Page 3 of Wicked Brutal

“And that’s all you’re buying.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“I’ll tell you if she’s seeing somebody. That’s it.”

“What about the rest?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

He laughed, which was the wrong move. “You’re seriously getting moral on me now?”

I leaned forward. “No. I’m getting expensive.”

Kaiden smirked. Preston shook his head. “Fine. Whatever. I mostly want to know if she’s available.”

“Then we’re done.”

He stood, and Iz called after him, “Have you considered becoming more attractive?”

Preston turned. “Go fuck yourself, Walsh.”

“I have your mom for that.”

Xander laughed. Preston walked away, and Danny waited until he was out of earshot before he looked at me. “You’re actually doing it?”

“I took the job.”

Kaiden looked toward the doors Preston had disappeared through. “Don’t give him anything he can use against her.”

“And if you find nudes, delete them,” Xander added, picking up his drink.

Iz looked offended. “Why are we assuming our sweet little Ryan would invade a lady’s privacy?” All four of us looked at him, and he smiled. “Right. Stupid question.”

I opened my laptop again. Kaiden nudged my shoe beneath the table. “Seriously.”

I looked at him. “I heard you.” That was enough.

The boyfriend question took forty-three minutes, and there wasn’t one — at least not one Ally had left any trace of. No recurring number that didn’t belong to family. No private account I could connect to her. No suspicious location patterns, no tagged photographs with the same guy showing up over and over in the background. She had Instagram, barely — a few pictures with Bella, one with Penny from sophomore year, Tobias more than anybody. Books, sunsets, a picture of her shoes beside a lake, a birthday cake. Nothing useful.

I could’ve stopped there. Instead I kept looking — partly because Preston had paid me seven hundred dollars and I believed in providing quality service, and mostly because Ally’s lack of information bothered me. Everybody had something. Especially people at Edgewood. Money left trails, parents left trails, friends left trails for you.

Roman O’Toole left enough trails for six people.

I knew Roman. Not well. My father knew him better and had never liked him — Walter Harrington could spend three hours in a room with somebody he hated and stay perfectly civil, but Roman had always gotten the tight jaw and the clipped answers. When I was thirteen I’d asked Dad why, and he’d said, Some men make you check whether your wallet is still there after they shake your hand. That was about as close to gossip as my father got.

Roman’s name brought up exactly what I expected. Politics, businesses, donations, property. Photos from dinners and fundraisers. Articles full of words that said almost nothing.

Then I saw Ally.

She was standing beside Roman in a photograph from a charity gala the previous winter, and I would’ve scrolled right past it if I hadn’t noticed the man on her other side. Victor Tremblay. I knew him too — everyone did. Old money, political connections, mid-fifties, the kind of guy who belonged to every private club in Massachusetts and somehow turned up in photographs with governors from both parties.

His hand was on Ally’s waist. Not her shoulder. Not hovering politely at her back for a photo. His palm sat low against her waist, fingers curved around her side.

I zoomed in. Ally wore a dark green dress, and she wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking at Tremblay’s hand.