I’ve had too much time to think.
“What took you so long?” I hold my hand out for the file he has in his hand.
He chucks it to my desk, and I flip open the first page before it has even stopped moving. “Mason.”
“What’s this?” I hold up the first sheet of paper.
He lifts his chin, swallowing thickly. “A death certificate.”
“Whose?”
“Erin O’Connor’s. She died six weeks ago.”
“What? No.” I frown. “Erin O’Connor was with Nina Sunday night!”
He drops his head, and when he lifts it again, there is regret in his eyes.
“Vin.”
His shoulders drop, and I know.
It’sher.
“Fucking tell me, Vinny!”
“Cara Langer.” He steps forward, pulling a sheet of paper from the file. “She bought the studio a week previous to you meeting her. She changed every detail that could trace it to her and put it in a different name. Honestly, I don’t know how I missed it.”
My head spins, my eyes pinching tight as I bring my hand up to my forehead.
How has this happened?
“Cara. She owns Nina’s studio?”
“I’m so sorry, Mason.”
Fuck! I link my hands behind my head and turn my back to Vinny.
She can’t be there. I can’t have her there.
I grit my teeth, closing my eyes as pain slices through me. “Sell it.”
“What? You can’t sell it when it doesn’t belong to you.”
“I can and I will. I can’t have it linked back to Nina. Imagine how it would look. Have it put on the market for a quick and quiet sale.”
“No.”
My head snaps around, my eyes wild as I try to control my anger. “You’ll fucking sell it!” My fist comes down on my desk, and he recoils. Shame fills me, but I don’t stop, too far gone. Everything is too far gone. “You think you can stand there and tell me fucking no, Vin? I pay you to do a job, so prove to me you can do it,” I spit.
“She would never forgive you, you know. Dancing is her life.”
My heart throbs. Actual physical pain that runs deep in my chest. “What choice do I have?” I say at a loss. “I can’t let her be connected to this. I won’t allow it.”
“You’re making a huge mistake. You want to sell her studio, then you do it yourself.” He shakes his head at me, placing the sheet of paper back on the desk. His fist clenches white against it, and I know there’s no persuading him.
“George, get me Lance Sullivan,” I say through the intercom, rolling my tongue over my teeth as my knee bounces in agitation.
“On it now, boss!” George buzz’s back.
