a picture, pausing to make sure it came out clear, and then she shut everything down the same way it’d been before she got into the office. There were only ten minutes until Lydia got back into the office and she wanted to be long gone before she had to explain her presence there.
She took one last look around the room to make sure everything was exactly how she’d found it and then slipped out of the office and locked the door behind her. She made it halfway down the hall before Journey’s office door opened and her friend stuck her head out. She frowned. “Samara, what are you doing here?”
“I—”
The elevator dinged and she watched the doors open in slow motion to reveal Lydia herself. Oh no. The woman paused, a frown marring her face as she took in Samara and then Journey. “What’s going on here?”
I’m done for.
Journey sighed dramatically. “What does it look like, Mother? We’re plotting your downfall, of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Get a grip. I asked Samara to stop by and explain some of her notes to me.”
If anything, Lydia’s frown grew more severe. “I specifically sent her on vacation. If you’re not capable of handling this bid—”
“You’ll find someone else,” Journey finished. “Considering the bid is Friday, that threat doesn’t work on me right now. Come on, Samara.” She grabbed her hand and towed her into the office.
Journey shut the door and held up her hand. They waited in silence as Lydia’s heels clicked down the hallway and then her office door opened and shut. And then they waited some more. Finally Journey let out the breath she’d been holding and turned to Samara. “Since we both know that was a crock of shit, do you want to tell me why you’re really here?”
Samara opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Journey and Lydia already had a tumultuous relationship, but there was real love there when they stopped fighting long enough to acknowledge it. All she had right now was suspicions, and if she laid them out for her friend it would look like Beckett had gotten into Samara’s head and poisoned her. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Honey…” Journey pointed to the couch. “Sit. I think we need to have a conversation about what’s going on, because even with your superior lying skills, you have guilt written all over your face. If my mother wasn’t so distracted from her lunch date, she would have noticed.”
“I do not have guilt written all over my face.” She strode to the couch and dropped onto it. “Things are so damn complicated.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
She twisted to look at her friend. There were shadows under her hazel eyes and she looked a little pale. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, no, we’re not switching things around to me. Even if I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to be here, the fact you’re wearing those proves you’re up to no good.” Journey pointed at Samara’s ballet flats. “Spill.”
When she still hesitated, Journey’s open expression closed like a flower retreating into itself. “You don’t trust me with whatever it is.”
She could beg off and walk out. Journey wouldn’t like it, but when things fell out one way or another, Samara would make it up to her friend. Except…She made herself meet Journey’s gaze directly. “I think Lydia has something to do with the attacks against Beckett.”
“What?” Journey dropped onto the cushion opposite her. “You can’t be serious.” She frowned harder. “Of course you’re serious. You wouldn’t be here right now if you weren’t pretty damn sure my mother was behind it. Beckett doesn’t have much to lose accusing her, but you do.”
She hated the reminder that, no matter how tempting the fantasy they’d woven, she and Beckett weren’t really equal. Maybe they never would be. She steeled herself against that truth. It wouldn’t help now. “Lydia also knew details about the fire at Morningstar Enterprise that she shouldn’t have known.”
“The media has been trying to sniff out the details, but everyone is keeping really closemouthed about it.” She shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that—you were in that fire. I want answers about what happened just as much as you do. I don’t know if you noticed it, but you’re kind of only mostly my best friend and I care about you.”
Samara warmed even as she felt sick to her stomach. “I don’t want to get between you and your mother. If I’m right…if Beckett’s right…it could mean bad things for Kingdom Corp—for Lydia.” No matter how strong their friendship was, she didn’t like being the one having to break this potential news to Journey. “She could be facing jail time.”
“If that’s where the answers fall out…” Journey looked away. “She wouldn’t be the first member of my family that deserved to be behind bars.”
“Journey—”
“I’m okay.” She shook her head. “That’s a lie. I’m not okay.” She pushed back to her feet. “But don’t you dare let that stop you from finding the truth. Kingdom Corp can weather the fallout. We can weather the fallout.”
Something was seriously wrong. The loyalty among the King family was legendary. No matter how crappy a mother Lydia was, Samara had fully expected all her children to close ranks around her at the first sign of trouble. For Journey essentially to give Samara the green light to continue digging… “What’s going on?”
“You’ve been here a long time, and you’ve seen a lot of the inner workings of this place and our family.” Journey walked to her desk and sat in her chair. “But even you haven’t seen everything, Samara. Some skeletons are just too ugly to see the light.”
The suspicion dug deep that they weren’t talking about Lydia’s theoretical attacks against Beckett. Samara walked to the desk and leaned down, forcing her friend to look at her. She spoke slowly and clearly, wishing she could imprint the words on Journey to chase the darkness from her friend’s face. “I don’t care how ugly your skeletons are. You are my best friend, and you always will be.”
Journey’s smile was a ghost of its former self. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Let’s be honest—we’re both messes. But at least we have each other.”
“Until you admit that you’re head over heels for my cousin.”
Samara froze. There was no point in arguing, because it was the truth. She’d gone and fallen for the one man who would complicate her life the most. She still wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t blow up in her face, but she…cared for him. “Whatever happens with him, that doesn’t change our friendship.”
“Glad to hear it.” Journey shooed her. “Now, get out of my office and get back to your investigating.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Samara left. She did her best to look like she wasn’t fleeing, but she didn’t want to get cornered by Lydia before she escaped. What am I going to do on Monday? It defied comprehension that they could maintain this level of tension for another five days, but there was no reason to think the situation wouldn’t be resolved one way or another by that point.
Wishful thinking.
She ignored the little voice inside her and headed for home, her phone and the evidence it contained clutched in her hand the whole way.
“It’s pig blood.”
Beckett stared at the destruction in his condo. Nothing had been spared. Not the kitchen, where every single plate and glass he owned had been shattered. Not the living room, where the couch cushions had been ripped to shreds. Not his bedroom, including the locked cabinet where he’d stashed the things he’d collected from Thistledown Villa.
He walked to that cabinet in a haze and picked up the baby book, drenched with blood. Ruined. Completely ruined. It wasn’t enough that she took the house. She had to try to ruin the memories, too. He set it carefully back in its place and noticed that one photo had been spared, tucked as it was just out of the spray. The one of him and his mother in the field behind Thistledown. He tucked it into his suit-jacket pocket and turned to the detective. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
The wiry redhead—Detective Purcell—looked distinctly uncomfortable. He didn’t exactly shift in place, but he had a nervous energy about him that implied being still wasn’t in his nature. “The blood tests came back. It’s not human—it’s pig blood. We’ve cataloged the scene and taken pictures to document everything, but if you find anything missing of note, we’ll need to know.”
Beckett couldn’t think past the blood marring everything of value he owned. He fought down the desire to throw open every window as if that would cleanse his home of the taint the intruder had left behind. “This building has extensive security. How did this person get in here?”
“Inconclusive. The tapes show nothing—we’ve checked—so it looks like they were hacked and put on a loop.” Detective Purcell clenched and unclenched his fists as if taking that dead end personally. “Until we have more information, it would be best if you stayed somewhere else.”
Unable to look at the disaster of his bedroom a second longer, Beckett turned and stalked back toward the front door, where Frank waited. His friend’s calm mask was firmly in place, and he eyed the detective as if the man was wasting both their time. “I trust Beckett isn’t under suspicion any longer.”
“His alibi checks out.” Detective Purcell didn’t sound the least bit sorry that he’d been under investigation to begin with, no matter how briefly. He glanced at Beckett. “Don’t leave town, though.”
“I have no plans to.” Everything he needed to deal with was in Houston.
“Good. That’s good.”
Frank looked at Beckett, then turned for the door. “Let’s go.”
He turned and took one last look at the ruin. Lydia might not have really taken everything from him, but he couldn’t disentangle from the grief lurking just beyond his aura of numbness. He didn’t give a fuck about the furniture or the condo, but losing the baby book and pictures felt like losing his mother all over again.
He couldn’t do it. “Just a moment,” he murmured to Frank.
Beckett crunched over the broken glass to the drawer where he stored the plastic bags. He retreated back to the bedroom and carefully enclosed the baby book in a bag. There was no saving it, but he wasn’t ready to give it up yet. She knew how to hit you where it hurt, again and again, and she didn’t pull her punches.
On the heels of that: The old man would be pleased that I’m finally losing the last bit of evidence that my mother ever existed.
Once the bag was safely sealed, he stalked out the front door, past Frank, and down the stairs. The thought of being enclosed in the elevator for the few minutes it would take to get to the ground floor was too much.
Frank kept pace easily. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.” Not now. Not while the wound was so raw it was practically throbbing. If he let go now, he would be worthless until he worked through the rage rising up within him. He stopped on the next landing. “I want you to know I appreciate that you’re here—that you looked into my father’s death. It’s not your job, and you’ve put in way too much time on this.” He didn’t offer to pay his friend—it would be an insult, and Frank wouldn’t hesitate to let him know.
“I’ve worked hard to ensure my company can function without me for short periods of time.” Frank hesitated, like he’d leave it at that, but finally pushed forward. “You’re my only fucking friend, Beck, and I know all too well what it’s like to have unanswered questions about a parent’s death. You need me—I’m there. End of story.”
“Same goes, though I’m not much use at the moment.”
Frank stared at something over Beckett’s shoulder, as if the whole moment made him uncomfortable and wish he was a thousand miles away. “This isn’t forever. You’ll deal with the threat and be back on your feet, with one less enemy to face down in the process. Keep your chin up.”
Keep your chin up.
Frank’s awkwardness almost made him smile. Almost. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They turned as one and resumed their descent. Beckett waited to speak again until they reached the ground level. “I need one more favor. Could you to find Walter Trissel?”
“Consider it done.” Again, there was a minute hesitation. “If you need a place to stay—”
“I’m good.” In all the years they’d known each other, he’d never been to Frank’s place. Beckett had given it up as a mystery that would never be solved a long time ago. He wasn’t going to allow it now out of pity.
“I’ll call you as soon as I have Walter nailed down.” Frank picked up his pace and pushed through the doors to the street. In seconds, he’d disappeared into a waiting car and was gone.
Beckett took five minutes to speak with the superintendent to assure the man he wasn’t going to sue or raise a stink about the break-in. With every second that passed, the walls inched a little bit closer, until he almost ran out of the fucking building.
The street was no better. Out there, he was too exposed, and even though he knew it was paranoia, it didn’t stop the feeling of being watched from making his skin itch. He pulled out his phone and dialed before he could think better of it.
“Beckett?”
The sound of Samara’s voice hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe past it. He could hang up, pretend the call was an accident, force the barriers between them back into place. It was the smart choice—both for him and for her.
But he found himself speaking without having any intent to. “I need you.”
“I’m here,” she responded instantly. “I’m in my condo right now. Do you want to come here or should I come to you?” No questions. No requests for clarification. Nothing but a quiet acceptance of his need.
“I can be there in ten.”
“I’ll be waiting.”