Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(49)

“Can we talk somewhere?”

Priscilla’s head startles. “About?”

“I think this conversation is best suited to privacy,” I explain, “considering I went to see Lucy and was told your office gave them mandates saying that I couldn’t.”

She exhales. “The conference room, then.”

I follow behind her as we walk through the cubicles. Heads pop up over the edges like meerkats to see who Priscilla is guiding through their inner sanctum of red tape and bureaucracy.

The conference room is crammed with a scarred wood table top and eight chairs around a six-chair table. She motions for me to sit and then takes a seat directly across from me, making a show of scooting her chair in and squaring her papers up before clasping her hands over the top of them.

“I was expecting a phone call from you, but isn’t this a nice surprise. In person.” Her smile is tight, and her eyes behind her glasses look two different sizes, normal size above the frame and rather large through the lens.

“Why is no one allowed to visit Lucy?” I cut to the chase.

“It’s in her best interests.” Her voice may be monotone, but her words are like nails on a chalkboard to my ears.

“How so?”

“It’s evident there are some . . . issues with both of the candidates for her guardianship.”

“Issues?”

She offers a judgmental smile, and I find it hard to swallow all of a sudden. “Sometimes during our lengthy process, things come up that have to be investigated further.”

“Like how Brian showed up to my house and was high as a kite, offering for me to buy his daughter a few weeks back? Like you actually tested him and it turned up positive? Those kinds of things?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to discuss Lucy’s welfare or potential issues at this time.”

“Considering I’m a candidate, shouldn’t I be in the know on what’s going on?”

“As I said, some things aren’t up for discussion. I can’t override orders from the bosses.” Her mouth straightens into a line, and her eyebrows lift as if to ask if we’re done here.

What does she know? What the hell happened? What the hell is going on here?

And then in the midst of panic, it hits me: Carter Preston.

His warning. His threat.

Oh my God.

Did he do something? I clasp my hands together to prevent the rage I suddenly feel from shining through.

“Priscilla.” I pause and force myself to contain my emotions. It’s been a long few weeks—hell, it’s been a long damn year—and before I ruin all chances of being awarded custody, I take a deep breath. “I’m not quite sure what is going on here, but I know it’s not normal. You have a little girl dying to be loved and put in a home where she can be loved unconditionally. Whatever it is that you seem to think you have against me, I assure you it can be explained.” I hold her gaze and tamp down my anger, forcing my hands to relax instead of fist.

Time stretches, and defeat hits me harder than ever before.

“Running a brothel out of your house now, are you?”

Every single ounce of blood drains from my body in an instant. “Excuse me?” I sputter out the words, the room suddenly sweltering, my head dizzy.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Four men in one night, Ms. Sanders? Is this a suitable environment for a young, impressionable girl with special needs?”

I must blink a hundred times as I try to process what it is that she’s saying. “I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about?”

My heartbeat rages in my ears. My breath hurts to draw it in.

“Well, let’s see. It’s been reported that you went to a charity event with one gentleman. Then you have a male babysitter who didn’t leave your house until the wee hours of the morning. Two different cars sat in front of your house at different times, stayed there for a while, and then parted ways.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “A revolving door? Is this really a suitable environment for Lucy?”

Each word she utters makes my jaw want to drop a little farther open, and when she’s finished, my laugh rings out loud and clear in the stuffy conference room. I can hear the hysteria in it bouncing back to me; I just hope she doesn’t hear it too.

“This is absolutely ludicrous.”

“Is it?”

“I’m sorry, but were you having me followed?”

“A concerned citizen took it upon themselves to call this suspicious activity in.”

“A concerned citizen?” Another disbelieving laugh falls from my lips. “At two in the morning a concerned citizen just happened to be watching my house. One who somehow knew my personal business and that I was in the process of trying to adopt my niece?” With each word my voice rises, and my mind zeroes in on the only person who could have done this.

“Perhaps.”

“And what? You just believe a random stranger who happened to see something and read into it?”

“I haven’t heard you deny it.”

“Are you actually accusing me of being a madam?” I shriek, the irony so lost in my rage of emotion that I don’t even notice. Because even though that’s my job, I never really think of myself that way. “Are you kidding me?”