Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
I raise my eyebrows.
“Um, sorry,” she continues. “Anyway, Brock has been out of it since you gave him a piece of your mind. He’s skipped out on meetings with everyone except like Keenan—”
“That doesn’t sound like Brock at all. Why would he do that?”
“Why do you think?” She smiles and makes a finger gun, aiming it at me.
There’s that sharp stabbing sensation in my gut again.
Oh my God.
Oh. My. God.
If I threw him off somehow and accidentally caused this catastrophe...
I swallow thickly.
“Well, I don’t care how out of it he’s been,” I lie. “I can’t believe he’d ever allow a slipup this bad.”
And if he didn’t allow it, it shouldn’t have happened.
“Fair enough. It’s so weird. Just feels like the same BS we’ve dealt with before, but I have a hard time believing some dude would poison people to win an award. How psycho could he be?”
I wish like mad I had an answer. But I don’t know enough about Apollo Finch or his weird bad blood with Brock.
I also don’t want to agree when the best-case scenario is a lunatic competitor getting people sick.
“He’d have to be pretty whacked out,” I say weakly.
Then I remember how crazy protective Brock got when Finch approached us in Chicago.
He shoved me in the car and basically threatened Finch with an all-out brawl. He also freaked out and demanded I put my whole life on hold for the same reason, didn’t he?
Did he have a deeper reason?
“What are you thinking?” Jenn asks tensely.
“Nothing good. Because on the off chance we’re right—if he’s deranged enough to poison a hundred people—there’s no telling what else he’s capable of.”
26
Damage Control (Brock)
How the fuck did I wind up trapped in a flaming wreck for the second time?
This is worse than the spinning crash to Earth I survived once.
Because this wreck has no eject.
No parachute.
No end.
No mercy.
Everybody and their damn dog who went to that convention is ready to sue. Everyone except Lincoln Burns, I should say, who left a message telling me it wasn’t my fault and I should fight it tooth and nail.
The sad part? He still sounded queasy as hell on voicemail after a whole evening heaving his guts out.
Goddamn.
Legal has blown up my phone so many times this morning there’s a crater where it used to be. I had to shut the damn thing off.
There isn’t much I can do to help.
Not by any conventional means.
I just know I’m going to annihilate Apollo Finch for taking this sick little game too far.
This isn’t just about the reward anymore.
It’s vengeance.
He blames Winthrope for collapsing his marriage, losing his kids, ruining his family.
So far, he’s done a fine job of paying us back in spades.
I’m so done with sorting this out the nice way.
The legal way.
I’m also done pretending I have a path as the CEO. Someone needs to take the fall for this fuckery, and the sooner I land on my sword, the faster the press forgets this shit and buys precious time for my people to come up for air.
I just hate that I’ll disappoint them.
Even if I know I’ll only give my grandparents more grief by staying on and acting like anyone respects a single word I say.
A knock at the door drags my eyes up from my misery.
Keenan enters a second later and clears his throat.
“Report,” I bite off.
“I spent the entire night digging. Here’s what we know—I had the oysters brought in from a fishing boat in Bellingham, but you already knew that. They were kept on ice as standard procedure the whole time. They used the same local delivery outfit they’ve always used once the ship unloaded—”
I’m melting in my seat and he gives me a worried look.
“Go on,” I grind out.
“The supplier is still working like hell to figure out what happened from there. It turns out, the delivery company subcontracted to a smaller outfit since it was a one-time delivery, and the smaller place—”
“Stop,” I belt out.
He pauses, studying me. It must be the absolute fury etched on my face.
“Boss?” he asks.
“I don’t care anymore,” I growl.
“You don’t? I don’t follow. Is this some weird new test?”
I answer him by fishing out a second mug from under my desk and pouring a few fingers of scotch into it plus the mug that’s already there. That’s my new go-to drink since Piper ruined brandy for me forever.
I look at him and push the cup over.
“A little early, don’t you think?”
“Not when the whys can get fucked. It’s over, Mr. Dutton.”
Soon enough, this will be someone else’s problem.
Hopefully, someone with the competence to solve it.
Keenan’s eyes flick to his glass and he takes a whiff, pulling back with his face screwed up. “Whew, that’s heavy stuff. How much have you had today?”
“Since I’m still conscious and mostly coherent, not enough.”
He watches me toss back the drink and pour another round.