My heart pounds as I wait for him to answer. Will he answer me? Lincoln is silent. He needs to hear as desperately as I do that it’s not about Whisper. But we both know it will be.
Naturally, this fucker is all about the drama and suspense.
I’ve time on my hands.
There is a son out there alive, and there’s that will we saw in William’s files. Narrowing the field down to the non-friendlies who would have known about that will, I have to add the son in as he was mentioned, and William’s lawyer.
And then there is Joel and Ghost. I trust them both to keep their mouths shut on everything they saw in that house; that’s why I brought them in. They are solid.
Lincoln didn’t know about the will. He was only told what he needed to know about Whisper because her past was her business. He knew enough to know she had led a life as a victim.
Grady didn’t know about the will.
I don’t trust the son, and the lawyer is worth a thought. The son’s name was cleverly left off the will I saw on William’s computer. He had nothing to lose; he was the sole heir. What would his interest in Whisper be?
“Is it to do with the will?” I throw that one in there to flush out a rat.
This leaves the lawyer, Jonathan Boothe from memory. It would make sense somebody like William would need a lawyer he could have in his confidence, who was willing to take on some nefarious deeds. It’s not that far a leap to make a presumption knowing the players on the chessboard, or to at least narrow it down to suspects. That will wasn’t meant for our eyes, and nobody interested in it would know we had seen the original. I have a copy of it.
I decide to push the envelope some more. “What does William’s son have to do with Whisper and the other person of interest… Jonathan Boothe, of Boothe & Brown Lawyers?” My mind starts trying to fit any piece it can together to make a bigger picture.
I hope the rotter bites this time.
And then he finally speaks, choosing to ignore my questions. No doubt afraid he will give me some answers without knowing it, now he knows I know about the son and will.
“You know, I tried calling the girl earlier on your phone just to see if she was available to answer it. Alas,”—he sighs dramatically—“she didn’t answer her phone, and I did let it ring out. I see she’s not a fan of voicemail. Makes sense, considering her dirty little secrets.”
The fucker has my phone!
What dirty little secrets?
What does this arsehole know?
I want to claw at these walls and bring them down so I can get to this cocksucker. Lincoln and I both curse the motherfucker to hell. He’s playing with us, wants us to choke on our fear for Whisper’s safety.
“Sounds like Whisper might be having trouble getting to her phone, Mr. Boxer. Let me try and text the young lady and see if she responds. What would you like me to say on your behalf? Oh, I know. Let me type, ‘Where are you?’ Keep it nice and simple, shall we? Now if she doesn’t reply, the chances are… she may have been….”
May have been what? He deliberately trails off.
Lincoln and I roar out another round of curses, shouting at this cowardly bastard. I’ve pawed my way over to the door pounding on it, hoping to God I can break the fucking thing down, shred it from its hinges.
“Enjoy your stay, boys.”
And then no more. All that is left is our empty threats in the air.
I make a promise as I slump against the wall. This motherfucking arsehole has a death wish, and I aim to grant it.
EDGE
The first thing I did was make a detour to the closest hospital fifteen minutes away. I threw the tracker into the bushes right by their emergency entrance.
Ebony and Ivory would be clocking my moves. Considering the condition they left me in, it would be feasible I would seek medical attention. I wanted them to feel secure I wasn’t following them, and I needed to keep the old lady off their radar. Once Ebony and Ivory were paid, they wouldn’t give two shits about my whereabouts. I would be somebody else’s problem then.
The old lady didn’t utter a word the whole way. The only time she communicated with me was to point which direction I was to turn to get to the hospital and then back to her place. She must have been cold, but she didn’t complain.
She was a tough one.
I knew she was sitting back there, her mind trying to grasp why Whisper had been taken and what my involvement in it was.
We made it to her small home, which afforded me the privacy I needed. I was shot and bleeding, my foot was screaming at me, and I had the mother of all headaches. I was realistic. I knew I wouldn’t make it very far unless I got my wounds tended to. Blood loss is a bitch not worth tangoing with.
Now, after pulling up at the bottom of her front porch steps, we dismount and I follow her up. “Switch your outside light on for me,” I grumble, sounding like a bear that’s been poked one too many times.
She does what I ask without a peep as I drop heavily onto her wooden, two-seater swing. I take the sharp blade I’d already removed from my saddlebag and hack the shit out of my leather pants, making a slit up the side. Next, I hack the shit out of my black leather riding boot. I growl and swear like the biker I am while getting the fucking thing off. There ain’t no laces or zipper on it, making this a fucking nightmare. Finally free, I peel my blood-soaked sock off.
When we’d first arrived, the old lady’s eyes had grown when she came back outside, but she didn’t utter a word at the mess my swollen foot was in. She just led the way inside, and I followed on behind as best I could and deposited myself on her cheerful floral high-backed couch.
She’d walked off and returned with two towels, which I was about to royally deface with my blood. With one towel rolled up and placed behind my fucked-up head to keep the damage minimal to her couch, the other was folded and my foot placed on top of it. The red already stained the yellow of the flowers.
And it was all done without a peep from her.
I knew she wasn’t doing it to be nice. I was an unknown until she knew otherwise. She needed to give me a little of her trust and accommodate me because I was her link to Whisper, and she wanted to find out what the hell happened between the two of us.
I’m glad to be seated. Between my fucked-up head and being shot and knocked out, I’m not in a good way. Despite feeling the aftermath of the night, I can’t afford to pass out though. I have to get back on the road. I just haven’t decided which direction I’m heading: Away from my father’s shit, or toward it?
The old lady walks off upstairs, and my eyes wander to the framed photos on the sideboard, standing proud, containing pictures of her Whisper smiling at the camera, the girl I had shot, the person who had introduced herself as Sara several hours ago. There are no other photos of people. This female means a lot to this old woman to have her on display.
Something is so royally screwed up here.
When we’d arrived, she hadn’t even locked her front door, having left in that much of a hurry to find the female she treasured so much. She’d obviously taken off into the night without hesitation.
There’s no man about the house. She didn’t need to tell me she lives alone because her husband or family member would have gone with her, helped her, maybe even searched for her since she is no spring chicken. She had no one to turn to, no transportation, so she took it all upon herself to walk the dark, lonely road in the delusional hope it would lead her to her young friend.