“What?” I heard his words. I even know what he means. But somehow I just can’t process what he’s saying.
“How long?” Jackson asks.
Ryan shakes his head. “It’s a thirty-minute loop. Looks like it was recorded about two A.M., and they started the repeat at two-thirty. There was no moon last night, so it’s only the infrared, and nobody at the monitoring station noticed.”
“So how did you find out?”
“Once Damien got the email, we knew what to look for.”
I glance at Jackson, who is doing a valiant job of holding in his temper. I can see it though, pushing at the edges, building toward release.
He turns to me, the tension in his body palpable. “I may end up in prison after all, because I swear I will kill whoever is fucking with us.”
“You’ll have to fight me for the privilege,” Damien says.
I look between them. “Don’t even joke about that, you two.”
They look at each other, and despite everything, I see a hint of amusement in their eyes.
I can’t help it—I have to smile. They’re brothers, all right.
sixteen
I spent most of Tuesday and all of Wednesday on the island with Jackson organizing cleanup and wading through the vile remnants of that horrible, massive act of vandalism. My stomach started hurting the moment I stepped onto the island and saw the destruction—machinery destroyed, storage sheds toppled. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.
It was horrible and vengeful, and all I want now are two things: to find the bastard and to fix the damage. Because fixing it will be like lifting my middle finger and telling the fucker he lost.
Thursday morning I’m back in the office, but I can’t say that the day is shaping up to be much better. Damien has back-to-back international calls all day, which means that I arrived at my desk by four A.M. The only good thing about Damien’s early calls is that I have no time to brood about the sabotage or worry that a detective is going to show up to arrest Jackson. Both Tuesday evening and all of Wednesday were blissfully arrest-free, but I’m still on edge.
The morning has been a blur of calls and emails and minor crises, both professional and personal. The professional all center around Damien’s schedule and the resort. We’re trying to get him ready for the China trip. He’s spending only a week in Beijing, but with all the preparations we’re making, you’d think he was staying a month. He’s leaving Sunday night, and everything in the office is crazy.
The personal is entirely centered on me. We’d returned to the marina late last night, and as soon as we were back in range, my phone pinged with a dozen messages from Ethan asking if I was okay and telling me that he loves me.
As for Cass, as far as I can tell, she spent all of yesterday and Wednesday repeatedly texting me.
You there?
Hello?
Why did Ethan go racing out after you?
Do you want to come by?
Should I come there?
Jackson’s not in custody is he?
Why aren’t you answering me?
Dammit, Syl, you’re pissing me off.
Sorry. Sorry. (Not that sorry, but dammit, call me or text back!)
WTF?
Hello?
Called work. You’re not in.
Where. The. Fuck. Are. You.
As soon as Damien is squared away on his eight A.M. call, I answer the ones from Cass:
Sorry! Sorry!
Was at the island. No service.
Everything is a mess with the island and with Jackson. But not scary. Not much. Not yet.
Gotta go. Work insane.
Her answer is almost instantaneous. Clearly, she’s been waiting for me to reply.
You sure?
Don’t go yet: Ethan. What was that all about?
I scowl as I remember that my dad dragged Ethan into my personal horror, a little fact that had gotten buried in the hell of sabotage and pending arrests.
Dad told him everything—really NOT happy.
Her answer is short and to the point.
Holy fuck.
U okay?
I hesitate, then answer honestly.
I am now. Mostly. Wasn’t before.
Seriously—gotta go.
Don’t worry about me. No new tats needed.
Promise.
Her reply—XXOO—makes me smile.
For Ethan, though, I can’t just send a text. But I also know that I can’t call him before ten. The company he works for—an online company that books travel packages—gave him a week off with pay and two weeks without so that he could get settled back in the States. For my brother, that means sleeping in.
To be honest, I’m okay with not talking to Ethan right now. My dad is the last person I want to be thinking of, and so I dive back into work with a vengeance. At nine, Damien gets on a conference call that is scheduled to last an hour, and Mila arrives at my desk.
She’s one of the floating secretaries, and I’d asked for her to be assigned to me today since I’m doing double duty as Damien’s assistant and as the Cortez project manager. I would have preferred leaving it all to Rachel, but she’s off until Saturday and is up in Monterey with her sister.
But even with Mila, I still can’t squeeze in a break because the press has gotten wind of the island sabotage and I’m fielding call after call, making statements about how we have everything under control, and that the leaked photo of the destruction entirely exaggerates the damage, and that the cleanup will in no way impact our projected opening date. And every time I say those words I want to strangle whoever the asshole is who caused that damage, took that photo, and fucked with my life.
But it’s not just the press. No, the investors are calling, too, and while I’ve been able to assuage most of them, another one has dropped out. And although my contact didn’t specifically say that he was shifting his dollars to Lost Tides, I can’t shake the feeling that’s the case. And that without planning it or wanting it, I’m now in a duel to the death with that damn resort in Santa Barbara.
And in the midst of all of that, I’m trying to actually do what I’ve been saying is already in progress—organize and oversee the cleanup of the island, which is scheduled to begin as soon as Ryan says that his team is finished investigating and documenting.
In other words, I’m both exhausted and frustrated. And, frankly, I’m still pissed off that someone is screwing with me.
Well, technically they’re screwing with the resort. But I’m taking everything related to Cortez pretty damn personally.
By eleven, Damien is on yet another conference call, this one scheduled for half an hour. Miraculously, it’s calm enough that I can hand the reins to Mila and run to the break room for coffee.
I pass Trent on the way in, and seeing him reminds me of the conversation I’d had with Jackson about Nathan Dean. I know that Dean is working on Trent’s new house, but if he doesn’t have any other projects going on, he might be interested in being Jackson’s second in case Jackson gets arrested. And, worse, convicted.
Just thinking about it makes me jumpy. Then again, I’m already jumpy. Every time the elevator opens I turn that way, expecting to see two detectives with handcuffs.
But I can’t just push it out of my head. I need to get this wrapped up. I need to know there is someone in place if the worst happens. I consider waiting to run it past Damien, but the bottom line is that I’m the project manager, and this is the kind of call the manager makes.
So as soon as I’m back at Damien’s desk, I pick up the phone. “Can you grab Damien’s line? I need to make a call about the resort.”
“Sure.” Mila is smart and competent and in another month or two she could work Damien’s desk alone. With any luck, it will be Rachel’s job to train her because I’ll be in my new office in the real estate division. Right now, though, she’s my shadow.
Dean answers on the first ring, sounding a little out of breath. “Ah, Nathan Dean.”
“Nathan, good morning. It’s Sylvia. How are you?”