“I’m not worried about Wainwright,” Schaffer called after him.
Carson paused, looked back at her.
“It’s you I’m worried about,” she said frankly. “I’m pretty sure you should watch your back.”
33
4:30 a.m.
Birmingham
The Tramont
At this point Carson didn’t care if the FBI noted his activities in its surveillance. He was fucked anyway.
He pushed the button for the penthouse once, twice, three times before she answered.
“Yes?”
“Open the door.” He didn’t give a damn about etiquette or any damned thing else right now. His career was in the toilet and he wanted answers.
He wanted whatever she knew about his family and Dane. He wanted the truth and by God she was going to help him find it.
A distinct buzz sounded, and he opened the door. He strode to the elevator and selected the top floor. The slight delay in the car’s upward movement told him her approval had been necessary. During the ride to the penthouse he worked to slow his breathing and regain some of his composure. Didn’t help. He only got angrier.
Drake had lied to him. Wainwright had used him.
He couldn’t trust any damned body. But her. And that was the most unfortunate part of all. He had absolutely no reason to trust anything she said.
Yet she was his only chance at solving this screwed-up mess.
The doors slid open. Annette Baxter stood in the marble-floored entry hall waiting, a rose-colored robe hugging her body. Her posture and resolute expression told him she was prepared for battle.
“You finally understand what you’re up against. That’s why you’re back here. Wainwright’s dirty. And you need my help.” She held his furious gaze without so much as a blink. “You needme.”
“Senator Drake is dead.”
Several seconds lapsed before she schooled her expression to the one of aloof indifference she usually wore. Just enough time for him to see the shock and confusion. Maybe the ice bitch wasn’t so untouchable after all. The guilt that pricked him was immediately overridden by his fury.
“When did this happen?” She tightened the sash on her robe. Shivered visibly ... maybe purposely to garner his sympathy. Didn’t work.
“Around midnight.” A new sense of determination and outrage kindled inside him. “Did you kill him?” He actually hadn’t considered that until this moment. But they had parted ways hours ago. She could have gone to Drake and ... he had to be out of his mind. He was grasping at straws.
“What?” Her horror looked genuine enough. “I drove straight here like you said. I’ve been here ever since.” She took a breath, looked away a moment as if she had something to hide. “How was he murdered?”
Carson shrugged. Tried to calm his raging fury. Whether he was mad solely at her or at Wainwright or both, Carson couldn’t say. But she was right about one thing, he needed her. “How would I know specifics? I’ve been put on administrative leave.”
More of that atypical emotion flashed across her face before the mask of apathy resumed. “Answer the damned question! Shot? Stabbed? What?”
Carson set his hands on his hips to keep from reaching out and shaking the hell out of her. Besides Stokes, she was the only person who had ever made him want to resort to violence. She was the bane of his existence. Had launched his whole world into chaos. He forced himself to calm down enough to speak rationally. “Someone shot him in the chest.”
She blinked. “In his home?”
The fury burst into uncontrollable flames. “Ding. Ding. Ding. Give the girl a prize.” Why the hell was he standing here answering her questions? He had questions! He had an agenda, and wasting time wasn’t on it.
“Wait.” A frown marred that smooth, flawless complexion. “I don’t understand. Why are you on administrative leave?”
He charged forward the three steps that stood between them. “For fucking you.”
