I clean myself up, dry off and then dress as quietly as I can. We’ve slept late, the pair of us. It’s eight thirty AM and we’d both intended to be up at seven. Greta is out at nine and she needs to come into the office to sign away her rights to the work she took part in on Blue Ridge.
It might sound unfair, but I didn’t make the system. My ancestors did. I guess they never imagined that a hundred or so years down the line, Blue Ridge’s turnover would be in the hundreds of millions of dollars’ category thanks to technological advances. Greta will be signing away a fortune, but I don’t have it in me to feel guilty, not for what she did to John.
Does one small part of me question whether she was behind John’s suicide?
No. Or at least, I didn’t. It seemed to make sense. John, Alexei and James had been closer than brothers. Then Greta had popped up, created some kind of weird ass jealousy between the trio, and that friendship had disappeared over night. James and Alexei might be smart, but they’re the kind of people who need Blue Ridge. Alexei barely remembers to put on a pair of socks and James goes through worse periods of weight loss than I, because he forgets to eat.
Are they master manipulators? No.
Are they capable of doing someone harm? Not really, not without encouragement.
Could they kill someone? Maybe, but it wouldn’t be their own idea.
Greta, on the other hand, is capable and if I’d had any doubts, receiving the report on the similarities between the work on John’s algorithm and Greta’s invention, confirmed it. Greta had a lot to lose.
Or at least, I thought she had.
Perhaps the weird depression floating in my brain from last night’s fun and games is the cause for this sudden doubt, where there’d been none before. Nate was so certain Greta was behind John’s death. He had no proof. Nothing concrete. Until Greta had appeared in my room, looking for only God knows what. In that one move, she’d placed herself in the firing line, and it had encouraged me to look into her past.
Armed with John’s last diary, which housed his final calculations on the all-important algorithm, the patent on which Greta’s motherboard invention had been taken out, and with two hours before my meeting with her, I’d sent the two over to a friend and hoped he’d have enough time to give me a prelim report. The twenty-thousand dollars I wired to his account got me express service. At eight-fifty, ten minutes before the interview with Greta, I’d seen that she'd stolen more of John’s work.
But two things happened this week and they’re only just making waves in my brain.
One: Donald was right. When Greta’s invention came about and she was lauded for her technological discovery, John had been alive. He hadn’t made any complaints about her to my father, or at least, not so I’m aware. No one on the ranch had any doubt that Greta deserved the credit for her hard work, and John never made any comments to the contrary. If he had, Donald would have said so yesterday.
Two: last night, Alexei said, “You can’t steal what is freely given.” Or he had said as much in a drunken, Russian-English hybrid.
John was a mathematician, but he had his fingers in many pies. Computer science being one of them and another, physics and of all things, Gaelic. He was a genius, but that genius wasn’t focused on one sole subject. He was quite capable of making Greta’s discovery...but why give it to her?
Why gift it to her?
I know I think of her as a heartless bitch for her troublemaker ways, but John obviously didn’t agree. I know Nate said John planned the algorithm open-source and my father would have allowed that, because back then, the algorithm would have been of little use as technology hadn’t caught up with John’s forward thinking. He could have waited until technology caught up, which he had to know it would and within a short space of time. Instead, he was going to make it free—so, money obviously didn’t interest him. Neither did glory.
When I think back to that time, I recall the instability in that part of the commune. Greta had nearly broken up a thirty-year marriage with her flirting and my father had been furious. I remember mother and him arguing about it. I also remember the invention being Greta’s saving grace. Without that, dad would have kicked her out.
Did John give Greta the appropriate information to save her butt from eviction?
Questions. Questions and more questions and just when I don’t fucking need them. Just when my brain won’t work properly and when taking one step in front of another seems like a rather complicated procedure.
Why do I doubt this? Why do I feel guilty? The thought makes me nauseous. Me? Guilty? Over Greta? Seems impossible, but I do. Slightly, at any rate.
That being said, I just want her off the commune. I want her venomous ways to be gone. I want her never to darken our doors again. She’s a snake and she needs to be cast out. It should have happened a long time ago, but my dad didn’t have the balls to do it. Technically, I’m lacking that particular piece of equipment, but I still manage to get the job done.
A detour to my office takes a few minutes, but I’m back on route within seconds. The instant I step outside, the bright light makes me flinch, and I rest my hand on my brow to shade it. I’m not in the mood for sunlight. I’m in the mood for rain. Lots of it.
Some of the commune members are up and about; mostly those on ranch and kitchen duty. Those two teams start early until they’re relieved by another section at eleven. Those I see are too damned perky, and they’re looking at me with curiosity, knowing what I’m about to do and what’s about to happen.
I ignore them, nodding when some of the men tip their heads to me, but otherwise making my escape as soon as possible. I want this done. Nate doesn’t have his answer as to who murdered John, but he can find solace in knowing the woman he believes to be responsible is no longer a part of this commune.
The thought of Nate’s relief shakes off some of the cobwebs in my head. It makes me feel a little better, even though physically, my body is as tired as it would be after a three-day drinking binge.
Greta lives in the dorms, just like James and Alexei. Only she’s on the other side of the cluster of buildings. The log cabins aren’t in ordinary rows. Think of a castle, of the castellated roof. A wall with regular, even-spaced gaps. Well, that’s how the cabins are clustered. It’s a great way to house a lot of people within a short amount of space; there were constraints due to plumbing and water access. It could have been very claustrophobic; as it is, there’s plenty of room and shared courtyards adjoining the properties.
Greta is at one end, Alexei, and James at the other. Thank God, I won’t be bumping into them. Or at least, I hope I won’t. I just hope they’ve not come to give Greta moral support.
The idea makes me grimace, and as I pass the courtyard and head toward the front entrance to Greta’s building, a sudden loud bang from the house makes me jump. Scowling, I rush in, only to spot Alexei and James trying to break down the door.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yell, watching as they pause to glare at me, before continuing to try to break into Greta’s rooms.
“She won’t answer and the door’s locked,” James bites out as Alexei takes his turn at the door.
“For God’s sake, I have the keys.” I snap, striding forward and pushing them out of the way. They have the grace to look sheepish, but I take the chance to glare at them in return. I’m glad I stopped off at my office to grab the keys to this cabin’s rooms, because I had a feeling she’d pull something like this. “Greta, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at. If you think you can delay the inevitable you’re wrong.”
My words are curtailed by the door opening and a rather nasty smell permeating my nostrils.
The utter silence combined with that stench has me fearing the worst. ‘Lo and behold, as I step through the door, the sight hits me.
I’d like to think she had passed out.
But no living body, not even a ridiculously drunk one, can be so still.
My stomach clenche
s at Greta’s corpse, and I close my eyes, when sudden sobs sound off behind me. James rushes past, nearly knocking me over and in the process, knocking over the bottle of Scotch on the floor. It quivers before slamming down and sending a dozen or so pills scattering over the tiles. I half-turn, dread hitting me at what Alexei’s doing and seeing him stood there, rage on his face, turning it red, his fists curling and unfurling, I sigh.
Fuck.
* * *
The police have come and gone, Greta’s body has been taken away, and I’m sporting a shiner.
All in a day’s work.
It’s taking every ounce of my control to keep it together. I sink back into my desk chair and do something I never do. Drink. I raided Uncle Sam’s liquor cabinet five minutes ago, and as the whiskey wings its way down, I let the burn set me alight.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Some fucking strategist I am.
Never in a million years, did I see this coming. The worst thing is, I’m dead certain I’m losing it. Seeing a murder in John’s suicide, that’s a shared delusion. Nate and I are in total accord. But Nate didn’t see Greta this morning. I did. I have the nasty feeling that Greta, who so wasn’t the type for suicide, was actually murdered too.
At the thought, I throw back another mouthful of whiskey. This time, one so large, I come up sputtering as half of it goes down the wrong way and the other half spurts over the room.
“Very attractive,” comes Erick’s comment from the doorway.
I flip him the bird and take another smaller shot of hooch. I can see why they used to call it firewater. Fuck, the burn is good. So damned good it might just set fire to these stupid thoughts in my brain. Because now, I’m thinking two murders.
Two.
James and Alexei didn’t kill Greta. From this morning’s display of grief and shock on the former’s part and the fist Alexei connected with my face, the pair of them were in love with the bitch. That doesn’t mean they didn’t kill John. But who the fuck killed Greta?
I ask the question, when I fear the worst. I fear I already know.
Why is my life turning into a bad TV detective serial? What did I do to deserve this?
“If you had an inkling of what’s going on in my brain, you’d be taking shots with your eyes. This is as much decorum as I’m capable of.”
Erick chuckles, especially as I slaughter the word decorum. The three-syllable word has suddenly developed ten. “I didn’t expect you to be grieving Greta.”
“N-not. Just pissed off.”
“Pissed off that she spoiled your fun?”
His wry remark leaves me rolling my eyes. Well, as much as the liquored-up orbs are capable of rolling. “I would’ve enjoyed escorting her off Blue Ridge. Didn’t want the old hag to die though.”
“No. It did come as a shock.”
“My God, Erick van der Viel admitting to something being a surprise.”
Nate’s voice is a welcome intrusion into my sorry state of mind. Spotting him with drunken eyes, I hold out my arms for him. The one holding the whiskey bottle is drenched in alcohol thanks to the rather enthusiastic gesture on my part. Nate glares at Erick as he passes my desk and wrestles the bottle from my hand.
“You’ve had enough.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever have enough.” I shake my head, gripping the bottle as though it were a lifeline and only when Nate grabs my chin with his free hand and forces me to look at him, do I relinquish my hold on the whiskey. Even pissed as a skunk, I can see who’s boss.
Nate settles the bottle on the desk, and then, in a rather smooth gesture, he reaches for me, hefts me up and somehow, I’m in his arms, while he sits himself in my chair. As I nestle into his lap, Erick snaps, “Don’t mind me.”
“I wasn’t going to,” is Nate’s cool retort.
“Don’t start arguing.” I whine. “I have enough stuff going on in my head without you two acting like rutting bulls.”
There’s a moment silence, then both men chuckle. Loudly. Enough to make my already aching head throb.
“I think we should take that as a compliment, Nate.”
“I think you might be right, van der Viel.”
“Erick,” I correct Nate. “Call him Erick. When a guy’s seen another man’s cock, you gotta call him by his name. That’s just polite.” Under me, Nate stiffens and I giggle. “Whoops, that was supposed to be a secret.”
“Have you been talking about me behind my back?” Nate directs Eric’s way.
“She asked questions, and I answered. Considering how close the two of you are, I saw no harm in it. You always were a closemouthed shit.”
“Didn’t mean to invade your privacy, Nate,” I tell him, slurring my words. “Just had to know. Hurt to think you loved Natalia.”
He frowns down at me. “When did this conversation take place?”
“The night I arrived,” Erick remarks.
Nate hisses out a breath, but nods. Having expected an explosion and in my drunkenness, not overly bothered by the prospect considering the shit has already hit the Blue Ridge Ranch, I blink up at him in surprise as he acquiesces quickly.
“What are you doing here anyway?” At my glare, he adds, “Erick.”
“I came to commiserate with Marina. She never did like Greta.” He snorts. “Not many people ever did. I know she was looking forward to evicting her.”
“Oh, and how do you know that?” Nate asks, voice smooth as silk.
“I told him. Last week. ‘Bout time that bitch was out of here.” My head feels too heavy for my neck, so I let it drift backward to flop loosely while I glare up at the ceiling. “Why did it have to be in a coffin though?” I wail. “Bitch even had to ruin that.”
“Are you allowed to call people bitches after they’re dead?” Erick asks no one in particular.
At that, my head shoots up and I glare at him. “When you die, that doesn’t change you. I’m a bitch. Proud of it, too. But I don’t use people or try to hurt them. I go out of my way to help. She was mean to the core. I don’t care that she’s dead, I just care how she died and why.”
Erick frowns at me, before his eyes shoot over to Nate. Their glances cross for a few seconds, before Nate says, “What do you mean, baby?”
“Don’t want to talk about it. If I talk about it, I might sound like some psychotic nutcase and don’t you dare say I already am one, Erick van der Viel.” I grouch, sniffing at him, before letting my head drop down once more.
“I didn’t say a word,” Erick remarks.
“Yeah, but you were going to.” I sigh out a long breath. “Maybe I’m paranoid? I couldn’t have seen what I saw, couldn’t have smelled what I did... I mean, this isn’t a movie. Shit like this doesn’t happen.”
“No cursing,” Nate reminds me, and before I can glare at him, he continues, “It does on a ranch where billions of dollars’ worth of technology and scientific advances are created.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. “I don’t want to believe it.”
“I trust you, Marina. I trust your instincts. You’re not paranoid or psychotic. Whatever’s freaking you out is a valid issue, tell me,” he croons.
“I don’t want it to be valid. I want it to go away and leave me alone.”
He grabs my chin and gently, between finger and thumb, squeezes. “Hey, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
My gaze flickers to Erick and back again. Erick and back again. Spying this, he looks at me with a cocked brow. I crook my finger and beckon Nate closer. He bends his head, but I crook my finger a little more until my mouth is against his ear.
I swallow, wanting to withhold the words. I’m not sure if I should say them in front of Erick, because I don’t know what he’ll do with them. The part of me that isn’t nervous or lost is just plain scared, so damned scared that Nate’s right: that I’m not actually psychotic.
After sucking in a huge breath, letting the oxygen clear my brain out, I whisper, “Uncle Sam murdered Greta.”
With that
, I pass out.
Chapter Thirty-One
A few hours later, a couple of timpani drums wake me from my liquor-induced sleep. The throb, oh fuck, it’s worse than my first ever spanking. Hell, I might like a bit of pain with my pleasure, but I’m definitely no masochist. Scowling up at the ceiling, I raise my arms and cradle my head between them.
To hear a voice slide out of the darkness, a voice I don’t really want to hear right now, jolts me like a lash from Nate’s crop. “Wasted some good whiskey, girl.”
“You scared the shit out of me, Sam.”
I hear a few footsteps, the sound of boots echoing in the darkness, then a light comes on. Thank fuck, it’s the bathroom light and not the main overhead one. I think my eyeballs might have exploded. I don’t drink, and there’s a reason for that. Hangovers from hell. Migraines to end all migraines that last for three fucking days.
Oh, yay. That’s what I have ahead of me.
For a minute, I wonder why I actually let booze pass my lips and then I remember. When I remember, I stiffen and then groan as it makes my body jerk and my head shift slightly. “Fuck,” I whisper, wishing I could leave my body for a little while to escape the drums.
“You could say that,” he calls from the bathroom. Then, comes the next sound, a tablet sizzling in water.
I freeze and gather the sheets, because if a man I’ve known all my life is about to poison me, a blankie will really protect me. Inwardly rolling my eyes at myself, when I should be launching off the bed and running away, I suck in a huge breath and hope to God the oxygen will clear the cobwebs away.
Sinfully Mastered: Naughty Nookie Page 40
