Bending forward in the chair, I placed a transcript of a phone conversation over the article of the murdered Illinois woman. “Kelli Nelson. The assistant you raped five years ago. She threatened to file charges. You had her killed.”
No reaction. Not even a flicker in his ratlike eyes.
“How much did you pay the sister to destroy this phone recording?” I gestured to the transcript, the phone call between Kelli and her sister the night Kelli was murdered, depicting the rape and Kelli’s fear of Trent.
She’d explained to her sister in incriminating detail how she knew he was going to kill her. The fact that she’d recorded the conversation supported that. And while the transcript wouldn’t hold up in court, the witness testimony would.
He sighed. “Are you done?”
“Not feeling it yet? Don’t worry. You will.” I covered each of the eight articles with documents the FBI would’ve loved to get their hands on.
The Trenchant accountant who discovered the board’s money laundering. Stabbed. The reporter who was too good at his job, so good he’d uncovered a negotiation between his employer and Chicago’s largest mob family. Shot in the head. And the security guard who was simply at the wrong place, overhearing the wrong conversation. Strangled in bed while sleeping beside his wife.
There were four other murdered assistants, each one prettier than the last, each with witnesses who could vouch for the women’s willing affairs with Trent. Affairs that were cut off when his assistants grew too needy.
I’d bought Kelli Nelson’s phone conversation from her sister. And Benny had hacked countless home computers and private servers belonging to crooked cops who had been paid off. Cops who had been bribed to hide evidence. A lot of evidence had been destroyed, but some nuggets remained tucked away on hard drives. Insurance policies, perhaps?
As he scanned the documents without touching them, I wished my mother’s murder case was included, along with the written confession of her assassin. Just so I could see his reaction. But I couldn’t play that card, couldn’t reveal my true purpose, that I was here for revenge.
My heart thumped painfully against my ribs, my face chilling with fevered anticipation. I wanted revenge so badly. He was sitting right there, and the blade strapped beneath my slacks was so close, sharpened with lethal purpose.
Denying myself such an easy kill, the ultimate kill, fucking hurt. I wanted to bleed this pain, his blood, my memories. God, it would feel so good. Swinging the blade. Sinking it deep into his heart. Watching his life drain. A mind-numbing vibration of an open throttle. But Trent hadn’t worked alone. I wanted to take down all of them.
I slouched low in the chair and sprawled my legs in front of me. “Five dead assistants, Trent?” And those were just the ones I knew about. “You’ve got some powerful connections to make something as repetitive and obvious as serial murders go away.”
He smirked. “You know why conspiracies are so documented, researched, and resourceful?”
I didn’t bother answering. He and I both knew I wasn’t there under the premise of a theory.
Resting his elbows on the scattered papers, he leaned in. “Because they aren’t backed by eye-witnesses. Conspiracies are like religion, boy. When you find something you don't understand, you fixate on an omnipotent being”—he laughed—“then you dig and obsess, regurgitate some official quotes from the Internet, and sell your story to rally supporters to join your cause. Why? Because it makes you feel less delusional, brainwashed, or willfully ignorant.”
“Mm. That’s all very fascinating, Trent, but I’m not interested in selling a story. I want to be a part of it.”
A flinch snapped through his shoulders. Finally, cracking that hollow shell.
“Time for you to retire, old man. You can offer me your job now or after I meet the family. Either way, I’m walking out of here as CEO of Trenchant Media.”
Crimson flushed his cheeks, and his eyes flashed. “You’re out of your fucking mind. You’re a goddamned nobody. A nutjob off the street.”
I tossed a large orange confidential envelope at him, the final hammer dropping on his desk. I waited as he ripped it open, my body buzzing as he read through every paper.
When he finally raised his eyes, shock and fear strained the edges. His mouth opened, closed. Tongue-tied? Definitely dazed.
A heaviness settled in my chest. I expected to feel…lighter, but giving him the documents I’d held close for nineteen years hadn’t changed a damned thing. “Now you know.”
Now he knew my secrets. Well, all but two. He didn’t know I knew who killed my mother. And nothing I gave him linked me to Evader and the underground racing syndicate.
The phone on his desk lit up. He pressed the speaker button, and Alicia’s voice piped through the room. “Sir, Mrs. Anderson and the Baskels are waiting in the board room.”