Page 86 of House of Cards
Troy is silent until I turn to him, tilting my head.
“Since Zoey didn’t go through the usual onboarding,” Troy says. “Myles wanted to make sure she wasn’t…a threat.”
My knuckles are creaking how I fist my hands. “And what did you find?”
He shrugs, throwing Rich a meaningful look. “Not what Myles was looking for.” When his eyes find mine, an icy dread drags its ragged fingernails down my spine. “But it’s not good, Smith.”
Troy is quiet for so long, I prompt him with a quiet, “Tell me.”
“She owns a diner. Had been living a pretty unremarkable life until a few days ago when she stopped coming to work. Her staff thought she’d taken some personal time, but then the night she came to the Devil’s Luck, her diner burned down.”
I give him an apathetic shrug. But then his words saturate my bristling mind, and I let out a slow breath. “Insurance fraud?”
The twitch of Troy’s mouth shows he’s unimpressed that I leapt to the same conclusion he and Rich already had. He takes a folded paper out of his back pocket, handing it to me.
A vaguely familiar newspaper clipping, something I might have skimmed over during my morning coffee.
And her name, right there in the story.
Owner Zoey Dennen, who inherited the establishment from her mother two years ago, was unavailable for comment. Staff members expressed shock at the incident, with longtime waitress Danika Carmichael noting that Dennen had been unexpectedly absent from work for several days prior to the fire. “She’s never missed a shift before.”
My eyes skip down the column, hunting for more clues.
Police spokesperson Leslie Ross confirmed the department’s arson investigation unit will work alongside the Fire Marshal’s office to determine the cause of the blaze.
“Explains why she was counting cards that night,” Rich says.
I don’t look at him when I snap out an irritated, “Does it?”
When I’m done scanning the article, my gaze moves to Troy for an explanation.
Him I trust.
Rich is a manipulative coke head with more ulterior motives and hidden agendas than a political convention in election season.
“My man’s on it, digging up what he can. Soon as he reports back to me…” Troy’s voice fizzles away beneath a loud buzz.
My eyes keep darting back to the picture above the article. Blackened walls, melted furniture, shattered glass. Graffiti, somehow not damaged by the inferno.
UR. A$$ IS MINE
Because that wall was taggedafterthe fire.
Why?
That’s the fucking question theyshouldbe asking.
I crumple the article in my fist and drop it to the floor, that spray painted phrase playing on repeat inside my head
“You’re wrong, Rich. This isn’t business anymore.”
Rich sniffs at me, leaning back and meshing his hands in his laps, legs still outstretched like he’s at the fucking beach. “It’s…personal?” he supplies, smirking with the other side of his mouth than the scarred side, for a moment looking just like the goddamn Joker.
“I want to know everything you find out about Zoey Dennen,” I tell Troy.
He tilts his head a fraction of an inch. “You could just ask her.”
Rich snorts. “Our clients don’t care about sob stories. And I sure as fuck don’t either. But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on the silverware whenever she’s around.”
