Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(14)
I take a big gulp of lukewarm coffee and try not to gag. It wouldn’t be ladylike. Everyone here expects my manners to be spectacular, as if being born within a few hundred miles of the Queen of England somehow transmits etiquette by osmosis. At least stale coffee tastes better than the metallic tang in my mouth. I keep forgetting to eat, to drink, and it’s like my insides are bleeding up on to the back of my tongue; I was doing so well at living—seeing friends, exercising, going out with Aeron and not feeling like sacrificial arm candy—and now this.
As Aeron, Ash and Ethan fade out of view, I gather up my phone and access cards before logging out of the computer. Then I do what I’ve been avoiding since the moment I sat down: walk through the workstations. For the past week, there’s only been one topic on everyone’s lips, and I don’t want to hear it. Sure, the whispers get quieter as I approach—I’m the boss and these are my good little worker bees—but I know what they’re talking about. Blood Honey, and victim number two.
They finally named her yesterday: Jamie Perkins, a peppy high school junior with two bona-fide flesh and blood parents, and no known connection to the first victim. I’ve deliberately stayed out of Aeron’s office so I don’t have to see the carnage that is her grieving family all over his massive TVs, but that hasn’t protected me entirely. She’s burned into my retinae like barcode; Darling in that crusted red-brown scrawl. She. Jamie. That was her name. We’re ninety-nine percent sure the FBI are now handling things, which means our sources have dried up, and that meant we had to publish the crime scene photos in full just so we had something to publish. Classy. To say they received a mixed response is an understatement—some Facebook group has started a Go Fund Me page to buy Aeron a conscience.
They’ve already raised ten grand.
I promised myself I wouldn’t think about it. About her. About the bruise Aeron gave me in lieu of a scar because I couldn’t bear the thought of broken skin or painted words. But fear is a rasp that will not shut up, and I have a belly full of worms, always slithering.
It could so easily have been you.
On my way back to my office, I dash into an elevator and ride up and down a few floors, just to take a moment. Catch my breath. I need to be calm and professional, at my observant best. And I’ve not been that lately; people are beginning to notice. Even Finn told me to go home early the other day and slipped me a freaking Valium, as if a little white pill could make the world I’ve built for myself just fall away.
The elevator arrives back at my floor. With a final breath—Jesus, Leo, try not to sound like you smoke forty a day—I straighten up the bodice of my dress and step out into the corridor. My office is just around the corner, and outside, Gwen Cooper will be waiting.
She is.
She’s taller than me. Leaner, almost athletic, but there’s softness in the clothes she’s chosen; a pant suit with a silk vest, muted colors, clean lines. Berry lipstick compliments her dark skin, and her glossy black hair is twisted up in a tight chignon. She looks professional, unassuming, and ever so slightly intimidating. I wonder what Aeron would make of her.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s aware that I’ve been interviewing new assistants these past months. Maybe he’s decided to humor me; maybe he thinks I’m just bored. Truth is, I’m tired of the endless funeral of denial he has going on for Tuija, and I’m worried that if he keeps pushing himself with extra work, he’ll go to places I can’t follow. Dark places. And I need to be more than an alibi and a patchwork doll.
“Miss Reeves.” Gwen gets to her feet as I approach, holding out a neatly manicured hand. “Thank you for taking the time to see me today.”
“A pleasure. Apologies for keeping you waiting.” I give her hand a brief shake—it’s as cool and smooth as it looks—and then usher her into my office. “You’ll have to excuse the mess, I’m afraid…we’re always working on new models and I can get a little carried away.” I gesture to the stacks of Perspex boxes in the far corner, wires and fittings spilling out.
“You’re a busy woman.” Those words could be patronizing, but she deploys them in earnest. Good to see.
“Have a seat.”
The trouble with trying to hire an assistant for Aeron is that you’re hiring an assistant for Aeron. His reputation precedes him. He’s a magnet for masochists, and so far, the agencies have sent me a bunch of graduates from Hogwhore’s School of Bitchcraft and Lizardry—either they’re desperate for a little notoriety, or they’re a snitch working for someone else. When your predecessor was murdered on the job, you’d have to be a little bit special to want to replace her, but it doesn’t matter how deeply I background check most of these wannabes. Half the time, I hear the bones clunking in their closets before they’ve even stood up.
So Gwen Cooper is interesting to me because she has a little meat on those bones. For the past ten years, she’s worked as a PA for CEOs in health insurance, which means her morals are lighter than her balls. Excellent. Aeron has no patience for bleeding heart liberals or goody two-shoes Yes Girls. My research pulled up a bunch of charity gala photos, which is a nice display of social conscience, and then she appears to have several gun licenses along with membership to a shooting range, so I’m guessing her stomach is strong. Not that Aeron needs another trigger finger around the place—ahem—but he’ll appreciate the humor. You know, when he’s done hissing at me that he doesn’t f*cking need another f*cking assistant because he’s king of the f*cking world.