I didn’t want to leave for two reasons. First, I didn’t relish walking past Max. Not only had he been spying on me earlier in the day—though at Adam’s request—but I also felt sure he knew he’d interrupted something just now. Yeah, way too embarrassing. But the more pressing reason I had for staying was a fervent hope we’d pick up where we’d left off once Adam returned. Things had just been getting interesting. Suppressing a smile I was certain Adam deciphered, I said, “No, I don’t mind waiting.”
So Adam went out into the hallway with Max, closing the door behind him, but not before shooting me a look full of promise that we would indeed be continuing what we’d started. I glanced down at the scattered photos before me, many of which were now bent and crinkled from my writhing around on top of them. Smiling at the naughtiness of what had occurred, I began to gather the photos into a pile on Adam’s otherwise uncluttered desk.
Even though I’d lost the bet—meaning I was to never step foot in Billy’s ever again—I knew I’d have to break that promise at least once if Jimmy located the picture. But I’d worry about that when—and if—the time ever came.
Adam sure had been adamant about me staying away from that bar. Perhaps he didn’t relish the thought of his new girlfriend frequenting the establishment where his old girlfriend had committed so many acts of betrayal. Based on that assumption, it seemed prudent to keep looking into the mystery blonde on my own.
Once I’d organized the photos back into a pile, I spun around once, twice. Dizzy, I tried to imagine what it must be like to be Adam Ward. Being that rich and powerful tended to make people do exactly what you wanted. Even I hadn’t been immune to Adam’s charisma. It had to be intoxicating to be him. Hell, I felt it just by being in his presence.
I swiveled the chair left and right, and took a moment to inventory the study. Packed bookcases lined the room, an eclectic mix of literature and technical manuals. A few museum-worthy oil paintings graced a couple of the walls, and on a credenza under the window, there were framed photos of Adam’s parents as well as his sister.
There was a work area on the opposite side of the room, and by the looks of it, it was a tech-lover’s dream. Elaborately set up computers and peripherals, routers, and other hardware that held little interest for me. So I directed my gaze to the large window on the far wall, the one with the view of the ocean through the trees.
Night had fallen, but the blinds remained open. It was a little unnerving to think that someone—like Max—could have been out there watching us. Even though it was unlikely, and I was being a little paranoid, I still wanted them closed. But as I rose from Adam’s chair to do just that, something on the floor by the desk drew my attention. One of the photos had apparently fallen to the floor.
I reached down to pick it up, and that was when I noticed the bottom drawer—the one Adam had pulled the photos from—stood ajar, the tiny key resting innocuously in the keyhole, the digital keypad dark and disengaged. Adam had forgotten to lock it back up, probably since we’d been otherwise engaged.
At that moment I had a choice to make. I could just ignore the unlocked drawer, or I could open it and see what other things Adam was keeping in there—the only drawer with a lock on it. God, would he be pissed if he knew I was even contemplating going through his private things.
I held my breath and listened. Everything was quiet, Adam apparently still busy with Max. Only a few moments had passed, so I knew I probably had a good ten minutes more to snoop. I breathed out and sat back down in the chair, tapping the edge of the photo on the desk. What to do, what to do. Oh hell, the temptation was just too much. Tossing the picture aside, I wrenched the bottom drawer open and peered in.
Stacks of thick file folders and large A4 envelopes were piled high. With my hand shaking, I reached down tentatively and flipped the top folder open. It contained what appeared to be some sort of a business contract. Nothing too interesting, just boring legalize.
In fact, as I made my way through the pile, it seemed several of the folders and envelopes contained the same things: contracts, lots of contracts, and reams of transcribed notes from business meetings. There was one folder labeled Hensley Files, but I paged past it. I assumed it detailed the stuff Adam had already told me about Ami, plus I didn’t really have time to peruse everything. All of this stuff was obviously private papers. But nothing seemed damning, until I reached the very bottom of the pile. There, three things caught my eye.
One was a file folder stamped “confidential.”
The second was a large, ivory-colored A4 envelope with the name “Trina” scrawled on the front in Adam’s neat script.
And the third was a gun—a .38 revolver. Loaded, based on the weight in my hands as I picked it up and turned it over and over.
OK, so Adam owned a gun. It didn’t seem unreasonable for a man of his professional stature to possess a weapon for home defense. I tried not to over-think the firearm as I carefully placed it back in the bottom of the drawer. With the gun safely secured, I focused instead on the first item of interest: the file folder marked “confidential.”
It contained pages and pages detailing a stock trade Adam had made during the winter months, almost seven years earlier. I
