The Knight (Endgame #2)(11)

My throat constricts. “Can’t you find someone else to torture?”

“No one nearly as pretty. Besides, my presence has some advantages.”

“My very own supply of fire and brimstone?”

“People are more inclined to tell the truth when I’m in the room. My reputation for dealing with liars and cheats is somewhat brutal.” He leans forward, his eyes reflecting sunlight. “All of it true, I’m afraid.”

I’m living proof of that, the fallout from my father’s decision to steal. “Be careful or I might think you’re actually being nice to me.”

A short laugh. “Not a chance. It will be my pleasure to see Landon Moore break. And even sweeter to watch you break, too. A show I can’t pass up.”

Any warm, fuzzy feelings evaporate. I lean back in the seat, arms crossed. “Fine.”

He nods toward the sideboard, where a white paper box sits on the wood inlay. “There’s breakfast if you’re hungry.”

I want to tell him exactly where to shove his food. Except my stomach chooses that moment to growl, squeezing as if to emphasize its emptiness. And when I peek under the flap, the steaming buttermilk waffles look too good to pass up. I’d rather believe that he’s being nice with the limo ride and the food. Maybe then it would feel less like I’m being fattened up for the slaughter.





Chapter Seven





Uncle Landon works in a row of historic houses that have been converted to exclusive office space. It takes both a large monthly fee and personal connections to score a lease here. A wooden sign nestled in a pile of heart bougainvillea proclaims the office of Landon Moore, Financial Advisor. He’s been a family friend since before I was born. A trusted confidant. And the executor of my trust.

I climb the stone steps and knock on the stately door. He normally operates by appointment only, but the St. James family has never needed them. And he hasn’t answered any of my calls from the pay phone on the corner since I got to the Rose and Crown.

Of course I dread seeing him again. The last time we met was at my virginity auction. That will be the most embarrassing part of this conversation, especially with Gabriel Miller in tow, an amused spectator. But not the most important part.

There’s a sound behind the door. I imagine Uncle Landon peeking through the peephole, weighing his options. He might just ignore me, and I’ll have to come back another day.

But the door opens, revealing the man who got me my first bike, the man I viewed as a family member. The man who offered to marry me because I look like my mother.

“Avery,” he says, sounding tired. His face looks drawn, hair askew. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk. They took my house.”

He waves a hand like it doesn’t matter, gesturing to Gabriel behind me. “And I see he isn’t letting you out of his sight. I suppose I can’t blame him after the obscene amount he paid.”

Then Uncle Landon doesn’t know that Gabriel sent me away after taking my virginity. And I see no reason to set him straight. It’s as good an excuse as any for Gabriel to be here.

I step into the living room that’s been converted to a small waiting area. And realize the lights are off. The desk is empty. “Where’s Patricia?”

Patricia has been his secretary for as long as I can remember. When my dad used to bring me, I’d wait on the couch with a Highlights magazine. Patricia would help me with the hidden pictures.

Uncle Landon shakes his head, waving his hand again as if swatting away a fly. “She’s gone. Not important.”

I glance back, but Gabriel has a blank expression. When we reach Uncle Landon’s office I know something is very wrong. Normally he’s meticulous, every stack of paper perfectly aligned, every book in its proper shelf. But now the office is in disarray, books turned over and laddered high, a dark spill of coffee soaking into someone’s tax returns.

“Uncle Landon, what’s going on?”

He mutters something about housecleaning. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’ve been calling you.” Furtive trips to the phone booth on the corner, frantic messages into an answering machine that probably hasn’t been checked. “You said the house would be safe.”

He falls into his chair, looking weary and ten years older than he had at the auction, head in his hand. “I’m sorry, Helen. I know you loved the house.”

Alarm strums through me. “Helen was my mother.”

Cloudy eyes look through me. “I failed you, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“What did you do, Uncle Landon? Why did I lose the house?”

Gabriel steps from the shadows. His palm hits the square foot of exposed desk, the sound startling. “Tell her, Moore. She needs to know. I’m sure she doesn’t want this public any more than you do.”

Uncle Landon focuses on me, regret darkening his eyes. “I got into trouble, my girl. The market crash. Bad investments. My clients, some of them are powerful. They would have come after me if I didn’t lessen the blow to their portfolios.”

Dread clenches my stomach. “Is that what happened to my trust? The market crash?”

He shakes his head, silent.

Gabriel picks up a piece of paper from the desk, scanning it briefly before tossing it to the ground like trash. “Fake paper trails. Moving money around like no one would ever notice. And he almost got away with it, because there are enough naive trusting fools in the world.”