Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
"No," Casper says. "There's no evidence that they had a clue you guys had infiltrated the group with plans to take them down."
I swallow again, wondering if this is going to lead to a line of questions, wanting to know exactly what happened that would lead the guys to torture Zayne in a fucking underground dungeon.
I may not be as clear of that confession as I started to hope I was.
"Your real name came up in a newspaper in Connecticut," Kincaid says.
"What?" I ask, completely confused. "Why?"
The mood shifts, somehow coming full circle right back to the weirdness that was in the room right after Zayne left.
"Your mom," Kincaid says. "She passed away two weeks ago."
"My name was in the obituary?" I ask, knowing just how strange that question is immediately after being given such sad news, but it's the first thing that comes to mind.
A beat of silence tells me all I need to know.
I wasn't even mentioned. They'd disowned me years ago.
"If not the obituary, then where?"
"A law firm posted a public notice looking for you this morning," Casper says. "It triggered the algorithm."
"For what?"
"It was a notice to heirs in the legal section," Casper says.
"We anticipate you heading back home to sort it out," Kincaid says.
"To just show up to be told they left me nothing?" I ask, feeling like that would be as much of a waste of time as this fucking conversation has been. "I think I'll pass."
"I think you need to go back home and take care of things," Kincaid urges, but the tone of his voice doesn't leave much room for argument.
"I'll add it to my schedule," I say, trying to appease them for now.
Going back home and facing a place I never planned to return is the very fucking last thing on my list right now.
"I’ve booked you a flight for this afternoon and a hotel for the night,” Casper interjects. “The return ticket is open-ended, but your meeting with the estate executor is at ten tomorrow morning."
I glare at the man, but he doesn't shy away from the attention, making it clear he was only doing what had been asked of him.
"We have a pretty good system in place to not only protect your identity from criminals you may come in contact with while working, but if you don't go, they could hire a private investigator. As much as I'd like to believe Casper, Max, and Rooster are the best in the tech business, we can't take the chance that they use someone who might have the ability to bypass the systems we have in place," Kincaid says. "You need to go. Get all of it settled. Cerberus will be here waiting for you to get back to work when you're ready."
That explanation makes much more sense than their misplaced assumptions that I give a shit about what has happened in Connecticut.
It felt like a hundred-pound weight sitting on my chest after finding out about my dad. I hadn't been contacted. My adoptive mother never reached out. Her lack of contact said all that needed to be said.
I dip my head in agreement. As much as I don't want to face this, if Cerberus is asking this of me, then for the organization's safety and those who work in it, I'll go.
"Anything else?" I ask, ready to get the fuck out of there.
A million emotions are all tangled up inside me, and I can't even begin to work through those in front of witnesses.
"If you need some time off," Kincaid begins.
I shake my head. "I'll be back tomorrow. Ready to work."
He dips his head in understanding.
"We have plenty of work to do," he says, holding his hand to shake mine. "Have a safe trip."
Three hours later, I was sitting on a plane, wondering just where I had gone wrong in life for this to be my reality.
I went back to my room to grab an overnight bag of shit for the trip, fully expecting to find Zayne asleep on my bed, only to walk into an empty room.
It was for the best. I didn't want to have this conversation with my bosses, and have even less desire to speak these words to Zayne.
He knows too much of my history.
He was always a silent observer, knowing what was going on in my life and gauging my moods just by watching.
I didn't have to speak about the pain and heartache I felt at not being the child my parents wanted. He just somehow knew, was always there to offer a moment of quiet acceptance without expectations.
I couldn't handle the sadness in his eyes when he heard the news. I didn't want the sympathy, or the misplaced regret on his part that both of my parents were now gone without a hint of guilt for how they treated me.