Chapter 2 - The Toll of Julian’s Ghost
The air turned instantly brittle.
The name Julian was not spoken in Buckhead.
It was not spoken in the executive offices of the Mason Corporation
it was not entered into court transcripts
and it was buried beneath seven layers of sealed police files dating back to the summer of 2006.
My hands tightened against the sheets.
“You will never repeat that name,” I said
each syllable dropping like lead weights onto the floor.
“I don’t care about your secrets
Mr. Mason,” Megan replied
adjusting the sleeping toddler against her shoulder.
“I care about keeping this job.
I care about the twelve hundred dollars I owe my landlord by Friday.
I care about whether I need to pack my bag right now
or if I’m supposed to finish the second floor bathrooms.”
She was shivering slightly
not from cold
but from the massive adrenaline dump of defying me twice before six in the morning.
Her shoes were worn at the heels.
The cuff of her jeans was frayed where it had dragged on rainy pavement.
She had nothing.
Not a lawyer
not a bank account
not an ally in the entire state of Georgia.
Yet she stood on my antique carpet and spoke to me as if we were negotiating a treaty between equal nations.
“Sit down,” I ordered.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Sit down
Megan.”
She hesitated
her eyes darting to the heavy oak door
then back to the empty leather chair.
Slowly
deliberately
she sat
keeping Leo balanced securely in the crook of her elbow.
The boy’s face was pressed into her neck
breathing in the scent of lemon oil
clean laundry
and her skin.
“How long did the fever last?” I asked.
“Until four.”
“And you sat there the entire time?”
“You wouldn’t let go of the blanket,” she said
her eyes dropping to the mahogany floor.
“Then you grabbed my sleeve.
Every time I tried to pull away
your heart rate went through the roof.
You were shaking so hard the headboard was rattling.
I’m a mother
Mr. Mason.
When a fever spikes like that
you don’t leave the room.
Even if the person in the bed happens to be an arrogant bastard who counts the pens on his desk.”
A sharp
disbelieving sound left my throat.
It was almost a laugh
rusty from lack of use.
“You have an astonishing lack of self-preservation.”
“Self-preservation is for people who can afford options,” she countered.
“I have rent
diapers
and bus fare.
Politeness won’t pay any of them.
Honesty might get me fired
but at least I don’t have to waste time pretending I don’t see what’s in front of me.”
“And what is in front of you?”
She looked around the vast room
taking in the vaulted ceilings
the dark Italian walnut moldings
the heavy velvet curtains keeping out the sunrise
and finally
the high-tech titanium wheelchair parked beside the bathroom door.
“A very rich
very miserable man
surrounded by people who want his money
and terrified of the only person who doesn't care about it.”
Before I could answer
the brass doorknob turned violently.
The lock rattled.
A heavy fist slammed against the reinforced paneling.
“Mr. Mason!” Marcus’s voice boomed through the wood
taut with barely concealed panic.
“Mr. Mason
open this door immediately!
We have an unverified breach!”
Megan flinched.
Leo woke with a start
his small hands reaching for his mother’s hair
his eyes filling with tears at the aggressive noise.
“Shh
shh
baby
it’s okay
it’s just the door,” Megan whispered frantically
rocking him in small
desperate circles.
I reached for the remote console on my nightstand.
I pressed the master override button.
The heavy electromagnetic bolt disengaged with a dull clunk.
The door flew open.
Marcus stepped into the room
his right hand inside his sport coat
two junior guards flanking him in the hallway
their eyes wide and aggressive.
“Sir!” Marcus snapped
his eyes darting from me to Megan
then to the toddler
and finally to the basin of water.
“What the hell is she doing in here?
She locked the deadbolts.
The internal sensors registered movement all night—we thought—”
“Stand down
Marcus,” I said
my voice calm
even
and terrifyingly cold.
Marcus froze.
His hand remained buried inside his jacket
fingers curled around the grip of his pistol.
“Sir
she violated core protocol.
She accessed the private sector without escort—”
“I said stand down.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a man’s lungs.
Marcus slowly drew his hand out of his jacket
empty.
His jaw worked
his eyes burning into Megan with pure venom.
He was thirty-eight
ex-military
and utterly devoted to the illusion that he was the only man who could keep Dominic Mason alive.
To find a cleaning woman in my bedroom
holding my basin
having locked him out of his own perimeter
was a humiliation he would not forgive.
“Take the men downstairs,” I said.
“Nancy needs to prepare breakfast for three.”
Marcus’s head snapped toward me.
“Three
sir?”
“Three,” I repeated.
May you like
“And bring Megan’s stroller up from the staff entrance.
The child will not sit on the floor.”
