White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(26)

“What’s this?” Rogan pulled a book out of the side pocket on the door. An elaborate arcane circle decorated the front cover. “Circlework: Practical Applications.”

That was my stakeout replacement for Hexology, which was incredibly useful, but so dry it put me to sleep. I had already read Circlework cover to cover, but I hadn’t memorized all of the circles I’d marked as important, so I brought it with me and faithfully tried to reproduce the illustrations on my legal pad while I waited for my insurance fraudsters to stumble.

“What about it?”

I could just ask him directly if he sent them. But then I would know. For some reason not knowing seemed like a better option. Some part of me liked to think it was him.

He flipped through the book. “If you’re ever in need of instruction, I’ll be glad to give you lessons.”

I glanced at him. “What will it cost me?”

“I’ll think of something.” His voice promised all sorts of interesting ideas.

“Bargains with dragons never end well.”

A smug smile touched his lips, turning his expression wolfish and hungry. “That depends on what you’re bargaining for.”

I shouldn’t have gotten into the car with him. That was the long and short of it.

The GPS spoke in Darth Vader’s voice, informing me that my destination was in five hundred feet on the right. Saved by the Sith.

I parked in the shade under a tree, retrieved my gun, and slid it back into my custom women’s on-the-waist holster, where my suit jacket hid it. Men had a much easier time with the concealed carry. I was short-waisted and my hips had a curve to them, so a regular holster just jabbed the gun into my ribs.

Rogan and I made our way to the front door.

I rang the bell. “Best behavior.”

“I remember,” Rogan growled.

The door swung open revealing a man in his thirties. Of average height, with light brown hair and a short beard, he resembled a typical guy you’d encounter in the suburbs: the kind with a steady job, who went to the gym three times a week, and let himself eat a little more than he had ten years ago. His eyes were hollow.

“Now isn’t a good time,” he said.

“Mr. Nather, I work for Cornelius Harrison,” I said, holding out my card. “My deepest condolences.”

He blinked, took my card, and read it. “Private investigator?”

I had to get inside before he shut the door in my face. “House Forsberg is refusing to investigate the murders. Mr. Harrison has asked me to find out what happened to his wife. He wants to be able to tell his daughter that her mother’s murderer didn’t get away with it. I’m deeply sorry to intrude on you in your time of grief. We just need a few moments of your time.”

Jeremy looked at me and sighed. “A few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

He led us through the foyer to the living room sectioned off from the kitchen by an island. Two young children, a boy and a girl, lay on the rug. The boy, older by a year or two, was playing with an iPad, while the girl was building something with Legos. An older woman, her eyes bloodshot, sat on the couch with a book. She glanced at us, her face haggard.

“Mom, I have to talk to these people,” Jeremy said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

She nodded.

“Hi,” the kids chorused.

“Hi.” I waved.

Jeremy forced a smile. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be right back.”

He walked us to the office off the living room and closed the French doors behind us.

“I haven’t told them yet,” he said. His voice caught. “I don’t know how.”

“Have you spoken with anybody? A grief counselor?”

He shook his head. An overwhelming pain reflected in his face, the kind of pain that smashed into you like a car moving at full speed and left you broken and dazed. I wished there was something I could do for him.

I pulled out another one of my cards, checked the contacts on my phone, and wrote my therapist’s name and phone number on it.

“When my father died, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I blamed myself and I dragged my guilt and grief with me like a rock for weeks until I went to see Dr. Martinez. She’s very good at what she does. It will still be terrible, but she’ll help you take the edge off the worst of it. And if she has no openings in her schedule, she’ll be able to refer you to someone who does.”

Jeremy stared at me. “Does it get better?”

“There is no such thing as closure,” I told him. “It never goes away. But it gets duller with treatment and time. Talking about it helps.”

Jeremy took the card and slid it into his wallet.

I took out my digital recorder, pushed the on switch, and said, “Thursday, December 15th. Interview with Jeremy Nather.”

Jeremy leaned against the wall, his arms crossed.

“Mr. Nather, do you know why Marcos was in that hotel room?”

“According to House Forsberg, he was there to have an affair with Nari Harrison. Or Elena de Trevino. Or Fenley. Maybe all of them were going to have an orgy.” His voice was bitter.

“That’s what they told Cornelius as well. With promises of evidence of embezzlement and drug use if the questions continued.”

“It’s absurd.” Jeremy leaned over the table, planting both palms on it. “Marcos was loyal. It was the core of his character. He was loyal and honest.”