Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
“Well, fuck you too then,” he says, laughing. “I could use a little begging in my life today. Kincaid, please save me before my nuts shrivel up and I die of boredom sounds like a good start.”
“No can do, fucker.”
“Fine. Then why are you blowing up my phone at ass o’clock on a Thursday?”
“I need a favor.”
“Does it have the potential to get me shot? Because, gotta say, man, been there, done that. Kinda getting old,” he says. “The big boss is riding my dick about giving me a partner. So if whatever you need help with has a likelihood of making that happen, my answer is probably no.”
“Only probably?” I lean back in my chair, planting one boot on my desk.
“I mean…if it’s going to piss him off, I might be in,” he mutters, making me laugh.
Kincaid has spent most of his life living with gangs and criminals. He never takes anything seriously…and yet he closes more cases than most other agents. He’s a beast. I don’t know what his story is, but he’s a closed book. He doesn’t share shit and doesn’t ask shit.
“It probably won’t get you shot,” I say. “But it may get me fired.”
“Damn.” He whistles. “Now you’ve got me curious as a motherfucker.”
“I know who killed Brantley Calloway. I’ve known for a while. The only thing I’m missing is the why,” I say, not lying to him.
“Who?”
“His wife.”
Kincaid whistles again.
“She claims it was an accident, but I’m not buying it,” I say and then fill him in on the whole sordid story. I don’t leave anything out. If he’s going to look into this, he needs to know everything. Is it a risk? Yes. But it’s one I have to take. As soon as I start pulling threads, the whole goddamn thing is going to collapse on my head. Kincaid won’t have that problem. He knows people who know people.
“Jesus Christ, Flannery,” he says. “If a goddamn dumpster fire and a shitshow had a baby, and then that baby got together with a bomb and had baby, that kid would still be less fucked up than your situation.”
“I know.”
“You think he’s really working with the mob?”
“No. I think Jack Hale is,” I say. “And I think Marnie’s carrying his kid.” It’s the only thing that makes sense. Jack was the piece of the puzzle that I was missing. I think Brant knew the kid didn’t belong to him the minute Marnie told him she was pregnant. He probably threatened to leave her. Only she and Jack couldn’t risk losing control of the company, so they cooked up a plan to involve me.
She claimed he was the one working for the mob. Marnie fucking knew I’d leap to protect Raven. As soon as she had me where she wanted me, she killed Brant. With him out of the way, she and Jack had control of the company. All she had to do was keep me quiet and keep Raven out of the picture until the baby was born. At that point, Brant would be listed on the birth certificate since they were married when the baby was conceived, and she’d be home free. The courts would split the majority share of the company between Raven and the baby, leaving Jack with the controlling interest. The company would be theirs.
She fucked up, though. I would never have had a reason to suspect Jack had she not tried to keep Raven from graduating. She tipped her hand and fucked herself over. They weren’t in a business meeting when I went to see her. He didn’t look at her like a business associate. He looked at her like a man in love, one frustrated by a woman playing games.
He hated that I was there. As if I’d touch the bitch with a ten-foot pole. She’s pure poison. I don’t know when she and Jack started hooking up and I don’t want to know. All I want is to watch them both burn. They deserve everything they get. If I go up in flames with them, fuck it. At least I’ll take the two of them with me.
I owe Raven that much. I owe it to Brant too.
“Goddamn,” Kincaid says when I tell him my theory. “What the fuck is it with rich people? They’ll never be able to spend what they already have, but they’re still so fucking desperate for more. They’ll destroy their own flesh and blood and not even bat a lash.”
“Hell if I know,” I mutter.
“I don’t have many mob connections, but I know a few people who should be able to help,” he says. “I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you.” He pauses. “I’m guessing you need me to hurry it the fuck up?”
“That’d be nice.”
He grunts. “Does this island of yours have boats and shit?”