Page 56 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“The words ‘do’, ‘not’, and ‘talk’.”
“Nash, this is serious.”
Wasn’t that the truth?
In my opinion, insider trading fell on the lowest rung on my list of crimes. I always knew I couldn’t hide the money I’d made from trading in Winthrop Textiles stock, but insider trading was difficult to prove, and I’d done a good job of cleaning my tracks.
What I hadn’t known was someone else had profited from the fall of Winthrop Textiles.
I slid out my drawer and brushed my knuckles over the charred leather I traveled with. “Get me a P.I.”
Delilah’s nose curled up at the sight of the burnt leather, but she said nothing. Her naked, furless rat pawed at her legs to be held. “What about Fika?”
“Fika is gone.” At the horror in her eyes, I rolled mine. “Relax. Gone as in fired. Fucker’s still alive and kicking.”
“Jesus, Nash.”
“Let’s not involve him. He’s never been my biggest fan.”
She ignored me. “You don’t tell someone a man with cancer is ‘gone.’ You also don’t pay me to be your assistant. Find your own P.I.”
I would have taken her more seriously had she not picked up Rosco and pet the five strands of hair on his body. “This shit again?”
“I deserve a raise.”
“Done.”
“But I don’t need one.”
Truth.
Her husband came from old money. The next ten generations of her family could stop working and still fund ten Star Wars franchises.
“What do you need, D?” I quirked a brow, giving her my full attention.
“Why do you assume I need something?”
“No one does anything out of the goodness of their heart.”
“You do.” So she thought. “You’re a cranky asshole, but you spend your nights feeding people at soup kitchens regardless of the town we’re in, you take care of your family, you donate a shit ton of your income, and you have never passed someone in need without expensing help.”
She made me sound like the saint Eastridge had made me out to be. The reality couldn’t be further than that. The word penance tattooed where my forearm and elbow met reminded me of this each time I stripped myself bare and forced myself to look in the mirror.
I ignored her Nash-Prescott-is-a-saint canonization speech and got to the point. “I need someone not connected to the company. Not the investigator with your legal department. An independent private investigator who isn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty.”
Someone like Fika, I didn’t say.
Burning bridges seemed to be a habit of mine. I’d go as far as considering it a hobby if I didn’t need those bridges to walk across.
“What’s being investigated?” Emerald eyes studied me, waiting for me to give something away.
“Vu mentioned a second party profiting off the Winthrop Textiles scandal. I want to know who.”
“Are we going to talk about how you’re one of those two parties?”
“No.”
She paused a beat, and finally, something other than indifference flickered into her eyes. Guilt, maybe. “About Emery Winthrop…”
