by CJ Lyons
She merely smiled. “Maybe not. In fact, I’ll bet you hated the idea of BreeAnna leaving home, being outside of your control, didn’t you?”
He stared at her in stony silence. She called his bluff.
“I know about the judge.” His expression didn’t change, but he shifted his weight and one hand touched his chin. Gotcha. “There are currently twenty-seven active lawsuits involving Greene Energy’s fracking practices. Two weeks after BreeAnna went to that party, you suddenly had those lawsuits removed from the state court dockets to the federal district court. Where they’ll conveniently all be heard by one judge: Judge Charles Fanton.”
“Simple cost containment. It’s all a matter of public record.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “As is Greene Energy’s record of successfully defending ourselves against these frivolous lawsuits in the past.”
“You mean, drag out the court cases long enough that you finish grabbing all the natural gas, the damage is done, and you move on to the next field. Even the few cases that haven’t gone your way, the cost of the damages is a small fraction of the profit you gain. And it’s the people left in your wake who have to clean up the mess you leave behind.”
“If you’re so antifracking, then why did you take our business?” he asked, still no hint of emotion in his voice. But his eyes had narrowed—not in anger, rather with a wariness that confirmed her suspicions.
“I’m not antianything, I’m just stating facts. It’s your business, and clearly as a business plan it works. But all those lawsuits are starting to add up, aren’t they? Floodwaters building behind a dam, just waiting for someone to turn the release valve, send them pouring out.” She finished her coffee and set the cup on the table beside her. Crossed her legs and leaned forward. “Only you’re not worried, are you, Mr. Greene? Because you now control the man in charge of the release valve. You own Judge Fanton.”
“I’m not sure where you—”
“That party where someone slipped BreeAnna the Ecstasy. All those pictures and videos of her. Funny how none of them show the face of the boy with her.” She paused. His lips had tightened into a rigid line. “At least none of the pictures out there for anyone to see. Because I’m guessing you have the ones that count. The ones that show Judge Fanton’s son raping your daughter.”
CHAPTER 22
Micah must have passed out. Long enough for one of the Red Shirts to stretch his fingers and slide them into the space between the door hinges and the frame. Black splotches danced in his vision, and he thought he might pass out again. It was impossible to breathe, not with another Red Shirt sitting on his shoulders, pinning him facedown on the floor.
“You want to be an artist, right?” Nelson, the Red Shirt leader, said from where he stood in the doorway, ready to close the door on Micah’s fingers. “Might need to rethink that.”
The Red Shirts were Deidre’s personal bully squad. Named for the coveted red polos they wore to mark them from the No Names, who wore featureless khaki tops and bottoms, they were handpicked for their unquestioning obedience to Deidre, ReNew’s student leader.
Only problem? Deidre wasn’t here right now to keep Nelson and his goons in check. Not that Micah could be certain that she would. In the past month, ever since Bree left—ever since Bree betrayed her, to use Deidre’s words—Deidre had been growing more and more unpredictable. Her inability to control her own moods rippled through to the Red Shirts and down to the other ReNew students, creating a tension not unlike the subliminal rumblings of a volcano.
The Red Shirt on top of Micah shifted his weight enough so Micah could take a few shallow breaths, clear the spots from his eyes. They’d caught him outside the commons room, dragged him inside an unused classroom. He wasn’t the one they were looking for, but Micah wasn’t about to tell them that. The new kid, Tommy, he was only twelve. The Red Shirts would break him like a twig if they lost control.
And without Deidre, there was no one to keep them in control.
Nelson shifted suddenly, relaxing his hold on the door. He stepped inside the room, eyes lowered, as Deidre appeared.
Despite the fact that it was chilly—Reverend Benjamin was too cheap to pay to heat the place properly—Deidre always wore filmy dresses that swirled around her ankles like wildflowers in a field. Today’s was pale grey with tiny flowers that matched the blue in her eyes. She walked as if she was dancing, head held high, spine straight, but not as if she was stiff, rather, she kind of . . . glided.
“What’s going on here?” she asked Nelson.
He shifted weight, back forth, back forth, then looked up. “Someone stole bread from our table at lunch. This one,” he nudged Micah with his foot, “is about to confess.”
Deidre crouched down so she could meet Micah’s gaze. “Is this true, Micah?” she asked in a voice dark with disappointment. “You stole?”
What made Deidre so frightening wasn’t that she was the Red Shirts’ leader or even that she’d been living the ReNew program since she herself was a troubled twelve-year-old, as she put it, striding down the devil’s path.
No, she was dangerous because she was a true believer. In her mind, the ReNew way was the only way sinners like Micah could be saved.
For Deidre, a student’s time at ReNew was a turning point in the war between Good and Evil. Something she took very, very seriously. Which was why she’d seen Bree’s leaving early as a personal betrayal. Unforgivable.
Before Micah could answer, Nelson stepped forward. “We need to make an example of him. Especially since he’s a short-timer. The others need to know that it doesn’t matter how long you have before leaving, you must obey the rules.”
“More than rules. You must learn to obey God. You should offer your talent to Him.” Deidre caressed Micah’s free hand. “He gave it to you. And He can take it away. Hard to create anything with your fingers crushed, Micah Chase.”
She stretched her other hand back and closed the door. Not a hard slam that would have left evidence behind like a few broken fingers. Instead a slow leveraging that created pain without permanent damage.
“Confess, Micah,” she whispered. “Confess and this all stops.”
Micah tightened his lips and shook his head, unable to manage any sound without screaming in pain.
The guy sitting on top of Micah twisted his fingers in Micah’s hair and yanked. Hard. Pain shrieked across his scalp, joining with the screaming from his arms and legs, but it was nothing to the choking sensation as the Red Shirt pulled Micah’s head back so far that he couldn’t breathe.
This is how people die, Micah thought. The overhead light stabbed his eyes, but he didn’t have the spare energy to close them. Every ounce of strength went into sucking molecules of air into his straining lungs.
His heart was a thundering herd of wild horses, out of control and careening to a cliff. Micah liked horses, but he liked breathing even more. The weird thought and the sudden images of wild horses stampeding, out of control, distracted him from the pain. Made him want to laugh. Of course, he couldn’t, not with his air cut off, but even that realization felt hysterical.
Bright light, feeling of mirth, all he needed was the out-of-body part of the near-death experience, shed all this pain, leave it behind . . . where were those brain endorphins with their magic oblivion when you needed them?
He must have passed out again. A sharp pain slapped across his cheek. He blinked his eyes open. He was on his back now, one arm and both legs bent beneath his weight; damn it hurt, but at least he could breathe. He hauled in deep, hungry breaths, not sure how long the reprieve would last.
Deidre cradled his head in her lap, caressing his sweat-soaked hair away from his face. “The road to salvation, Micah,” she crooned. “You can only walk it after you repent. Confess. Let me save you, Micah. Let me bring you into the light. This is your last chance.”
He shook his head, his gaze never leaving he
rs. Maybe his brain finally released a few stray endorphins, because as he looked into Deidre’s twisted expression with her angelic smile and devil’s eyes, as he heard the laughter of the other Red Shirts behind her and saw the rest of the No Names gathered in the hallway, staring down at him, their expressions a mix of fear and hope, all he could think was, my parents are shelling out good money for this freak show?
“BreeAnna’s medical records show a visit to your wife’s ob-gyn the day after the party,” Jenna continued when Greene said nothing after her accusation. “Evidence collection? Kept safe, hidden by doctor-patient confidentiality until the day you might need it to persuade a federal judge?”
“The incident at the party happened weeks before BreeAnna’s mother sent her to ReNew. What does any of this have to do with my daughter’s death? Aren’t you supposed to be investigating ReNew?”
“Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you were behind her being sent to ReNew, not your wife. Figured you could hide her away? Out of the judge’s reach. I’m sure you didn’t know that most kids sent there spend an average of almost three years locked up inside. Or maybe you did. That’s just about how long it will take for all those court cases to wind up, right?”
She pushed to her feet and leaned over his desk, forcing him to look up at her. “If that’s so, then why did you bring her home again? Were you afraid she was going to tell the ReNew counselors what happened at the party?” She paused. “After all, BreeAnna was the weak link in your plan. If she talked, it would remove your leverage over the judge.”
“How dare you! I hired you to find out why my daughter died, not to accuse me with outrageous suppositions—”
“Why did you hire us? Really? Because you and your wife are obsessed about BreeAnna’s death? Finding justice for her? I don’t think so. Not when her dying was the answer to your problems, might have saved your business. Twenty-seven lawsuits, if even a fraction were settled for the plaintiffs, you’d be bankrupt. But now, thanks to BreeAnna’s death, thanks to her permanent silence, your company is safe.”
“This has nothing to do with saving my company. Don’t you understand? My daughter, my lovely, beautiful baby girl, she’s gone—and I wasn’t there to save her.”
Jenna took a breath, translated the expression on his face: pure anguish. Maybe the first true emotion she’d seen from him since they met. She sank back into her chair, regrouped. “What do you mean, you weren’t there?”
“Caren and I lied to the police. Told them we were asleep and didn’t hear anything. Said I woke to get something to drink and that’s when I found BreeAnna.”
“What really happened?”
He pushed the chair out of his way and paced the area between his desk and the wall of windows. “We left her. Home. Alone.”
“But why bring her home that day just to leave—”
“She’s fourteen. It was only ten o’clock at night. It shouldn’t have been a problem.”
Jenna stared at him. Tried to imagine being a child isolated from friends and family for two months and then brought home only to be left alone again. No wonder the Greenes were driven to find someone else to blame for BreeAnna’s suicide.
“Why?” she asked. She didn’t need to know, not to do the job he’d hired her for. But she had to ask.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his face with his palm as if scrubbing himself clean of any guilt. “It was Caren’s idea. She hadn’t seen me in a month, thought we needed to rekindle the romance or some such crap she read in a magazine. So we took a drive out to the country, built a fire, drank wine, made love under the stars. Like we were kids again.”
His voice trailed off. No need for either of them to fill in what happened next. Coming home to find their daughter hanging from the third-floor balcony.
Greene was still lying, but she wasn’t sure what about. Which meant it might be better off if she didn’t push him too hard. Not yet, anyway. Jenna stood and headed for the door.
“Wait,” he called. “Where are you going?”
“To do my job. Find out why your daughter died.” She paused, arching an eyebrow at him. “At least I assume that’s still what you want.”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “I know you think me heartless, using what happened to my daughter to save my company. But I want—no, I need—to know what BreeAnna went through. Why she died. Someone drove her to her death, and I need to know who.”
“Okay, then. Guess I have work to do.”
“And since BreeAnna’s death has nothing to do with my company, you have no need to reveal any proprietary information.” Using big words to intimidate her. Did he really think that would work?
She whirled around. “If you’d like to hire my company to do more than simply investigate your daughter’s death, we can negotiate a contract. I’d be happy to discuss our rates for a comprehensive corporate review. Lord knows, your company could use a professional handling things. Security around here is a joke.”
Despite his scowl, he nodded in agreement. How could he not? Less than a day on the job and she already knew his greatest vulnerabilities. Not to mention the blackmail potential her knowledge brought with it.
Which she most definitely was not doing. This wasn’t blackmail, she told herself. It was simply an audition.
“You’ve made your point, Ms. Galloway. Let’s discuss terms.”
Jenna beamed in triumph as she resumed her seat. “First, I’d like more coffee.”
Greene came around his desk to stand over her. He leaned back, bracing his hands against the edge of the desk. “First, I’d like to come to an agreement. You have something I want, and I have something you want.”
His gaze roamed her body, stopping on her breasts. She was surprised it’d taken him this long. From the way his secretary looked at him, it was obvious Greene enjoyed blurring the lines between business relationships and personal ones. Jenna was well acquainted with men like him. Her father and her grandfather both had had multiple affairs, treating the women in their lives as if they were so many flavors waiting to be sampled. She’d had coworkers and supervisors who’d also looked at her just like Greene was now.
In fact, most of the men in her life . . . until Andre. Maybe that’s why he scared her so much. Lust, hunger, greed . . . she could handle. But true affection? She had no earthly idea what to do with that.
She shook herself. One troublesome man at a time.
Jenna stood, now mere inches away from Greene. His smile turned wolfish. “So tell me, Ms. Galloway, are you a natural redhead? No. Wait. Don’t tell me.”
He placed one hand on her hip. Jenna flattened her palm against his chest, giving him a pat like she would a little boy’s head when he’d said something particularly charming.
Then she turned away. “I’m afraid you’ll never have the chance to find out. I’ll send over a contract for our security services. Good day, Mr. Greene.”
She strode through the door. Because of the glass walls, she could see Greene watching her walk away. He didn’t look upset, didn’t look like a man who’d just had his deepest secret revealed and used as a threat against his company. Rather he gave her a nod—a man accepting a challenge.
Jenna kept going, noticing for the first time that Greene had staffed his office exclusively with young women. Right now the eyes of every one of them followed her with hateful jealousy.
She smiled. She’d arrived here with vague suspicions, hoping to turn them into a professional opportunity. She was leaving with those suspicions confirmed as well as more that might provide leverage in the future.
Only thing she didn’t have was any useful information about BreeAnna’s death. But that didn’t stop her from humming along with the Muzak as she rode down in the elevator.
CHAPTER 23
Morgan turned from burrowing into the Greenes’ social media to the judge’s son. Idiot allowed geotagging on all his p
hotos and videos, so it was easy to reconstruct his whereabouts on the night of the party. Also easy from the file names to discover there were a bunch he hadn’t uploaded.
Then came the kicker. A few days after the party he posted from a new phone, complaining that his old one had been stolen by some “Homewood raghead.”
She sat back, thought about the implications. Wondered how much it had cost Greene to steal the phone with everything he needed to send the judge’s son to prison and have him labeled a sexual predator.
Pretty impressive maneuvering for a former coal miner with a GED. But Greene had left those humble beginnings far behind, clawed his way out of the mines to build his own energy empire. More than driven, he was obsessed with protecting the company that bore his name.
Even if the cost was his daughter’s chance at justice? Could a father be so callous?
Morgan didn’t need to think twice about that. She knew the answer all too well.
Her phone rang. Greene. Interesting. Why would he be calling her private cell instead of dealing with Jenna or Andre?
Curious, she answered, pretending it was a work number. “Galloway and Stone, how may I help you?”
“I know it was you,” he said. “You can drop the act. You’re more than just a receptionist.”
Morgan considered. “I do whatever needs to be done. To solve our client’s problem.”
His chuckle was devoid of warmth. “I knew I was right. Jenna had no time to dig up that info on the judge, and Stone is just a muscleman.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Greene?” Morgan kept her tone professional.
“Did Jenna tell you we still need you to go undercover at ReNew?”
“She mentioned it.”
“I’d like you to go in today. I’ll make it worth your while. A private commission that Jenna doesn’t need to know about. Can we meet to discuss it?”
Morgan considered it. She didn’t trust Greene—even less now than when she’d first met him. But they were still no closer to understanding what happened to Bree, inside ReNew or after she’d gotten home. Maybe her parents really didn’t care about the truth, but Morgan did. Bree deserved that much.