Page 147 of Mile High Ruin

“It was not.”

She waits.

I know what I’m doing. At least I tell myself I do. If I give her something personal, perhaps she will stop guarding every answer. Perhaps vulnerability will make her trust me enough to tell me something she has forgotten or withheld, something that finally explains how someone gained access to her bag.

That’s the justification.

The truth is that I want her to know me.

I dislike that truth more.

“My father built the first version of what I have now,” I say. “Smuggling, protection, customs officials, transportation routes. He was very good at making money and very bad at being a human being.”

Sloane listens without interrupting.

“He believed fear was the only reliable form of loyalty. With employees, with family, with everyone.”

“And you?”

“I learned early that fear works until somebody decides they have less to lose than you think.”

“So you became nicer?”

I look at her.

She smiles faintly. “I’m capable of humor.”

“I’m still gathering evidence.”

That earns something close to a laugh.

I continue, “I rebuilt most of the organization after he died because too much of what he left depended on chaos. I wanted control.”

“And now you have armed men in the garden.”

“Yes.”

“That’s your version of control?”

“It’s one of them.”

She studies my face. “What happened to him?”

“My father?”

She nods.

“He died.”

“That sounded evasive.”

“It was meant to.”

“Did you kill him?”

The directness surprises me.

“No.”