Ghost sat leaning against the back of his chair, one elbow bent as he gripped the velvet-tufted arm, the other hand raised, knuckles pressed to his lips as he studied the toes of his boots with a deeply disturbed frown. He shook his head. “Collier?Collier. He’s torn to bits about losing Andre.”
“Yeah, but is it grief? Or guilt?”
“Jesus Christ,” Ghost muttered. His eyes came up; they looked black in the gloom. “Where’s Greg?”
“Tango’s keeping an eye on him.”
“Bring him in here.”
Aidan nodded and pushed to his feet, grinding his smoke out in the nearest ashtray.
It felt like a long walk back to the common room, his shoulders roped with dread.“Your VP,”Greg had said before, by the practice fields.“I saw him, plain as day, stab your guy Andre.”
“And the girl he was with, she didn’t see it?”
“The VP was in a hood,”Greg had said.“He came out of the shadows, like, out of nowhere. But he turned to me at the last second, after, and I had a flashlight. I saw his face. The girl never got a good look at him, I’m sure.”
Aidan had wanted to puke his doughnuts up on the grass right there. Instead, he’d invited Greg back to the clubhouse, friendly and not at all suspect. Tango had a way of putting everyone he was around at ease, so Greg doubtless had felt like a guest all this time, and not a captive.
Aidan found them in front of the TV, Tango offering commentary on the episode ofSeinfeldthey were watching, making slow, easy gestures with his hands to accentuate his point. Greg was smiling, but when he glanced at Aidan, the nerves were shining in his eyes.
“Come back here,” Aidan said, nodding toward the chapel. “Dad wants to talk to you.”
“Okay.” Greg looked afraid, but he got to his feet.
Where the Carpathian couldn’t see, Tango asked a silent question, brows raised.
Aidan sighed and gave a fractional headshake in response.
“Just tell him what you told me,” Aidan told Greg as they moved down the hall. “And no fucking around, okay?”
“No, none.”
To a son with no claim to any sort of authority, Ghost possessed an enviable gravitas, a presence larger than his frame, in Aidan’s eyes. When they entered the chapel, Ghost was on his feet, his back to them, peering through the blinds he’d gapped with his fingers, smoke curling from the end of a freshly lit cigarette. He turned at the sound of their footfalls, one of those slow, mob boss turns Aidan didn’t know how to pull off yet.
“It’s Greg, right?”
Greg bobbed his head; his swallow was audible. “Yes, sir.”
“Have a seat.”
Greg fumbled into the nearest chair, clumsy with nerves, and Aidan sat down beside him with more grace.
Ghost took his time coming to his seat, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He turned the velvet-covered dining room chair into a throne, the way he occupied it.“Time,”Maggie had told Aidan.“It takes time to become a true king, baby.”
“Aidan tells me,” Ghost said, his eyes laser-focusing on Greg, “that you saw Andre’s murder.”
“Yes, sir,” Greg said, stuttering a little.
“Walk me through it.”
Greg took a deep breath. According to him, he’d been able to see the party lights from the water. He’d cut the boat’s engine and floated in to shore, letting the current and the aid of a canoe paddle get him to ground. He’d known where the gate was, and that was where he’d headed, slinking along, small and silent, through the cloaking dark that hugged the river. He’d seen Andre and the blonde groupie groping at one another, stumbling, laughing, both clearly drunk. Their voices had been too loud, carrying across the distance. The girl wanted to go down to the water, “walk on the beach” as she put it. Andre told her she was a dumbass for thinking the bank of the Tennessee River was a beach. They’d argued. Greg had crouched along shore, not sure what to do with this unexpected hiccup in his plans.
Finally, Andre had opened the gate; he’d had the key in his pocket and had unlatched the heavy Master lock. Before the couple could get down to the water, a man in a hood had appeared. He’d caught Andre by the shoulder, spun him, stabbed him. Greg remembered the sound of the knife going into him. There’d been a bit of struggle, and the girl had screamed. The assailant had fled, then, as the girl shrieked at him. He’d turned, and Greg had seen his face: Collier.
“So you expect me to believe,” Ghost said, when the tale was finished, “that Collier Hershel murdered his own prospect?”
Greg lifted his chin up out of the collar of his sweatshirt, not defiant, but deciding to be brave. Aidan felt sorry for him, a big squeeze of real sympathy. “It’s what I saw, sir.”
