‘Yeah, and they’re all obtuse,’ he comments dryly. ‘I told him fuck all. What about you?’
‘I spoke to him through the gate intercom. I told him I wasn’t well enough for visitors.’
‘Good call. I bet he loved that.’
‘Ben didn’t hit me with a crowbar,’ I assert, knowing Rhett’s mind as I do.
‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ he mutters. Then he adds, ‘Your bike was found.’
‘What?’ I wince, a pain splitting my head as I turn it too quickly, pressing my fingers to my temples. I’d much rather talk about my motorcycle than my cousin. ‘The Ducati? From March?’
‘Unless you’ve lost another motorbike I don’t know about.’
‘Where was it found?’
‘In the same state at the back of a chop shop. It seems someone decided the Ducati was a little too pretty to break up. It had been resprayed, a pretty good job, by all accounts.
‘I’m delighted,’ I answer deadpan, expecting him to get quicker to the pertinent points.
‘The plates have been swapped, and it’s ready to go.’
‘Ready to go where?’
‘Wherever they offload it, I suppose.’
‘You mean to say it’s been found but not recovered?’
‘I know it was your favourite toy for all of five minutes, but you got the insurance money for it, right?’
‘That’s not the point.’ And, yes, it was a new toy and one I liked a lot. But that’s not what this is about. ‘I’m not in the habit of letting people steal from me.’ It’s usually the other way around. Not that I’m a common thief. More an uncommon one. In fact, a chop-shop is an apt analogy for how I do business.
‘Consider it the price of information.’ The investigator had set up a meeting with the head honcho crim. But if you’re not interested . . .’ He allows his words to trail off, like a carrot dangling from a piece of string.
‘I told you, I no longer care.’
‘But this has nothing to do with Rose,’ he says with such gravitas that my mind ceases to whirr. ‘Two accidents in five months, or two attempts on your life? You already know which my money is on.’
‘Tell me,’ I demand. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘The owner of the shop isn’t your run-of-the-mill criminal. He’s not some thug for hire and is mixed up in some pretty heavy shit.’
‘I don’t give a fuck who he is or what he does. What I want to know is what happened.’ Has someone tried to murder me twice?
‘In which case, you don’t want to put the investigation on ice, right?’
I narrow my gaze at some cost.
‘It doesn’t have to be about her. Or it might. But do you really want to leave it to a third successful time to find out?’
‘Bring me the information. All of it.’ Better it’s in my hands than anywhere else.
‘That’s more like the twisty fucker I know.’
I shrug off his words. Even that hurts today. I’m left to ponder my decision for the rest of the afternoon, and though I know Rose has nothing to do with any of this intrigue, the echo of Rhett’s voice takes up space in my consciousness.
No one tried to kill you before she came into your life.
You still don’t know how she came to be in the will.
The fact that she found you that night could mean she’s in on the whole thing.
It’s all bullshit of course. And I can see he barely believes it himself, but I understand his reservations, because he doesn’t know Rose like I do.
39
Rose
The days pass and as the doctor suggested, Remy’s health improves steadily. Headaches lessen, dizzy spells dissipate, and the lethargy he suffered from seems to disappear almost overnight. Which means he’s back to work and no longer complaining about me doing the same.
Honestly, I did get his point. The company pays my salary, and he owns the company, so in effect, he pays me. But that doesn’t mean he gets to say where I’ll spend my days. There are a whole host of managers between him and me. Besides, I have colleagues to think about. Even if one of those colleagues would dump me in a heartbeat should Remy suddenly decide he prefers dick.
But things at work are good. It seems Olga has decided to stop being a mega-bitch to me, which certainly makes the days more pleasant. As for the accident itself, Remy remembers little about it, and the couple of attempts I’ve made to discuss it with Everett have fallen on deaf ears. I thought we’d reached a kind of understanding in the hospital, but I guess not because he still insists on being a pain in my ass every time I see him.
It’s a little after seven when my phone rings. I’m expecting Remy home around now and wonder if it’s him as I hop down from my stool and hurry across the kitchen, swiping it from the countertop next to the fridge.