Page 96 of Play Dirty

“Out,” I say.

“You haven’t been home,” she says, taking my arm and pulling me inside.

“No,” I say.

Because that mansion isn’t my home. That mansion was Marie Sara’s home. Her and her husband, Chad Thompson. And her teen boy, my half-brother, Chris. And her little girl, Rylee.

And little baby Abbey.

And now, because of my father, they are all dead.

And for some sick, sick reason… I bought that house and now I live in it.

Why the fuck did I buy that house?

How did I even hear about it? Law? Someone else?

No… no, it was an email. It was just a stupid LuxuryHouseHunt.com email. We have a home you might be interested in…

“Jordan!” Augustine snaps.

“What?” I say, snapping out of my introspection.

“Are you even hearing me? Come inside.”

I do, I follow her inside and focus on Alexander, standing in front of the window that overlooks the park and the downtown skyline.

“You have to let us explain,” he says, just as I hear the definitive click of the doors closing.

“Dude, I don’t even know where to start with this shit. I mean…”

“It wasn’t our fault,” Augustine says. “We had to.”

“Wait. What?” And that’s when the feeling comes back. That heavy stone in the pit of my stomach.

“We were going to get that building for you,” Alexander says. “It was just gonna take some time. And that’s why we needed the three weeks, OK? It isn’t what it looks like, I swear, it isn’t.” His words are spilling out too fast as he paces back and forth across the living room space.

“We were just playing along, Jordan,” Augustine says. “We were… we had a plan. And I know it looks bad now, but if you let us explain, you’ll see we had no choice. We had to.”

“What. The fuck. Are you talking about?”

But I already know. Have known this whole time, haven’t I?

They came looking for me only after I brought Ixion home.

“No,” I say, shaking my head at them. “No.”

But it’s a just a reflex to help me process. Or wishful thinking. Or one last attempt to make the food go down and pretend none of this is happening.

“You don’t own that building, do you?”

“You have to let us explain,” Augustine says.

“DO YOU OWN THAT BUILDING?” I scream it.

“He made us, Jordan. You don’t understand. He made us play along and—”

“He made you… he made you… fuck me? Is that what you’re telling me?”