He gave me ano, duh, look. “I’m not an idiot.” He started to walk away.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Lindsey told me something bad is coming for me. She didn’t say what, when, or how, but there’s not a lot worse that could happen than Jen, Lorraine, or Stacey getting hurt. Keep your eyes peeled. Don’t let anything happen to her.”
His expression turned sober. “I won’t. Same to you.”
“If anybody tries anything, this place is going up like Chernobyl. Count on it.”
He stared. “You can do that?” Then, “that’s...not comforting.”
“I’m not interested in your comfort, but I can promise one thing.”
Warily, “what?”
“If someone comes after me or mine, they’re going to become an object lesson.”
“After that Chernobyl comment, I’m not sure I want to know what that means.”
I smiled a hyena smile. “Trust me, you don’t.”
ChapterNine
After Luke departed,I headed into the house. It was crowded, people and employees bustling in and out. A ballroom that opened up on a garden patio contained tables and a couple of buffet lines. A jazz quartet played in the courtyard.
I peeked inside, then moved on, checking every door I could. No signs of the cats or Lydia. Would Flannery be so bold as to bring her here during his party? Stupid question. Of course he would. The man was so full of himself he probably couldn’t imagine failing.
“Pride goeth before the fall,” I murmured, determined that Flannery would fall. Hopefully I’d be the one shoving him off the not proverbial cliff.
Since he was just the kind of narcissistic asshole who would kidnap or blackmail his ex-wife into returning home, what would he do with her? I realized it depended on whether or not one of his goons had forced her, or if Flannery had managed to coerce her into returning.
If I had to guess, and I did, I’d guess the latter. The asshat was the type to enjoy forcing people to do what he wanted. He wanted to pull the strings and watch them dance, enjoying the fact that they chose to put themselves in his power. I snorted. Chose. Some choice. Hey Lydia, I’ll slowly cut apart your cats until they die and make you watch, or you can come back and live in luxury and be my obedient political wife.
I’d bet a blowjob that the conversation had gone pretty much just like that. Which meant that Lydia would have entered the house of her own free will, and wouldn’t need to be locked up or guarded.
Realization struck me. She’d be in the owner’s suite. Flannery meant for her to go back to being his wife, and that would include sex. He’d also want to make sure she was constantly reminded of what would happen if she failed to perform. He’d like watching her squirm, watching her fear and submission. Fucker.
His predictability was good for me, however, since that meant he’d have to have the cats nearby. Lydia wouldn’t leave without them, and I wasn’t about to leave them in Flannery’s hands.
A memory of Ajax and the horrific shape he was in when I rescued him flashed through my mind and it occurred to me to wonder what had convinced Lydia to come back now. A chill ran through me. What had Flannery done?
I should have gone looking for Lorraine and Jen, or at least texted them, but the memory of Ajax spurred me to action. It didn’t make sense. Whatever Flannery had done to the cats was over and done and I could do nothing, but I was running on instinct and emotion.
The house was huge, but the owner’s suite wouldn’t be on the first floor, and probably not the second. Those would likely be reserved for guests. The best views were on the third floor, which was probably the family floor. The fourth was probably storage spaces, offices, art studios, or something along those lines. Private places for the family where guests weren’t allowed.
Security guarded the two elevators at either end of the house. I expected there was another freight elevator somewhere, but it was likely guarded, too. I went in search of a back stairs, keeping an eye out for Jen and Lorraine. Because I’d cast the glamour on them, I wouldn’t have trouble seeing them.
A pair of women stopped to admire me. Both were likely in their thirties or early forties and had dressed with effortless elegance. I’d named my business—Effortless Estates—after just that kind of fashionable perfection that seemed perfectly natural.
“You look stunning in that dress,” the first one gushed. She was thicker around the middle with large breasts. She wore a layered, blue-gray chiffon dress that set off her pale skin and strawberry blonde hair. It was perfectly cut and complimented her figure.
“I’d love to get the name of the designer,” the other said. She was tall, with wide shoulders and a straight waist. She wore a slip dress made of layered silk that flattered her figure. A bootie-pump hybrid in calfskin and dyed the same pinkish-gray as her dress completed her look. Her hair was brown with expensive honey highlights.
Both women looked flawless and expensive. Just the kind of clients Rhi and Lorel needed.
“Thank you,” I said. “Her name is Rhiannon Larson. She’s very exclusive, but if you have a card, I can pass it along for you.”
