Fourth Debt (Indebted #5)(15)

Daniel muttered under his breath but plonked back into his chair.

Jasmine grabbed the red-sodden material and shoved it under my nose. “Hold this, shut up, and don’t get into any more trouble.”

The skirmish ended; no one moved.

Silence hovered thick over the table.

The only sound was the heavy ticking of a grandfather clock by the gold ladder leading to the limited editions above. Side lamps had been switched on, filling the large space with warm illumination, while curtains blocked any remaining light that dared trespass on priceless books or fade cherished words.

Finally, Marshall sucked in a breath. He rearranged his fountain pen again. “Now that we’re all on the same page, I’ll carry on.” Looking at me, he said, “For the rest of this meeting, you may address me as Marshall, or by my first name, which is Colin. These are my colleagues.”

Pointing to the man closest to him: a potbellied, watery-eyed bald guy, he continued, “This is Hartwell Backham, followed by Samuel Cole, and my son Matthew Marshall.”

My nose ached but the bleeding had stopped, leaving me stuffed up. I glowered at the men. There wasn’t an ounce of mercy in their gazes.

They were here to do the job they’d been entrusted. Their loyalties were steadfast. Their intentions unchangeable.

I doubted they saw me as human—just a clause in a contract and nothing more.

Daniel poked me under the table. “After your little stunt, the least you can do is be nice.” His voice deepened. “Say hello.”

Yet another way to make me obey. He didn’t care about pleasantries—only about making me submit to his every childish whim.

I sat straighter.

I’ll do nothing of the sort.

Jasmine nudged me. “If you won’t listen to him, listen to me. Do it.”

I glared at her. “Why should I?”

“Because you belong to her, you little cow.” Grabbing her cane, Bonnie struck her chair leg as if the furniture would turn into a horse and gallop her away from there. “Start. Now.”

Marshall launched into action. “Of course, Madame Hawk. My apologies.” Slapping open the file in front of him, his partners copied. Ledgers flung open and pens uncapped.

“Let me assure you that we’re honoured to once again provide service to your impeccable family,” Marshall twittered like a buffoon.

Cut groaned, steepling his fingers. “Lose the arse kissing. Did you bring the file or not?”

Paper scattered the wooden tabletop like fallen snowflakes, reminding me all over again of the icy way Jethro protected himself—the arctic coolness and thawing as I slowly made him want me.

The pain in my nose shot to my heart.

He’s dead.

He’s dead.

Don’t think about him.

Marshall selected a certain page. “I did.” Looking at his son—the blond buzz cut douchebag—he pointed at a box by the exit. “Grab that will you, Matthew?”

Matthew shot to his feet. “Sure.” In a whisper of cashmere suit, he went to retrieve the large white box.

Curiosity rose to know what was in it. But at the same time, I was past caring.

More bullshit. More games.

None of it mattered because I was playing a different game. One they wouldn’t understand until it was too late.

Jasmine scooted her wheelchair back a little, giving Matthew access to the table.

He smiled in thanks, placing the heavy box before his father. Marshall stood up and opened the lid while his son sat back down.

I sniffed, trying hard to clear my nostrils of blood. The pounding headache made everything fuzzy—a struggle to completely follow. I wanted to be coherent for whatever was about to happen.

No one spoke as Marshall removed reams and reams of paper and stacked them in neat piles on the table. The more he withdrew, the more aged the paper became. The first pile was pristinely white, neat edges, and uniformed lettering from a computer and printer.

The next stack was thin and cream-coloured, smudged edges, and the fuzzy blocks of a typewriter ribbon.

What is going on?

The third was yellowed and crinkled, shabby with torn edges, and the spidery scrawl of human penmanship.

And the final stack was moth-eaten, the colour of coffee, and swirling calligraphy of an art lost long ago.

That colour…

Its coffee bean shade was similar to the Debt Inheritance scraps Cut had given me at my welcome luncheon.

Could it be…

My attention zeroed in on Cut.

“Do you hazard a guess as to what that is, Nila?”

I shivered at the fatherly way he said my name, as if this was a family lesson. Something to be proud of and honoured to be an exclusive member.

I don’t need to guess.

I cocked my chin. “No, I don’t.”

He chuckled. “Come now. You already know. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jasmine huffed. “Just be honest. For once in your life.” Her voice dropped to a harsh curse. “Don’t make this any worse, for God’s sake.”

Whoa…

After everything she’d done. After cuddling up to her father after he shot Jethro and Kes and promising me a world of hurt for being responsible for such a tragedy, she had the audacity to make it seem as if I were unappreciative and uncooperative.