Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 110273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
He just glared at her.
She started to leave, but then wheeled around. “Get cleaned up, both of you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I saw an elevator open and a stretcher came out, holding Josh. Another elevator, with Drake. Scott. All of my men were accounted for. Bailey was coming back with a stretcher for me, and I had to wonder what kind of circus it must look like outside.
Then I remembered what Calhoun had said.
“You have a daughter?”
“Fuck you.”
He stalked off, his one good arm holding his bad one.
“Kash?”
I turned to Bailey, bending toward her. The EMTs were there, wanting to work on me, but I needed one touch from her. One beautiful touch in the midst of everything we just went through, and it was enough to tide me over. “I’m good.”
“Colello.”
Bright was coming back from one of the stairs.
She was looking at Bailey, and I stood, feeling the EMTs trying to get me to sit on the stretcher. “Don’t start with her,” I said. “You can get her statement, but not till tomorrow. You’ll have to send a detective to the house for her.”
“Colello!”
I cursed. She was going to fight this, but then she softened her voice. “We found a body.”
IN LOVING MEMORY, ANOTHER FRANCIS FRIEND VICTIM
A memorial service will happen this Saturday, at one in the afternoon.
Hoda Rai Mansour’s family will be gathering to share favorite memories and stories as they remember the great person Hoda was.
She will live on in our laughter and tears. Please join us, her family.
On behalf of Inside Daily Press, our staff sends their condolences.
We will remain vigilant in our coverage of the wrongful conviction of Quinn Callas. Her attorneys remain confident Miss Callas’s case will be appealed.
Click here to help support Quinn Callas and her innocence.
—Inside Daily Press
SIXTY-ONE
Bailey
I forgot about the footage until Matt brought out the latest Inside Daily Press article, and to say it was an article was being gracious. It was a local “news” website, and they were biased. Heavily biased. Case in point, the way they had been reporting on Quinn’s trial. It wasn’t all the time, but it was enough, and they got enough views to be a headache for my family’s publicist.
This recent article came out the day after Hoda’s body was found. The police were able to piece together how she had been involved. They explained that she received a call from an unknown number. Security footage found her walking outside her apartment building, where she was forced at gunpoint to get into a nondescript van. After that, they could only guess that she’d been an unwilling participant in Calhoun’s attempt to kidnap his grandson. From their questioning of some of Calhoun’s men left alive, their orders had been to kidnap Chase Bastian and to execute Kash Colello if given the chance.
I shuddered at the plans Calhoun must’ve had, to try it once again. Then this article came out and, well, my world wasn’t falling apart anymore. Besides grieving someone I wasn’t sure if I cared about or not—but still grieving that she had been pulled into my world’s chaos and destruction—I decided it was time to find out who the hell was behind Inside Daily Press.
The result shouldn’t have been shocking.
I hacked into Quinn’s old phone, since she wasn’t using it anymore, and sent a text.
Meet me at Octavo. Friday night. 9 p.m. Back booth under the stairs. I’ll explain there.
Then I waited.
* * *
“Why are we here again? You know Kash isn’t too happy we’re not at one of his establishments.” Matt sidled in next to me at our booth.
“We’re here because she’d never go to one of Kash’s establishments.”
We’d been here enough. I picked this booth because until you actually slid into the one side, you couldn’t tell if anyone else was sitting in it. She’d see my side profile, and I was hunched over, so I was hoping she’d see a female trying to hide her identity and guess the wrong person. But she’d slide in, and voilà, there would be Matt.
“No, I’m not,” Kash said.
We weren’t Team Batt right now.
Matt groaned. “Still saying this. I am not a fan of Team KaBatt.”
I grinned.
“Tough shit. And you’re in a nightclub whose owners I do know, but I don’t know them well. I can also say that you will not be attending this nightclub without myself in attendance again.”
“But—”
“Ever again, Matthew. These owners have Mafia affiliations, and that’s all I’m saying about that topic. Drop it and tell me instead the plan of what you’re saying to this reporter.”
Matt snorted again. “She is not a reporter. She’s barely even a blogger. She’s—”
She slid into the booth at that very second, and froze, hearing Matt’s voice.
She took me in, took in Matt.
I didn’t think she saw Kash yet.
She started to bolt.
She got as far as the edge of the booth before Kash was there, and he was glowering down at her. She’d worn a white silk shirt, her hair was plaited in two braids. She almost had a schoolmarm look going on, with her glasses, her red lipstick, and the black skirt she had donned for this meeting.