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“That’s what I thought.” I returned the gun to the holster in the small of my back, disappointed he didn’t give me a reason to use it on him.
Eduard snorted and shook his head. “Viktor is going to be so pissed.”
I ran a hand through the longer part of my hair, pushing it back into place. Pissed was an understatement. Viktor brought me in so this bullshitdidn’thappen, so he got what he wanted out of that fucking vault and kept his idiot nephew in line. And now look.
I told him I didn’t do bank robberies. They were messy and chaotic and prone to going to hell, like this one did. The fact Yuri was the mastermind behind it didn’t help. Why he thought he could make the leap from running girls and drugs to bank robbery was beyond me, but this was the first and last time I’d ever pull a job with him.
Now my ass was on the line thanks to Igor’s shitty information. If I didn’t find a way to make up for the mistake, we’d all face the firing squad.
Eduard, meanwhile, rifled through his backpack, sorting the stolen goods into different piles; car keys, cell phones, wallets. He flipped through the wallets, taking whatever cash he found and tossing it into a pile separate from the credit cards and IDs. “Shit, Sasha.” He slapped my bicep and shoved a wallet under my nose. “Look!”
“What?” I made a face and snatched the wallet out of his hand, reading the name on the driver’s license.
Roan Sinclair.
It was the kid Yuri tried to kidnap — the one who knew about the key.
“Sinclair...” My lips pursed as names cycled through my head. Men I’d killed, men I’d tortured, men I’d stalked. Men like Phillip Sinclair, the one who, for all intents and purposes, owned Northern Illinois Bank & Trust.
Eduard’s eyes lit up and he nodded, a smile stretching across his face.
Sliding the license out, I stared at the tiny picture for a moment. Roan Sinclair — blond and blue-eyed, with a smile that undoubtedly got him whatever he wanted. A little ray of sunshine if I ever saw one. The kid’s address was the same as his father’s but after all of the surveillance I did on the mansion, I knew he didn’t live there.
Digging through the rest of his wallet yielded little insight. A few credit cards, receipts for a coffee shop in a town I’d never heard of, a Chicago transit card. There wasn’t anything remarkable until I found a student ID for Braeburn University.
Perfect.
“Get me everything you can on Roan Sinclair and Braeburn University,” I said, handing the wallet back to Eduard. “We might be able to salvage this fuck up after all.”
3
Roan
The hairon the back of my neck stood up.
A knot formed in the pit of my stomach.
I was being followed. I was sure of it.
Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I stopped on the sidewalk, looking for any sign to confirm my suspicion. The dark street was still and quiet. A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, the scent of lilacs and cigarette smoke wafting by.
There was no one behind me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched.
After the robbery, I went back to school, like normal. I went to class, like normal. I even went to the stupid therapy appointment my mother insisted on. Needless to say, it didn’t really help. I constantly had moments like this, where I would have bet money someone was watching me. There were times I swore I saw those pale blue eyes in the middle of a crowd. PTSD, the shrink said, and threw a prescription for benzos at me.
Mom told me I had to ‘reclaim my power,’ with zero input on how to actually do that. She meant well, but sticking a crystal on my forehead and meditating wasn’t going to reclaim shit.
And my father? I hadn’t talked to him since he stormed out of his office that day. He didn’t bother checking in after his precious bank was robbed. According to Joyce, he wasverybusy with the investigators and she assured he’d be in touch soon. Ever the optimist.
Quickening my steps, I dug my keys out of my pocket.
I hated this feeling. I’d been on edge ever since I woke up to paramedics poking and prodding me. They had to actually stitch the gash in my head where that asshole hit me with his gun. I mean, I suppose I should have been grateful he didn’t shoot me. But Jesus. I think I’d had a continual headache thanks to him. Between my senior showcase and actually graduating, pounding headaches and paranoia was more stress I didnotneed.
Thankfully the showcase was a breeze. The music majors spent a week in Chicago rehearsing before ultimately performing for a group of agents, producers, and other industry professionals. I had a collection of business cards on my desk and a meeting already lined up with one of the theater managers downtown. I was on Cloud Nine, except Georgetown and my father loomed on the horizon like a storm blowing in.
One year, that’s all I wanted. One year to see if I could make music a viable career. If it didn’t work, I’d resign myself to the cold, calculating world of finance and take my place at NIB&T like a good little Sinclair. But he couldn’t even give me that.
Shoving the key in my front door, I turned the lock and reached for the handle.
