Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“Motherfucker,” I growl through gritted teeth, bringing the machete down on his mahogany desk. It chops into the wood with a satisfying thunk. I raise the knife again and again and again in a blur of blades, frenzied in my fury until I stand over it shoulders heaving, sweating.
Sobbing.
“Why are you crying?” I scream, tears running in rivulets down my hot cheeks. “You stupid bitch! For him? Dry your fucking tears.”
The desk lies at my feet in a heap of broken wood, but it’s not enough. I rush over to his pool table and use the machete to chop into the green felt. I can’t do enough damage, so I pick up the balls and hurl them into the wall, leaving dents and holes. One flies on a wild trajectory to the window, shattering the glass.
Something about the shards of glass on the floor feels right. Feels like the way I am inside. Large, sharp pieces of myself on the floor beyond repair.
I need more glass.
My gaze falls on Edward’s most prized possession, the signed, framed Larry Bird jersey. Destroying that would be like slicing his jugular vein. I charge toward it, leaping over the rubble of his desk and swinging my machete into the glass frame. It shatters, shards flying all around me. Heedless of the danger, I reach into the frame and yank out the jersey, spreading it on the floor and tearing into it with my knife. For three generations, the women of my family wielded this knife. The machete is not just a line of steel, but a lineage of it. I use it now to cut down the insecurities, the shame, the hurt that will eat me alive if I let them.
Finally spent, clothes soaked through with perspiration, throat raw from screams and sobs, hair tangled around my shoulders and down my back, I collapse on the floor and sit with my back to the wall, knees pulled up. During the adrenaline-fueled rampage, I didn’t notice the pain, but as soon as I sit, I assess my throbbing hand with a shard of glass buried in the soft flesh of my palm. I jerk it out and toss it onto the shredded jersey at my side. Strips of Celtics-green cloth litter the floor, mixed with glass and wood and plaster. Grim satisfaction fills me at the ruined space Edward used to deem sacred.
I push to my feet, but a sliver of silver glinting in the debris gives me pause. Rolling my hand into the hem of my T-shirt to stop the flow of blood, I reach down to pick through the wood and find the silver. It’s a tiny rectangle of metal attached somehow, maybe glued, to the collar of the Celtics jersey. Or what’s left of it.
A flash drive.
I stare at it for long seconds, afraid to hope it holds any significance.
It could be nothing.
Or it could be exactly what I need.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JUDAH
Where’s my money, Cross?”
There’s still no easy answer to Brett Callahan’s question, no way to know how much Edward embezzled from the company or where most of that money is stashed. We need to strengthen our case, or this asshole could end up getting a slap on the wrist, and we still won’t know where the money is.
“As you know, it’s in the FBI’s hands now, but based on the trail my team was able to establish,” I answer, looking down the length of the table, “we’ve traced about three million and recovered about two million of that. Without account numbers and a reliable map of his transactions, I can’t be sure.”
“So your best estimate is that we have recovered maybe a third of what he’s taken,” Delores says. “But most likely less than that.”
“I would say that’s a fair assessment.” I nod. “I still think we’re missing something. Or rather someone.”
“Are you saying you think another CalPot employee,” Brett starts, his expression darkening, “is part of this? That we have a thief still on our payroll?”
“I can’t say definitely,” I admit. “It’s an instinct.”
“Your instincts have gotten us this far,” Delores says. “I know you’ve got that fancy degree, but I think that gut of yours is the best thing you have going for you.”
“It’ll take more than my gut to get that money back.” I lock my fingers behind my head. “We need a break.”
Or a miracle.
“Fuck instinct,” Dick says, seated across from me. “Have we put more pressure on the wife? Is everyone on this team taken by a pretty smile and a great ass? That’s where we should be applying pressure. I’d bet my next paycheck Soledad’s in on it.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer.” I sit forward and rest my elbows on the conference room table, tenting my fingers and looking dead in his eyes. “Donation to my favorite cause?”