Marchand nods.
Archibald leans in. “You liked him?”
“No,” Marchand says, “Guy's a creep, regret letting him in, actually, but I didn’t have much of a choice. He’s a founder.”
“I’m aware,” I say.
“Sure,” Marchand replies. “But Douglass? He’s a powerful asshole.”
We all take a drink.
I lean forward. “What about his brother Henri?”
Marchand exhales through his nose. “Regular. Obsessive. Always brought the wife to be used. Weird man.”
“And?”
“He made her perform,” Marchand says bluntly. “Multiple partners. He watched from the corner, as if taking notes. Sometimes she complied. Sometimes she didn’t.”
“And Douglass?”
“Never in the room. But he was around. Always close. They’d talk afterward, in the bar. Quiet conversations. Like Douglass was managing it.”
Archie speaks up. “You think he approved of what was happening?”
“I think he orchestrated it,” Marchand replies. “But distantly. So he could pretend he wasn’t involved.”
Typical Bones play. Get the result, keep your hands clean.
I nod in understanding.
In the Brotherhood, wives don’t get protected. They get absorbed, ignored, or replaced.
I knock back the contents of my drink, suddenly eager to be home. “I appreciate the talk, it’s been enlightening.”
Marchand stands, done.
I rise with him. “Why are you helping?”
He pauses at the door. "While my morals may be in short supply, unlike the majority of Bonesmen, I don't hate women."
He gives me one last look. “And because you’re the only one stupid enough to go after him.”
Then he leaves.
Archie finishes his drink and whistles low.
“So, our little sex-club brother hates our target, hates our target’s brother, and doesn’t particularly like us either. Sounds cozy.”
“Let’s go,” I say, already moving.
I should be focused.
I’ve got a thousand things that need my attention,calls, intel, a file sitting in the seat beside me that could ruin a man’s life with one signature.
But all I can think about is her.
She’s in my head. Like smoke. Like rot.
