Digging a Hole Page 11

  “Really? What a small world! But that’s not my husband. He’s my brother-in-law—I live with him.”

  My mouth cracks open. “I could swear I jogged by and saw you two together,” I lie.

  “Oh God no.” She grimaces. “Sam is like a brother to me, and I’m engaged to my high school sweetheart. We’re getting married as soon as I graduate next month.”

  Sam? Who the hell is Sam?

  She adds, “Logan, my fiancé, is actually on the east coast right now finishing his last semester of college. He’ll be home right after finals.”

  Now I’m seriously confused. So Sam is…Brooks? Nick Brooks?

  “Well, wow! Congrats. And excuse me for being nosy, but who’s that adorable little girl?”

  Her eyes fill with a forced neutrality. “My niece, Joy. I help Sam take care of her during the week ever since my sister died two years ago.”

  I want to cover my mouth, but I’m not supposed to know this woman or Brooks. Or…Sam? Crap. He’s been lying about everything, not to mention hiding the fact he has a daughter and is a widower. My mind jumps to the easiest conclusion: the pain is too much and he’d rather not have people gossiping behind his back or saying anything to remind him of his deceased wife. I can’t hold it against him, frankly. Making a career in the corporate world is tough enough. Having customers or coworkers pitying you or seeing you as “that poor man” would not help. My only question is, how did he get such a high-level job under a fake name? I mean, it’s apples and oranges compared to me. I’m an intern, a temporary employee who’s yet to be paid. Execs have to go through background checks, drug tests, and credit reports. I won’t lie. It’s suspicious.

  I squeeze her arm and offer my sincerest condolences. “I am so sorry for your loss—umm…what’s your name?”

  “Erin.”

  “Erin,” I repeat. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. And again, I’m sorry about your sister.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate that. Maybe you’ll come by sometime when you’re in the neighborhood? You can meet Sam. He’s really sweet. The best, actually. And Joy, his daughter, is incredible. Do you have kids?”

  Is she scoping me out for a fix-up?

  “Nope. No kids.” In fact, I’ve just recently graduated from childhood myself. This is the first normal, adult conversation I’ve ever had with a stranger.

  “Well, Sam is only home late at night because of work, but he’s usually around on the weekends.” She shrugs. “If you want to stop by.”

  “Sure. Next time I visit my cousin.”

  “I hope you will.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “Nice to meet you…?”

  It’s a split-second decision, but using my fake name doesn’t feel right for two reasons: One, she’s super nice and it feels wrong to lie again. Two, if Brooks is living a double life, then surely I’m not at risk of exposure on his account.

  “Georgie,” I say. “See you around.”

  “Hope so!” She bounces down the hall to the exit.

  Once she’s gone, it sinks in. Something strange is going on, and I have to go see Brooks. Or Sam? Or whatever the hell his name is, because without knowing the full story, how can I possibly fight to have him reinstated? The fucked-up piece of this is that part of me thinks maybe that’s a bad idea. It certainly would avoid a bigger mess down the road in terms of liabilities for PVP.

  I let out a breath and scrub my hands over my face. I never imagined that my horrible, hot boss would split me right down the middle, challenging my every thought, and making me question my own heart. I hate him, but I want him. I want him, but I never want to see him again. I never want to see him again, but I miss him. He’s the worst, the best, and the hottest piece of work I’ve ever met. Yet, when it comes down to it, none of these glaring contradictions seem to override my gut, which is urging me closer.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Hey! Sam! Open up. It’s me.” I pound on the door of his Houston Tower condo in the early afternoon on Thursday, hoping he’ll be home.

  In my head, it’s all planned out: I’ll ask questions to test his honesty. I’ll figure out which side of me has misjudged him—the side that wants to trust or the side that wants to dig a grave and bury him in it.

  At this point, I’m equally torn because I can’t deny what I feel. He’s changed my life, and regardless of the how, I’m grateful. Yet I’m loyal to my family and to myself. As a woman, I cannot accept or condone his offensive behavior. Yet I’m here. Standing at his door, willing to hear him out. Why would this man, a widower and father of a beautiful little girl, conceal his life?

  “Brooks! Open the hell up or, so help me God, I will punch you in the face!”

  There’s no reply.

  “Fine!” I yell. “But you grabbed my tit! And in my book, that means I’m entitled to a few answers, so if you won’t open this door and face me, then you’re not only a greedy fondler, but a second-rate douche! That’s right! A knockoff vaginal cleanser from Dollar Fanny! Not even fit to stand beside the respectable douches found in CVS!”

  “Wow. Are you done yet?” Brooks, who’s standing behind me, crosses his meaty arms.

  I drop my furiously door-knocking hand. “Where did you come from?”

  He points over his shoulder. “From the non-crazy-person aisle just over there.”

  “Funny.”

  “What are you doing here, Sydney?”

  I snarl with my eyes. “What do you think, Sam?”

  “So you know.” He exhales with a whoosh. “I figured this was coming.”

  I point toward his door. “You gonna let me in now, or would you prefer I rant some more in the hallway?”

  He walks toward the door, inserts the key, and pushes. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” I shove past him and proceed to his living room, a light gray and dark brown themed space with modernist, army green furniture. Looks like a chic lounge for the Special Forces.

  “Someone loves his military hues,” I comment.

  Brooks shuts the door behind me. His wide shoulders stretch out his plain blue tee, making him look fiercely powerful. His black shorts have just enough tightness to accentuate his muscular thighs. He looks extra ripped today and insanely tense, like a man about to blow a gasket.

  “Did you just work out? Because you look like you could use some more.”

  He frowns. “Why are you here, Sydney?”

  “I think we covered that already, Sam.”

  He gestures toward his dark green couch. “Take a seat.”

  I nod and do just that. “So?”

  He sits across from me in the armchair and leans back, manspreading his legs and taking up space with his large body.

  I force myself to ignore what looking at him does to me.

  “Well, what do you want to know?” he asks.

  “Start with the easy stuff.”

  “None of it’s easy.”

  I nod. “Okay, then start anywhere you’d like.”

  “I notice your shyness isn’t an issue any longer. Why don’t we start there?”

  Huh? “Not sure what you mean.”

  He leans forward, planting his strong arms on his thighs. “It was all an act, wasn’t it?”

  “What? No.” I pause for a moment, trying to find my bearings in this conversation. I don’t succeed. “I’m not the one who’s pretending to be someone else.” Oh, wait. That’s not exactly true. Either way, “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? The truth.”

  “Why don’t you tell me how you managed to botch up six months of undercover work when I was one week away from having all the evidence I needed to put those fucking monsters away.”

  Errr…Paging diaper. Paging diaper. Please pick up the white courtesy phone. ’Cause I’m going to pee myself.

  “I’m so-sorry,” I stutter. “Did you just say…undercover?”

  He narrows those silvery gray eyes at me. “Cut the crap, Sydney. I don’t have time for this and neith
er do you. Because you’re going to fix this.”

  My mouth kind of flaps, but no sound comes out.

  He goes on, “I have everything I need to bring PVP’s president up on racketeering, extortion, illegal price fixing, and a dozen other antitrust laws. What I don’t have is proof of involvement of the Walton Holdings executives. And you, Sydney, are going to help me get it.”

  My mind does this horrible whipping motion where I feel like I’m in the grasp of a giant who’s thumping my body between two boulders. Thump. Ow. Thump. Ow.

  Henry. He’s going after Henry. And Elle! “But what did they do?”

  “They killed my wife.”

  “What?” I jerk forward on the sofa.

  “Let me paint the picture for you, Sydney. Those greedy pieces of shit created a market shortage of their cancer drugs in order to drive up the price of a medicine my wife needed and couldn’t afford, and the insurance company wouldn’t pay for. Meanwhile, they are selling that same medicine on the black market to the highest bidders.”

  This is why PVP’s profits have been growing hand over fist. They pretended there was less medicine available to max out their profit in the market, and then sold the rest to the wealthy. At least, that’s what Brooks is saying.

  He continues, “All they had to do was play fair and release the supply. They still would’ve made a profit and saved thousands of lives, my wife being one of them.”

  I’m horrified. Just…horrified. “I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Brooks—I mean, Sam. I truly am. But I don’t think the Waltons had anything to do with it.”

  “Chester Walton was notorious for being closely involved with all aspects of operations. No one so much as sneezed at one of his companies without his approval.”

  That’s actually true. It’s why Elle and Henry had to jump through so many legal hoops and we were all left scrambling—still are—to manage this empire. My father structured everything in such a way that executives could only make tactical decisions. Big contracts, big payments, any strategic decisions went through him. I think it’s why he went nuts. All that stress.

  Sam continues, “And now there’s strong evidence to suggest that Henry Walton is following in his father’s same greedy footsteps because nothing’s changed. They’re still selling their drugs to what essentially amounts to pharmacies for the rich.”

  I know Henry would never do such a thing. Elle’s mother is currently being treated for cancer with one of those PVP medicines, though I’m not sure it’s the same one. Either way, neither of them would put profits over people’s lives, and Elle has personally been trying to make our drugs available to anyone who needs them.

  This is probably an opportune moment for me to tell Nick—Sam—that he’s barking up the wrong tree. But then he’s going to ask how I know, and revealing that I’m Georgie Walton will put me in the enemy’s camp. He’ll hate me, which breaks my heart. I don’t want that, but I can see it’s personal for Sam. The rage in his eyes means he won’t listen to reason.

  I sigh, feeling more torn than ever. He deserves his justice if what he says is true about Craigson—PVP’s president—even if I know the scandal won’t be good for my family. But I can’t help him go after Elle and Henry.

  And maybe I can’t go lying to him anymore either. This has all gotten out of control.

  I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

  “Now, since you’ve managed to figure out who I am, and managed to get me fired—”

  “You got yourself fired,” I point out.

  “I was only trying to help. What was I supposed to do? Let you expose yourself on the terrace?”

  I blink. “You had a jacket. You could’ve put that on me.”

  “Fine. I reacted quickly and wasn’t thinking. Not to mention you’d just kissed me and…” He throws his hands in the air, followed by a slow inhale. “I was trying,” he says with restraint, “to do the right thing. Just like I am now. Which is why you’re going to help us get into the Waltons’ secure email server.”

  “Me? I don’t know anything about hacking, and you won’t find—”

  “You hacked into my bank account, which is not only a felony, but another reason to do as I’m asking. Quietly.”

  I narrow my eyes. Oh, I see where he’s going with this. Of course, it wasn’t me who made his money disappear. It was Robbie, my friend from my computer sciences class, and I’m not about to rat him out.

  I cross my arms. “Then send me to jail, Mr. Policeman.”

  “I’m FBI, not the police.” He points to his wallet, which is sitting on the glass coffee table. “Go ahead; look inside.”

  I stretch out my shaky hand and look inside. The clear little window has an FBI ID with a picture of him on it.

  I set the wallet back on the coffee table and slide back on the couch. “I can’t believe this.”

  “You can. Just like you can believe I’ll have you thrown in prison if you don’t do what I’m asking, Sydney.”

  Wow. I just didn’t think it was possible for Brooks to be a bigger a-hole. But, in his defense, he did warn me. Several times.

  “Sorry,” I say flippantly. “I’m immune to your assholiness now, so you can’t intimidate me.”

  He groans. “Sydney, why are you making this so hard?”

  I shrug. And then I shrug again just to irritate him.

  “Stop that,” he says.

  I shrug once more.

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

  This time, I add a spiteful smile to my shrug.

  “All right,” he says. “But know that because of your interference, some very bad people who killed my wife, the mother of my child, will likely get a slap on the wrist and nothing more. This is on you.”

  I can’t shrug flippantly this time. It’s too sad and the hurt in his eyes is too real.

  “I’m sorry about your wife. I really am.” It almost brings me to tears thinking about it. If those drugs could have saved her life, I can’t blame him one little bit for how he feels.

  “As am I.” He nods stoically at the floor. “Well, I suggest you stay away from PVP tomorrow. It’s going to be messy.”

  It’s not lost on me that despite everything he’s just said, he’s still trying to protect me. My only question is why?

  “So you’re going to arrest Craigson. Then what?” I ask.

  “Then we go after the other executives, and Henry and Elle Walton.”

  My mouth drops. “Didn’t you just say that you don’t have any evidence?”

  “I said we don’t have strong evidence. But we’ll still do our best to get a conviction.”

  Arrest Henry and Elle? Ohmygod. It doesn’t matter if they’re not convicted of any wrongdoing, the arrest alone will destroy us. Not to mention it will ruin Henry’s dream of the NFL. They tend to stay away from bad PR when possible. Oh no. And Elle is pregnant. She can’t go to jail.

  “Okay. I’ll help,” I say.

  He gives me a suspicious look. “Why the change of heart?”

  “Well, if they’re guilty, as you say, then they should pay.” But really I’m hoping I’ll find evidence to prove Henry or Elle were lied to by PVP execs and that they are completely innocent. My stepping in is the only shot I have at getting Henry and Elle off the hook.

  “Glad to hear you’re on board,” Sam says.

  He’s glad because he’s unaware that nervous Nelly here is about to have a panic attack.

  Brooks is a fucking FBI agent. And he’s after my family. And—“Where’s your bathroom?”

  “Errr…down the hall. First door on the left.” He points over his shoulder. “You all right?”

  I make a run for it and get to the bathroom right before the big stomach cramp kicks in. I’m light-headed and my lungs feel like lead weights.

  Oh boy. FBI. FBI. How the hell is this happening? I hang my head over the white porcelain sink, trying to breathe away the panic attack.

  “Sydney? Are you sick?” Sam says, stan
ding outside the door.

  Panting, I run the cold water and start splashing it on my face. “I’m okay! Be out in a minute.”

  Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. He’s after Henry and Elle. And it’s up to me to stop him? What the hell are you thinking, universe!

  Several minutes pass and so does the noxious wave in my stomach. When I stagger out, Sam is leaning against the wall right outside the bathroom door. His bulky arms are crossed over his broad chest. He looks even tenser than before, like a protective pit bull standing guard.

  “You all right?” he asks with an unexpected hint of tenderness in his deep voice.

  I shake my head no.

  “Don’t worry,” he says softly. “This will all be over soon, and then you can go on with your life.”

  Go on with my life. It sounds like he’s really saying, “You can forget you ever met me.” So was any affection towards me an act, a means to an end, to punish some very bad people in the name of his wife?

  Dammit. I so want to hate this man, but once again, I find myself unable to. I genuinely sympathize with him.

  “So what’s next, Mr. Brooks?” I ask with a sigh.

  “McDaniel,” he says. “My name is Sam McDaniel.”

  I stare into those hypnotic eyes. “The name suits you.” The hardness and determination finally make sense. Because Nick Brooks was an asshole. Sam McDaniel is a man with an ax to grind who clearly loved his wife. It’s hardened him, and screw me, but I think his loyalty toward her only makes him more attractive.

  Are you out of your mind, Georgie? He wants to put your family in jail. He’s not your friend. He’s the enemy. More importantly, now I’m sure he could never want me. I’m a Walton.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  On Friday morning, as I’m poking the elevator button in the lobby, it quickly becomes apparent that I have dug myself into a deep, deep hole. What am I doing?

  Brooks—I mean, Sam—wants me to log in to the system and hack into my corporate headquarters’ server, find the secure server that’s got some weird name, and then download a bunch of email folders. I’m fairly sure that what I’m doing is illegal, even for the FBI. Not that I know squat about squat when it comes to the law, but I do believe a warrant is required anytime someone’s privacy is invaded.