Page 224 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Oh, Nash.
What have you done?
I was a snitch.
A rat.
Officially, no better than Rosco.
But sending Virginia, Eric Cartwright, and Sir Balty to prison fucking fueled me. Biting back a smug smile, I signed the contract where Francine, Chantilly’s lawyer friend, told me to. No jail time. Not even the full five-million-dollar fine.
Truthfully, I’d rather be up here, making deals with the S.E.C., than down there.
Soft openings.
I hated them. I’d avoided every one for the past four years. They dowsed me with memories I refused to remember. Each body-slamming into me harder than the next.
“Nash? Your dad had a heart attack. He fell off the building at the construction site. They called the ambulance. You don’t look so well. I can driv
e you there.”
“Are you the family? Mr. Prescott died before he arrived. I’m so sorry for your loss. We have a grieving room to your left and a chapel down the hall. Please, feel free to use either. If one of you can identify the body…”
“I’m going to remove this sheet, and it will be a shocking sight. All you have to do is nod your head yes or no. Is this Hank Prescott?”
The day Dad died, I’d attended a soft opening for Felton Hotels near Eastridge. I shadowed their C.E.O., knowing I'd buy the hotel and eventually merge it into the Prescott Hotels empire.
The day had begun with a round of drinks and celebrations and ended with me staring at my father’s dead body, because no way in hell would I put Reed or Ma through that.
I hadn't been to a soft opening since.
“We have to drive you out to the office to write a statement and answer some questions.” Brandon slid his seat back and nodded to one of his two coworkers. “It will probably take the rest of the day. I know you have a party going on. Is there a rear entrance?”
“Not yet accessible. Doesn’t matter.” My head jerked to the other two agents. “Tell Thing One and Thing Two to take off the windbreakers.” I stood after Brandon, the picture of serenity. “Hey, Brandon?”
He turned back to me.
I swung. Once. But it was enough. Blood spilled from his nose, dripped to his white button-down, and splattered onto the fresh carpet. Delilah didn't react. To her credit, neither did Francine. One agent moved for me, but Brandon held up a hand.
“It’s fine,” he spit out and clutched his upper cartilage. “I deserved it.”
Damn straight.
It was one thing to bother me. An entirely different one to harass Emery.
I also realized he'd only said that because an assault charge would fuck up my credibility as a key witness and, thereby, ruin his career-making case.
Brandon rubbed at the blood with his hand, smearing it. I didn't offer to show him to the restroom or bother to apologize. Frankly, I'd do it again, but jail time didn't appeal to me. Plus, I needed to see my girl.
I handed the documents to Brandon, who shot me a glare before shoving them into his briefcase. We left for the elevators together. He led me through the lobby with blood on his face. To an outsider, it looked like a weird group of people walking.
Not even a perp walk.
I wore no cuffs. They wore nothing to identify themselves as agents. The confidentiality clause Francine had placed came into effect as soon as I'd signed the document. Delilah and Francine flanked me with Brandon and his merry band of agents before and behind me.
The colossal centerpiece had drawn a crowd. Within it, I spotted Emery. She stared at me with panicked eyes. Frozen. My fists clenched and unclenched. Dried blood cracked all over them.
I ran my fingers through my hair. Once.
