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She looks more stunned about that news than anything else I’ve said.
I motion for her to start walking to her desk, wait for her to take a seat. The moment she picks up a pen, I leave the room and make sure that the door remains locked. Then I walk down the hallway and join Meredith in front of the main elevator.
“That was good.” She smiles, looking impressed, and a little too happy—like I used to be in the beginning. “I think I can do the same tonight…”
“You’ll have to,” I say. “Just keep your emotions out of it, and stay calm.”
“Do you think she’ll turn herself in after she transfers the money?”
“Not at all.” I tap my phone’s screen to make sure that Trevor is already transferring the money for us. “These type of people never do, Meredith. She’s not going to transfer any money, and in
a few minutes, she’s going to call your father.”
“Why? You just threatened her with a gun and warned her not to.”
“Doesn’t matter, I didn’t shoot.” I trail a finger along her bottom lip. “She’ll do it anyway. Then a certain someone will have to show her and me that this legacy taking business is serious. Well, if she is serious about it, that is.”
Silence.
Within minutes, my cell phone buzzes, and I take a step back to answer it.
“Mr. Leonardo Thatchwood’s office,” I say, changing my voice. “This is Henry—Rachel’s out today. How may I help you this morning?”
“Connect me to his private line at once. It’s an emergency, and I need him. Now.”
“Hold on, please.” I hit the mute button and look at Meredith. “What do you want to do?”
Suddenly livid, she turns around and heads down the hallway with me at her heels. She pulls a silver tin of sleeping gas from her purse and slides it under her aunt’s door. Adjusting the settings on her phone just like I showed her, she lets out a breath.
“Since she can’t follow simple instructions…” she says, waiting until the tell-tale sound of her aunt’s body hitting the floor sounds. “She’ll need to spend the rest of today locked in the back of a trunk until we need her again.”
I smile. “Good girl.”
Meredith
Now
Later that night
I’m standing in the ballroom kitchen in the Chrysler Building, dressed in an oversized black hoodie and jeans. For the past hour and a half, I’ve watched well-dressed men and women dance under the glimmering chandeliers without a care in the world.
They’re all here to celebrate my father’s campaign victory, to bask in his presence as he thanks them for giving him their votes.
They have no idea how corrupt he really is, and I can’t blame them. By following Michael’s instructions on extensive research, I’ve just discovered the truth for myself, and it hurts like hell.
On the outside, Leonardo Thatchwood is a quintessential “rags to riches” story, New York-style: A boy grows up poor, vows never to go hungry again, and slowly buys up small properties—eventually becoming one of the leading real estate tycoons in the city.
At least, that’s how his story is usually printed in the papers, and that’s the shortened summary that appears in all of the party’s “Thank you for Coming” pamphlets tonight.
Underneath that glittering story is the gritty truth, though. The parts of the story he doesn’t want anyone to read.
He didn’t earn any of his wealth; he stole it. A natural-born scammer, he started multiple companies under different names that promised elderly people life insurance. (When they died, he cashed out their savings and never shared a dime of the money with their families) He opened Pay Day loan pop up shops, and charged ridiculous interest. And when those things weren’t enough, he just stole money outright, once going so far as to date a bank teller and robbing her drawer.
He’s always been willing to ruin anything—or anyone, that’s dared to get in his way.
A modern-day Jay Gatsby, he’s lied his way to the top for the first ten years of his career—making investors think he was wealthier than he really was.
He has a long list of secretaries whom he’s fucked and abandoned, paying for their silence with his newfound wealth and moving on to the next, without a care in the world. He told my mother that he’d changed, that he wanted her and only her, but he never did.
And he’s gotten worse.
Ten of the women at this party tonight have graced his bed in the past week, and he’s made it more than clear that he can’t be seen with them in public. That he’ll never be able to offer anything more than sex and the occasional Chanel bag.
Why my aunt would ever waste her time sleeping with him, whenever he’s not with his other mistresses (or why she ever betrayed my mother), is anyone’s guess, but I do finally know why he wanted to have me murdered.
