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Malcolm and me.
Antonio and his wife, not-Mildred.
And finally, the real Mildred herself.
No one’s talking. No one has explained as of yet, but the way Mr. Frederick looks at his sister, you’d think he’d seen a ghost. That, or a mistake.
“You three have ten minutes to make me understand this mess,” Malcolm says calmly, sitting back in his seat, a Desert Eagle and knife within reach atop the table while his eyes remain on the real Mildred. It’s a little unnerving how much the two women look alike, from the bleach-blonde hair to their grating, high-pitched voices. Their clothing is similar, and the way they sit with one leg crossed at the knee and hands in their lap is not a coincidence.
“Antonio hired someone to kill me a little over a year ago, but the marksman failed.” At the sister’s words, there is no outrage or explosive defense from her sibling. His wife, though, is staring daggers at her and biting back whatever retort is on the tip of her tongue.
His fingers are gripping his wife’s, and the strength used to keep them in his grasp makes them turn a purplish red from the pressure.
“Is that true?”
“Yes, Malcolm. I did.” And while I give him credit for not denying, there’s no remorse either. “Mildred knows the reason, too.”
“I see.” There are three files in front of him and he begins to read the one furthest to the left, nodding his head before flipping to the next page. This goes on for a few minutes. He’s reading and the ones across from us wait, two with fear and the third a little smug.
There’s something about the real Mildred Frederick that doesn’t sit right with me, though.
For someone betrayed by her brother and usurped by his wife, she’s cocky, not hurt.
Unafraid. A little taunting. What are you really after here?
“So you see, Malcolm, it’s—”
“Not another word unless spoken to, Ms. Frederick,” I interrupt, letting Asher finish his reading. Her eyes narrow and lips thin; I raise a brow and almost smile at the way she backs down.
He puts the first file down and then picks up the middle, ignoring the group. Malcolm doesn’t see the way Antonio sweats or the way his wife’s lips move in silent prayer.
Instead, he takes his time, reading the paperwork his team gathered after I found a discrepancy in Ms. Frederick’s signature. I’ll give them that it was a good match, but all it takes is one wrong loop to catch someone’s eye. My eye.
Before taking on jobs as a hitman in Colombia, I oversaw the contracts that Alejandro signed with a fine-toothed comb.
It’s a necessity when millions are on the line.
This time, though, when putting down the next folder, he doesn’t pick up the third. Instead, his gaze meets Antonio a second before a shot is fired from his gun. It’s a clean entry and exit with his shirt staining red at the shoulder this time.
“Explain yourself.”
“He thought that—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Mildred.” Malcolm flicks his eyes toward her for a second, stare hard and challenging. “Understood?” She nods, and he goes back to Antonio. “Well, Mr. Frederick? I’m waiting.”
“What she said is true. I did try to kill her for the company, and because of an issue she created two years ago.”
“What issue?” Something in the way he says the words pulls my attention from the idiots across from us. There’s a hint of undisguised irritation mixed with ire I didn’t expect from someone who shows little to no emotion.
“My sister slept with an almost married man and the family was not happy.”
“Hmmm.” That’s all he says before turning to the wife. “What’s your gain in this?”
“He’s my husband and needed help.”
“Nothing else, Delia?”
“No.” She looks at her husband and a tear falls. Not fake or to gain sympathy like before. This time, Delia is showing her emotions without any bullshit attached. “I simply love him and did what I had to.”
