I anticipate him to be like his son, looming and sneering and in my face, but if not for the three-piece suit, he projects a good old boy’s air, more akin to an affable football coach. Everything about him is easygoing, blasé.
It only raises my hackles further.
Mr. Easton scribbles something on a piece of paper and slides it in front of me. “For your troubles.”
As expected, he’s written a dollar sign and an obscene amount of zeros. Still, I don’t say anything. I don’t dare to move or even breathe too loudly. An invisible clamp has settled around my chest, the building panic fastening it tighter and tighter.
His eyes drop to my hand clutching the arm of the chair, my knuckles white. But that isn’t what catches his attention. It’s the reddish stain on my otherwise milky skin. It’s where Trent had grabbed me, and I suspect a number of other similar marks stain my body, all of which will form into bruises over the next day or so.
There’s no way in hell anybody with half a brain could look at the extent—and more specifically, theplacement—of my injuries and believe they came from me simply tripping in the shower.The back of my neck aches from where Trent had been gripping me, the distinct bruising from his thumb and finger likely discernible.
Either Mr. Easton can read minds, or this is far from his first rodeo, and I’m not sure which thought is more unsettling. “There’s two ways this can go. First, you simply slipped in the shower. Second, my son snuck into the locker room for some alone time with his girlfriend, only to find you going after Ms. Hawthorne, forcing Trent to do what was necessary to get you away from her.”
He can’t be serious.
But the easy smile that accompanies the declaration confirms that, yes, those are his two options.
No.
No one would think I, of all people, would try attacking someone else, much less an Untouchable.
Mr. Easton clasps his hands together in front of himself, looking all the more like that affable football coach, so at odds with his words. “Let’s be honest here, sweetheart. We both know there’s no shortage of women who would throw themselves at Trent if given the chance. So, what version of this do you think people will believe? That my son was fucking the most popular girl in school and you lost your shit, or that he tried raping some random, gangly little misfit? All anyone needs is to see Sienna and you to make up their minds. Not to mention, you don’t have so much as a friend here, let alone a witness. I’m sure if the police ask Olivia, her version of events will far better match what Trent and Sienna have to say.”
He slides the piece of paper to the very edge of the desk, tapping his finger against the written payment once more. When I don’t spare it so much as a glance, he smirks.
“Hate to break it to you, but those bumps and bruises don’t make you a big fish in this pond. You’re swimming with sharks,sweetheart, making you a hindrance at best. We don’t play to win. We annihilate. Just ask your last congressman.”
My blood may as well be laced with nitroglycerin, because that statement chills me to my core.
Our last congressman was Jase’s dad, the same man who was sentenced to five years in prison for campaign violations and fraud amassing in the millions. He pleaded not guilty, but nobody believed him…
I don’t exactly have a good poker face, so Mr. Easton has no problem reading my expression.
“What’s that old phrase? ‘Show me the man, I’ll show you the crime.’” He drums his fingers against the check again, and every last tap may as well be a hammer to a nail. “If you’re willing to play nice, you’ll find I’m quite accommodating. Get on my bad side, girl, and you’ll find yourself in the same boat as Michael Rivers.” He smirks at this. “Or perhaps Charlotte Hinckley is more appropriate. I’m sure you’re aware ofthatcase.”
He doesn’t wait for my response.
Every human being in this hemisphere has heard of her. The “harlot” who seduced a married senator and then tried to blackmail him with a “false rape allegation.”
The floor beneath me tilts further and further, and I don’t think it’s just from the impact to my head.
All too casually, Mr. Easton reaches over and plucks a peppermint candy out of the bowl on the principal’s desk. “Dear old Charlotte graduated at the top of her class, was a renowned beauty queen with a massive social media following, and looks like a goddamn Barbie doll. Her only mistake was ever believing Walker when he told her he had separated from his wife. Everything else she claimed was spot-on. And yet, she’s been reduced to nothing more than a scarlet letter and a late-night punchline. How well do you thinkyou’llfair?”
He doesn’t need me to answer, and the unspoken resolve tells me everything I already know.
Mr. Easton is very well aware of what his son is.
A monster. A monster wearing a handsome mask that blends well into society so long as someone comes to clean up his messes.
But Mr. Easton isn’t just here to tidy up. He facilitates Trent’s actions. Hewelcomesthem.
I dare to say as much, earning me the most bone-chilling smile that even my most vivid nightmares couldn’t conjure.
Because it’s the most honest expression he’s offered me since entering the room. “A word from the wise. Take what you can get and be grateful it didn’t turn out worse. Who knows what skeletons we’ll find in your closet otherwise.”
WhetherIput them there or not.
CHAPTER 32
