Page 92 of Velvet Vaughn

Brad didn’t answer. He turned toward the window instead, watching the highway lights blur past, his mouth working around words he apparently had enough sense left not to say.

“Does Renee know?”

Brad’s head snapped around so fast at Leo’s question that the rest of him took a second to catch up. “Know what?”

“About you.”

Brad stared at Leo, then returned his attention to the window. “You think this ends with you dragging me into a car?” He muttered the words at the glass. “You have no idea the kind of people I can call.”

“Then call them,” Anja prompted. “Go ahead. We’ll wait.”

Brad patted one pocket, then the other. He frowned and tried the first one again.

“You took my phone.”

“We did.”

His lips twisted into something aiming for a smirk but too drunk to stick the landing. “Then how am I supposed to call them?”

Anja met his gaze in the mirror. “That does complicate things.”

Remi coughed into his fist.

“You don’t get it.” Brad jabbed a finger toward the front, lost track of who he’d been pointing at, and lowered it. “None of you get it. This whole thing is bigger than you, Leo. Bigger than that stupid firm.”

“Bigger than Vic Shaw?” Leo asked.

Brad stiffened. “What?” The alcohol hadn’t disappeared, but something cut straight through it.

“Vic Shaw,” Leo repeated. “Was he part of whatever this is too? Before you decided he wasn’t useful anymore?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His hands curled into fists against his thighs. Sweat had broken out along his hairline.

Remi reached into his jacket and pulled out a printed photograph, holding it below the dim glow of the overhead light. Brad’s own frightened face stared back at him, caught mid-glance in the rearview mirror of a car running a red light, four blocks from a hotel where a man had supposedly killed himself.

Brad stared at the photograph. His face changed.

“Oh, shit.”

Brad’s stomach heaved.

Remi recoiled so fast his shoulder hit the door. “Absolutely not.”

Brad slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Swallow it,” Remi ordered.

Brad glared at him over his fingers.

“I mean it. I just met you. We are not becoming that close.”

Brad’s Adam’s apple bobbed violently. After several horrible seconds, he lowered his hand.

Remi gave him another few inches of space for insurance.

“You were in Kansas City,” Leo prompted, “at 11:40 on the same night Vic died coincidentally, some four blocks from the hotel. You want to explain that, Brad, or should we?”

The Escalade’s tires hummed against the highway, headlights sweeping past in the opposite lanes. Brad sat frozen against the door, staring at his own face on the piece of paper as though it belonged to a stranger.