Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(18)

Unfortunately, she’s not wrong. That’s the main reason I refrain from interacting with my brother in certain spaces; politics and murder only mix well in the shadows. If Alistair didn’t double as my benefactor, I doubt I’d ever see the bloke at all.

Lenny doesn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a lot easier to control a narrative when you’re two steps ahead of its driving forces. If we announced that we’re dating, they’d have no reason to come running out of the woodwork for a story.”

This again. “You don’t think they’d be concerned at all, given our history?”

“Not if we give them bread crumbs. Let them fill in the gaps themselves.” Walking over to my desk, she runs her hand over the leather material of my jacket, pursing her lips.

“We don’t even know each other,” I say, moving to set the whiskey bottle down. “And I don’t date.”

I sidle up behind her as she stares down at the fire-breathing Minotaur patch sewn into the jacket sleeve, keeping enough distance between us to refrain from doing something I might regret.

“All the more reason to fake date,” she mutters. “No chance of catching feelings.”

One of my hands rises, sweeping over the soft ends of her hair and the curve of her lower back. “What’s the incentive?”

“Bodily autonomy.” A shiver racks through her, and I bite down on my tongue to stave off the satisfaction it gives me. “If I don’t pick someone, my father’s going to set me up with one of his business buddies. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

She doesn’t answer. “You’d get good publicity, for once. It’d convince Aplana Island that you’ve buried the hatchet with my family.”

I swallow. “And what’s to keep your father from simply refusing to accept me as your boyfriend?”

A long pause ensues, and I fix my gaze on the wall beyond; there’s a circular indentation in the plaster from where I rammed someone’s head into it just this morning and haven’t had time to repair it. Blood coats the cracks like a thick paint, and I can’t help wondering if Lenny sees it.

If she notices, she doesn’t say.

Licking her lips, she spins around and leans against the desk. Those big green eyes blink up at me, reminding me of that night at the party.

Something flares behind her irises, bright and full, but I can’t allocate it exactly. It doesn’t feel like fear, but that same thread of excitement I found when she crouched on the floor covered in a dead man’s blood.

“He won’t say no,” she tells me, straightening her spine, “because he’s terrified of you.”





8





The newspaper crinkles as my brother lowers the edge beneath his chin.

“You did what?”

Cash has the highly coveted corner office in his building, an environmental law firm just outside the Boston city limits. The glass walls around us give the illusion of transparency that people seek out in their legal counsel but keep all the sound inside.

Sometimes I wonder if they gave him the room so he can yell at his clients and not disturb his colleagues.

Popping another chocolate mint into my mouth, I lean back in the plastic chair in front of his desk. Maybe if I pretend that I’ve got everything together, he’ll believe it.

That’s the only good thing about having a lawyer as a brother; he operates on a strict need-to-know basis. And right now, all he needs to know is that I fucked up.

“What do you mean, you’re dating Jonas Wolfe? I wasn’t even aware you knew the man.”

I give him a skeptical look. “Hard to know who my friends are when you live off the island and never visit.”

Cash removes his wire-rimmed glasses, wiping the lenses with a tissue he pulls from a drawer. “Fair enough, but doesn’t associating with him go against several legal pretenses?”

“He was asked to stay away from us, not the other way around.”

“So, you approached him? You sought him out?”

Pressing my lips together, I nod once. “Yes. That’s exactly what happened.”

Cash groans. “You’re the worst liar, Len. What the hell are you not telling me?”

Blowing out a breath, I run my fingers along the edge of the desk, taking a moment to sit back and study him. Like his twin, Cash’s personality seems to be wholly wrapped up in his physical appearance: neat, dark-blond hair that he doesn’t let grow past a certain length; crisp button-downs and dress pants with the intentional pleating; a clean-shaven jaw and emotionless brown eyes.

Even his name denotes what the man prioritizes, and the fact that he’s trying to lecture me about honesty feels ironic.

“Buried body clause.”

His mouth forms a terse line. “No, Lenny. Damnit, not again.”

I reach for another mint. “Buried. Body. Clause.”

Sighing, Cash slumps in his chair, defeated by his own principle. During undergrad, he learned about these lawyers back in the seventies whose client confided in them about the murder and burial of two women.

The lawyers found the women but kept their discovery a secret, and later hinged that decision on confidentiality duties to their client.

Cash lives by that clause, which is the only reason I’m here and not paying someone else money for legal consultation.