Mosely shrugged. “She isn’t a suspect, though of course she is being questioned. You were found stabbed to death in a hall closet at the mansion just after midnight. There were no witnesses to the murder itself, but three people confirm seeing a man who matches the description of Kurt Bishop fleeing the hallway in an agitated state with blood on his hands. They didn’t stop him at the time because he was holding his nose, and they thought he had a nosebleed. Only after the body was found did they realize they let a killer escape. His current whereabouts are unknown.”
A chill ran down Nate’s spine, and his pulse kicked up. “There is no way in hell Kurt killed me,” he said as calmly as possible, but warning bells were clanging away in his head. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Kurt would never hurt him. But Kurt made the perfect scapegoat, born and raised in the Basement and refusing to shed the trappings once Nate made him an Employee. How easy it would be for everyone to believe that Nate had been taken in by a predator, to believe that Kurt had bitten the hand that fed him like the disreputable Basement-dweller he was.
It wasn’t until he noticed the look that passed between his father and Mosely that Nate realized he’d just made the mistake Nadia had always warned him he’d make: he’d used Kurt’s first name in public. An Executive did not address or refer to a servant by first name. Then again, Nate had never met a social convention he didn’t want to break, so perhaps they would think he was just being his usual self.
“You don’t know that,” Mosely said. “You’re missing almost two weeks of memory. Maybe something happened during those weeks, something that put you and your valet at odds. I know you fancied him something of a friend.” There was no missing the sneer in Mosely’s voice, and for a moment Nate feared Mosely knew exactly what was going on between him and Kurt. But no. If Mosely knew, then Nate’s father knew, and if Nate’s father knew, Nate would be in reprogramming right now.
“Bishop did not kill me,” Nate repeated.
“Then where is he?” Mosely asked. “Why did he go missing on the very night you were murdered?”
“Because he knew he’d be the prime suspect,” Nate countered, fighting to keep his temper in check. “And he knew there was no way he’d get a fair trial.”
“And he was seen fleeing the scene with blood on his hands because…?”
“Because those ‘witnesses’ were lying. Or because he touched the body, trying to help me.”
“You have an explanation for everything, don’t you,” Mosely said. “So tell me: if Mr. Bishop isn’t the murderer, then who is?”
“How the hell should I know? Figuring it out is your job, last I heard.”
“Give me a suspect. Someone who had access to the residence and who had a reason to kill you even knowing there’d be a Replica.”
Nate wished he could snap back a quick answer, but he had to admit he was stumped. If he really stretched, he could think of people who might want to get rid of him, but none of them would even consider trying it when they knew he’d be almost instantly replaced by a Replica. Cold logic suggested Kurt killing him in a moment of passion was the most reasonable explanation. But cold logic was wrong.
“Enough, Nathaniel,” his father said. “If you wish to believe in Bishop’s innocence, feel free. But the evidence says otherwise. He murdered you. Stabbed you to death and then left you in a pool of your own blood. For that, he will die.”
There was no give in the Chairman’s voice—not that there ever was—and Nate knew his father’s mind was closed and sealed up tight. His father had disapproved of Kurt from the beginning, considering him unworthy of being a valet for any Executive, much less the Chairman Heir. If he saw a way to dispose of Kurt, he’d jump at it, whether Kurt was the killer or not.
Guilt niggled at Nate’s conscience. Kurt’s life in the Basement had been predictably ugly, but he was a natural-born survivor. He’d carved out a place for himself, and he’d been secure in it, no matter how unappealing it might seem to an Employee or an Executive. Nate had told himself he was doing Kurt a favor, rescuing him from that life. He’d been confident he could protect him, as long as they were careful. Had he been fooling himself all along?
“I’m telling you, you’ve got it wrong,” Nate said, wishing the third time could be the charm. “Bishop didn’t do it, and if you decide in advance that he did, you’ll never get the real killer.”
Nathaniel Sr. pushed back his chair, shaking his head. “I’m glad to see my son’s Replica is as naive and foolish as my son himself was.”
The paternal affection was overwhelming. Nate glared at his father’s retreating back. “I’m not as naive as you think,” he said. If his father truly knew him, he’d know just how far from the truth he was. Thanks to Kurt and repeated clandestine visits to the Basement—or Debasement, as its residents called it—Nate knew more about the ugly side of life than his father ever would. And someday, when the Chairmanship of Paxco passed to him, Nate was going to do something about it.
The Chairman didn’t even bother to acknowledge Nate’s words as he jerked open the conference room door and stepped out. Mosely stopped to give Nate a quick, sly smile over his shoulder before leaving. Nate refused to let the bastard see how much that smile chilled him.
He had to find Kurt before Mosely’s security team did.
No one had openly accused Nadia of having murdered Nate or of being an accomplice to his murder. From the moment the security team had come to her apartment and asked her to come to the station for questioning, they’d been unfailingly polite. She certainly couldn’t blame them for wanting to talk to her when she was apparently the last person to see Nate alive. But being questioned three times by three different officers made her feel very much like a suspect all the same.
She couldn’t be sure exactly how long she’d been at the station, except that it was a long time. There was no clock on the interview room wall, she wasn’t wearing a watch, and they’d confiscated her phone. They’d brought her lunch, and the door wasn’t locked, but she was under no illusion that she would be allowed to walk out.
Where were her parents? When the security officers had come to the house, her father had been at work, despite it being Sunday, but her mother had hugged her—an unusually affectionate gesture—and sworn they’d have her home in no time. But the moment they’d set foot in the station, Nadia and her mother had been separated, and she’d been alone ever since. Her understanding of proper legal procedure was slim, but Nadia thought that as a minor, she would have been allowed to have at least one parent with her at all times. The enforced isolation seemed like a very bad sign, and her imagination filled with images of dank prison cells and iron chains. Which was ridiculous, of course, but also no doubt what the security team wanted her thinking about.
Her cold had worsened overnight, her throat painfully raw and her sinuses so stuffy her head felt like it would explode. She wanted desperately to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. Her requests for cold medicine were ignored, though one of the nicer officers had brought her a box of tissues and a trash can.
The lights in the room dimmed sometime in what Nadia guessed was the late afternoon, and her heart fluttered. Creating a Replica took so much power it could cause a citywide blackout if not managed properly. She hoped the dimming lights meant Nate’s Replica was being created.
Tears stung her eyes as the stark, awful reality slapped her in the face yet again. Nate was dead. Sure, there would be a Replica, and it would be just like him. But it wouldn’t be Nate. Not the Nate she’d known all her life. Not the Nate who was her best friend, who was the only person in the world who didn’t care about her social standing or her political value. Worse, the last conversation she’d had with him had been a bitter argument. She’d been so angry with him last night.… And now he was gone.