Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Boaz was the man True Oil Co. paid to clean up their mess. He was Winton Hart’s bodyguard, Winton being Jolene’s dad. Winton had used Boaz one too many times to clear up situations his wife Naomi created. She was the true definition of a cougar. She had a thing for younger guys, and all of it gave some of those men the balls to sue the company. Many of them cried sexual assault, believe it or not. They’d say Naomi came on to them and forced them into doing things. Boaz was the one who’d take money and an NDA to those young men and give them the option to either take the cash and shut the hell up or face a worse threat. They always signed and took the money.
But Brynn was a different situation for Dominic. It wasn’t about money when he’d dealt with her . . . well, not by the end. With Brynn, this was something he couldn’t erase at all with an NDA.
“Have you told your wife about this?” Boaz asks.
“Hell no,” Dominic counters, frowning. “And I refuse. She’s the last person who needs to know about it.”
“Well, do you have any idea who might be doing this?”
Dominic leans back in his chair, thinking. “No one I can think of. Like I said, the only people who know about this are you and me . . . and Brynn, but she’s dead.”
“Right.” That’s all he says. No added factor. “I’ll stick around town a few days, keep my ear to the ground. Let me know if you come up with anything new. It is possible someone saw you with that woman in New Orleans—someone she knows. Did she mention any friends that night? Anyone close to her?”
“No—I mean, not that I can remember.” Dominic runs a hand over his head.
“Well, if anything else comes up, let me know. I’ll check out news in New Orleans, make sure nothing has surfaced.”
“Yeah. Good idea.”
Boaz is out of his chair and lumbering out of the office. The door creaks as he leaves, and Dominic sighs, feeling worse than before he’d arrived. If it’s not Boaz, who the hell else can it be?
His mind goes back to Jolene. Is it possible that she knows he was with someone that night in New Orleans and is using that against him? But why would she do that? Why torment him right now? No, it can’t be Jolene. She wants him to have the governor’s seat again just as much as he does. They’ve built a life together and despite how often she threatens to leave him, she hasn’t. Because she knows he is who she belongs with, and that she’d lose everything if they split apart.
He’s felt awful about the times he’s cheated on Jolene, slept with other women behind her back. He swore after Brynn he’d never do anything like that again and he’s kept that promise—though, it was more for his own conscience than anything. Surely, there’s no way Jo knows about Brynn Wallace? He’s never talked about her, never mentioned her. He’s purposely avoided bringing up his past with Jolene other than information about his deceased mother. And with the shares, he’s careful. He keeps it covered.
No. It can’t be Jo. Someone else out there knows the truth. Like that Eden woman from the rally. She knows things.
Something out of the room catches his eye—a tiny person doing cartwheels. He gasps, rubs his eyes, and realizes it’s only the mansion’s chocolate Labrador puppy, Fred. Someone makes kissing noises for Fred to come to them and he bounds through the mansion to find them.
Dominic can’t stand it anymore. He’s losing his mind. He shoots out of his chair and collects his keys before leaving the office.
He needs to clear his head.
SIXTEEN
JOLENE
The bottom drawer of Dominic’s office desk is unlocked but there’s nothing inside it. There isn’t even a speck of lint. I don’t get it. Why was the drawer locked to begin with if nothing was ever inside? He must’ve taken it out last night.
Frustrated, I slam the drawer closed and sift through the others, but it’s the same thing. Papers, post it notes, sunflower seeds, gum, and a bunch of stationary.
With no luck, I leave the office and find my running shoes in the mudroom. I grab my phone, headphones, and lock the house up behind me. I have to get the hell out of here now before I do something I regret.
Down the driveway, a police cruiser awaits. A woman is in the driver’s seat, her window halfway open. It’s the officer from last night. Her hair is cut in a blunt pixie cut and her sable skin is smooth beneath the sun. Officer Burnell. She notices me and tosses a wave.
“Good morning, Mrs. Baker!” she sings.