Page 39 of Complete Me

“She thinks he did her a favor. He killed Hammond, after all. Hammond was always the monster in her closet.” Smith's throat slid as if he was swallowing down a disgusting memory.

I knew the kind of perversion Georgia Kinkade craved. If Hammond had been the man to twist her, then I could never blame her for wanting him dead.

Somehow, Smith had walked away tonight. He was a smart enough man to get away with murder. If he had come to me in confession, I would have done my level best to help him conceal his involvement. But he had chosen another path, and I couldn't help but ask myself if I would have done the same.

My memories flashed to Clara, and the scent of burnt rubber mixed with rain and oil flooded my nostrils. We'd never been able to prove that the car accident was more than an accident, but after comparing it with several other cases, including the one that claimed Smith's first wife, I had no doubt that foul play was involved.

I could never forget collapsing in prayer over a twisted hunk of metal on a rainy road. Some memories couldn’t be erased, but they could be avenged. I glanced up and realized Smith was watching me with wary eyes.

“Georgia gave me the choice,” he said in a strangled voice, “And it was difficult for me to walk away. I'm giving you that choice now.”

It wasn't a coincidence that he brought a gun. He hadn't done it out of a dramatic need to show and tell about his evening. He was passing the job on to me. It was a show of respect and one I appreciated. I crossed to him and picked up the pistol. Spinning open the chamber, I noted there was only one copper bullet inside.

“It only—” Smith began.

“—takes one,” I finished for him.

One shot, and Oliver Jacobson would be held accountable for the reign of terror he had begun. He thought he could play puppet master, but he never realized I was the one holding all the strings.

I held the gun in my hand, allowing the metal to warm to my touch. “I assume you have ample evidence.”

“Georgia will show you profiles and notes from meetings. All sorts of documentation,” Smith said. “But I met the man before tonight, and I can tell you, he's the one. I should have seen it then, but I was blind. I thought Belle and I were safe.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He filled me in on the particulars of his mother-in-law's new neighbor, and my blood ran cold. The amount of time and effort Jacobson had put into planning this made me question if it would really end with him. He had found Hammond and his network of thugs and spies, and he had utilized them for his own gain. Even a bad guy sometimes grew a conscious. Smith Price was proof of that. I considered the weight of the pistol in my hand, staring at it for a long moment before placing it back on the mantle.

Smith had made a choice, and he did so out of personal duty to himself. I had even less flexibility in that regard. If Jacobson's intent had been to destroy the monarchy, choosing to take his life now might achieve his ends.

Instead, I went to my desk and picked up my mobile. Brexton answered on the first ring. “I want you to bring in Oliver Jacobson now,” I ordered him. “No questions. Not until I see him.”

I hung up the phone without waiting for his response. Then I went to the decanter of bourbon my father kept on the shelf and poured myself a glass. Raising it, I offered some to Smith.

He shook his head. “No thanks,” he said. “I don't drink anymore.”

The cell Brexton had thrown Jacobson into was the sort of thing you expected to see in a movie. Governments like to tell you these places don't exist, but they do. They're for the use of men like me, and we reserve them for the worst kind of traitor.

Oliver Jacobson deserved even less. Not only had he betrayed the will of his country, and those he had been elected to serve, but he had betrayed the safety of my family. He thought I was a man bound by my own duty to British law. He'd soon learn that didn't extend to this place.

Smith had accompanied me against Brexton's wishes, but while my best friend had my interests at heart, he couldn't understand the ties that bound Smith and I together, not in this regard.

Jacobson had come without a fight. Perhaps due to good behavior, someone had bothered to give him a cup of tea. He sat in the dank cell, sipping it slowly as we entered. When he glanced up, he smiled as though we were all old friends meeting at the club. My hands curled into fists, but I did my best to remain in control.

“It's nice to see you again, Price,” he said, acknowledging my companion. Jacobson looked utterly serene. He could have been having his conversation on a street corner. “It takes a little bit more than this to rile me up, I’m afraid.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Smith said flatly.

“Was that you this evening?” Jacobson asked. “At the pub, following me?”

I raised an eyebrow at Price, who shrugged.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” I did, but I kept this thought to myself. Giving Jacobson any information might prove dangerous if things began to go poorly.

“I am supposed to be spending Christmas with your mother-in-law,” Jacobson continued conversationally. Next to me, Smith tensed. “It was disappointing to find out you wouldn't be there with your lovely wife. How is the beautiful Belle?”

“Don't say her name,” Smith growled.

Before I could stop him, he'd lashed out, smashing his fist against the table and knocking over the hot tea.