She couldn’t do it.
She wouldn’t do it.
“I’m not…” She turned to face her friend. “I’m not making this call because of him, though it might look like that right now. The truth is that I can’t work for someone like Lydia when I know what I know.”
Journey huffed out a laugh. “I guess I can’t blame you for that.” She narrowed her eyes. “But if you think you’re getting rid of me that easily, you’re out of your damn mind.”
“Drinks on Saturday?” she offered softly.
“Definitely.” Journey pulled her in for a hug. “Now you better get out of here before she throws a hissy fit and calls security.”
Samara pushed the button for the elevators. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You better.”
She stepped into the elevator and took it down to the main floor. No one jumped out to accost her, and she sighed at the colossal waste of time this had all been. Not the last decade of work, but this morning. Lydia didn’t have to bring her in to personally berate her. It would have been just as easy either to wait until Monday or send a scathing email. She hadn’t even kept Samara long enough to warrant the trip.
Unless…
Samara picked up her pace and dug her phone out of her purse. She dialed Beckett, but it clicked over to voice mail. That doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably interrogating Walter Trissel and has his phone on silent. I’m being paranoid in thinking Lydia summoned me here to keep me out of that meeting.
Wasn’t she?
A man detached himself from the side of the building and fell into step next to her. She raised her eyebrows at Frank, not even remotely surprised. “I didn’t realize you had time in your busy day to play babysitter.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same for Journey?”
There was no point in answering, because she would. If Journey called her, she’d drop everything and go because they were best friends and both of them took that relationship seriously. Samara waved her phone at him. “I can’t get ahold of Beckett.”
“He should be at the hotel right now.”
His calm demeanor made her feel a little like she was being paranoid, but Samara couldn’t shake the growing suspicion that something was terribly wrong. She stopped. “You have a car around here?”
He gave her the look that question deserved. “Yes.”
“I think Lydia orchestrated this meeting to make sure I didn’t go to that hotel with Beckett.” It sounded even crazier saying it aloud than it did in her head, but she pushed forward. “I think…I think she was protecting me.” And putting Beckett in danger.
A stillness came over Frank that made the small hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “Let’s go.” He hit the corner and cut across the street, leaving her scrambling to keep up. Two blocks later he opened the passenger door to an Audi R8 coup painted a deep gray. “Get in.”
Samara didn’t hesitate to obey.
Seconds later Frank was in the driver’s seat and they were shooting into traffic. He weaved between cars, heading for the 10. He didn’t speak, and she kept trying to call Beckett.
Nothing.
Visions of smoke and fire and his bloody baby book flashed before her eyes. He ignored the warnings. He went on the offense. She couldn’t have possibly anticipated this, could she? “He’s okay. He has to be okay.”
Frank said nothing, but the speedometer crept into triple digits as they flew out of town.
Chapter Twenty-One
I want answers, Walter.” Beckett leaned against the chair he occupied, watching the other man closely.
Walter scrubbed a hand over his eyes and then up over his head, making his thin hair stand on end. “Am I allowed to get dressed, or are you planning on having this conversation while I’m half naked?”
Beckett reached down and snagged a pair of pants and tossed them onto the bed. “That’s good enough.” He didn’t think the man was a direct threat, but he’d been wrong about such things before. He wasn’t about to take any unnecessary risks. This was Texas, after all. Walter no doubt owned a gun or three.
Maybe I should have brought mine.
But no. He wanted Walter to talk, not to piss his pants in fear. Beckett brushed his hand over his phone in his pocket. Recording should be going. He waited until the man had pulled on his pants to speak. “You drugged my father at Lydia’s command so he’d will her Thistledown Villa.”
Walter froze, his pale eyes going wide. “You can’t know that.”
That’s almost an admission, right there. “And yet I do. How much did Lydia pay you? I want to know what your loyalty cost.”
Walter’s shoulders bowed half an inch before he seemed to make the effort to straighten them again. “Four. Million. Dollars.”
Beckett didn’t blink. The house and surrounding property was probably worth a cool ten million, but it wasn’t money that had driven his aunt to such lengths. She would no more sell Thistledown than she’d sell Morningstar if she managed to see her plan through.
All we have in this world is family, even if we can never forgive them.
“Four million dollars just to drug my father.” He caught the slight tightening around the man’s mouth. “Ah. Four million to ensure she got Thistledown—and to make sure Nathaniel got behind the wheel the night he died.” It was a shot in the dark, but Walter looked like he might throw up right then and there, which was all the confirmation Beckett needed.
Fuck.
“People drive drunk all the time.” Walter looked out the window, seeming to shrink in on himself. “How was I supposed to know he’d drive himself right into a telephone pole?”
“That’s not even close to a good excuse. You might not have put a gun in his hand and cocked it, but you directly set him on the path that resulted in his death. That’s manslaughter at the bare minimum.” Beckett leaned forward and lowered his voice. “She wouldn’t let you off the hook after that, would she? What’s a little
