Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Even if I send one of your bosses to jail?”
I expect her to get pissed or upset, but she just shakes her head. “Look, I’ve known Ian a lot longer than you have. Ian’s good.”
“Heart of gold and all that?” I say with a smile.
“Yes,” Kate says, her tone dead serious. “Did you know he sets up college scholarships for high school foster kids? Or that he rents out entire theme parks for the younger ones once a year?”
I sit back, a little stunned. “I didn’t.”
“He paid for my master’s in business administration. Even Matt and Kennedy don’t know about that.” She blows out a breath. “I’m worried that you’ve only researched the version of Ian you want to see—the one who’s bought a car he doesn’t need, whose black book’s thicker than the Bible.”
I keep myself from outwardly flinching, but inside, I feel like a jerk. A jerk for assuming that just because Ian makes a ton of money, looks like he does, flirts like he does, that he has no substance.
In some ways, though, knowing the truth makes it worse. After our spontaneous dinner date a week ago, I’d spent way too much time wondering what if.
What if I wasn’t investigating him?
What if he were innocent?
“Ms. Henley . . .” I break off, not sure what I want to say. Not sure of anything anymore.
She gives me a knowing look. “How about you call me Kate, I call you Lara, and you listen very carefully when I tell you Ian’s the last person who’d ever get ahead by cheating. This job is his entire identity—this world, the long hours, the fast pace, the parties, the money, all of it. It’s all he’s ever wanted, and I know he wouldn’t jeopardize it by taking a shortcut. Ever.”
“You care about him,” I say quietly.
Kate shrugs and stands, finishing her drink and tossing it in the trash. “Sure. But more important, I respect him. He’s one of the good ones.” She points a finger. “Put that in your weekly report.”
I feel strangely regretful after she leaves, like the room’s too quiet, my thoughts too loud. I find myself wishing that Kate could be right—that we could be friends after this is over.
An e-mail comes through from Steve, and I half-heartedly open it, figuring it’ll be yet another request for evidence I haven’t found, information that I’m not sure even exists.
The e-mail’s not what I expect.
L-
Did you check social media re: Bradley case?
-S
I set my drink aside and hit “Reply.”
Working on it. Most of my key players aren’t on social media. Been slow going.
His reply’s immediate.
Another tip just came through. Veronica Sperry.
“That’s great, boss. Don’t be cryptic or anything,” I mutter.
I Google her name, straightening a bit when her LinkedIn profile indicates she’s currently a technology consultant but she used to be a senior project manager at J-Conn.
Remembering Steve’s social media prompt, I look her up on Facebook, rolling my eyes a bit when I see that her account has zero privacy settings configured. I don’t get how people can leave every one of their personal photos open to any curious perv—or nosy SEC agent.
Then again, if I looked like Veronica Sperry, I might think differently. The woman’s gorgeous. Long red hair, wide blue eyes, and a teeny-tiny waist.
I click through her photos, which are mostly a collection of pouty selfies and carefully posed nights out with her girl squad.
Then I see it.
Veronica’s dressed to kill in a tight black dress at a glam party, judging from the gold balloons in the background and the glass of champagne in her hand. But it’s not the balloons or the champagne that interest me. It’s the man she’s wrapped around.
I glance at the date of the photo, and my stomach sinks.
The same man who told me last Friday that he didn’t know a single person from J-Conn had his tongue down the throat of Veronica Sperry the same month he sold his J-Conn stock.
Stunned, I slump back in my chair and take a sip of my coffee. But it no longer tastes so sweet.
15
IAN
Week 3: Friday Afternoon
“Dave, I’d do just about anything for you, but I’m not buying the Phillies.”
“But they’re for sale!” my foster father barks into the phone. “And you’ve got money.”
“Not that kind of money,” I say, spinning in my chair and flipping my pen in my fingers.
“They’re pretty bad this year. You could probably get a deal.”
I smile at the hope in his voice. The guy actually thinks I’m in a position to buy his favorite baseball team.
Even if I could afford to buy a damn MLB team (which I can’t), he knows full well I’m a Mets guy now. It’s a point of good-natured contention between us—he’s pissed I didn’t remain loyal to my “home team.”
My stance? The fewer ties between my life in Philadelphia and me the better—Dave, a few charities, and Sabrina being the only exceptions.