Page 60 of The Dearly Departed

"Wow, thank you so much for your permission. That makes me feel a lot better."

"I came to talk to you that night all those years ago,” he began, and I turned from the window to watch him, my eyes narrowing with equal parts suspicion and interest. "I asked if you wanted to make some money. You turned me down."

"Yes, because your methods of making money usually either involve getting me in trouble with the cops or getting hurt."

He offered a curt nod. "Yeah, that's true … in the past. But now?" He lifted his glass and gave his head a shake. “If you get hurt or in trouble, that’s entirely within your control, son.”

I leaned against the window frame and stared in his direction, watching as he took a sip of a drink in a room that, alone, was worth more than any house I'd ever lived in. I tried to believe he didn't belong in this setting, and yet, in that expensive suit, wearing a shiny gold watch and that diamond-encrusted wedding band, sitting on that couch, he looked like he fit right in.

He'd been conditioned for well over a decade to fit in with this lifestyle. And I just couldn't understand how … and where the hell Leonard had fit into it all.

Oh God, Leonard.

A wave of harrowing despair crashed over me, and I hung my head, thinking about his body, growing cold on the floor. He'd shown me so much love, so much respect and patience and empathy—so, so, so much empathy—and I'd thanked him by leading him to his death.

Somehow, I knew this was all my fault.

Not Shawn's. Not Isaac's.

Mine.

"Abraham, I’d like to—"

A knock at the door served as an abrupt interruption, and I hurried to pull my mask back on as Gerald answered angrily, "What?!"

"Sir." It was the voice of Dean, the guy who had interrupted our conversation outside. The same one who had inspected Leonard’s body downstairs. "We found who was responsible for poisoning that older gentleman."

Gerald turned to look at me with raised brows. "Well?"

"Well, what?" I asked, growing more suspicious and nervous by the second.

"How would you like to meet the old man's killer?"

“Wait. I don’t want—"

“Nah, come on. This’ll be fun.”

Before I could protest again, Gerald was putting his tumbler on the coffee table and standing up. He straightened the hem of his tuxedo jacket, then sauntered over to the door, twisted the lock, and opened it to reveal the man from the terrace, along with three others—two thugs standing on either side of a scrawny guy wearing the waitstaff uniform. The same guy who’d given me a glass of champagne after I entered the house.

A piece of duct tape had been slapped over his mouth. Muffled cries came from behind that strip of tape—incoherent pleas to spare his life, I had no doubt. He shook his head and struggled against the burly guys who flanked him, holding him tightly by the arms, keeping him from going anywhere. The fight he was putting up was a weak one, futile, and the fear in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.

This man knew he was about to die.

I should do something to stop this from happening. I should, at the very least, try. But I did no such thing as I stood back against the window, witnessing the last living moments of a dead man.

"He claims he didn't mean to kill the old man," Dean said, his hands folded at his waist.

"Hmm," Gerald muttered with a nod. "And what do you think, Dean?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder for a moment, raking his scrutinizing gaze over the scrawny guy, then frowned and shook his head.

“I think … whether he intended to or not … he killed a man. And so”—he turned back toward Gerald—“he should pay for that accordingly.”

Gerald clasped his hands behind his back and nodded his approval. “I agree. Wholeheartedly, in fact. An eye for an eye and all that jazz.”

Then he turned around and headed straight toward me. “And I think you should be the one to decide what happens to our little friend here.”

“What?” I asked, cocking my head and flitting my eyes between Gerald and the panicked man in the doorway. “Are you talking to me?”