The Family Cross

by Gabrielle Ash

  “Right.”

  William cleared his throat and flipped around some papers in his folder. He reminded me of my night doorman with his baby face. After finding the paper he wanted, William pinched it between two fingers and looked at me again. “There are some contingencies to the shares that we would like to disclose to you before we proceed.”

  Of course there were.

  Not a gift.

  “Upon the death of your father, your portion of his shares in the Ashby Corporation will be eligible to be transferred to you. These shares will only be accessible to you, Matilda Jane Ashby, if you are a current employee of the Ashby Corporation workforce and have been employed for at least one year at the date of transfer.” William licked his lips and looked up from his folder. My father was trying to keep me tethered even in death. “Any questions so far?”

  “No.”

  He nodded and kept reading. “In the event of your death, your shares will be split evenly between Milton Hudson Ashby II and Gerard Joseph Ashby, unless you are married. If you are married, your spouse will inherit your shares unless you file a beneficiary, which must be approved by the board. If you are neither married nor possess any surviving siblings, your shares will be granted to your niece, Marie Lucille Ashby.”

  None of these contingencies were terribly surprising. Pretty standard. Keep it in the family at all costs.

  “That’s fine.”

  William rearranged some more of his papers. “Miss Ashby, your father wanted to have a word with you before we signed anything.”

  My father stared at me, letter opener positioned point up, as William bumbled around with his folder and tried to push himself out of the chair. This was it. Richard. He was going to ream me over turning down Richard Jones and “dating” Samson instead.

  William hummed lightly and walked over to the glass table off to the side of the office, not paying us any attention whatsoever as he situated himself. I could only imagine the conversations William and Milton shared over the past weeks, breaking down all his wealth and doling it out like candy.

  “Do you plan on working for the Ashby Corporation until your retirement?” my father asked, hardly waiting a breath past William’s leave before getting right down to it.

  There were several questions disguised as one. Did I plan on following his path? Did I see myself as the Ashby he’d raised me to be? Did I intend to help keep his dreams alive even after he died?

  I took a breath. If Rolf succeeded in killing me, none of this would matter anyway. “I’m not sure.”

  “Hm.” Milton reclined in his leather chair, slapped his letter opener down on the desk, and steepled his fingers. “Why is that?”

  I might be eaten by fae.

  But since I couldn’t say that, I sat there in silence as he continued to stare.

  “Of all my children, you are the last one I expected to rebel.” The words crawled under my skin and cut away at my nerves. “You left the benefit. Called in.”

  A shot of irritation zipped down my back. Because monsters were hunting me!

  “And you publicly humiliated Richard.”

  The implication made even William gasp at his place on the other side of the room. I turned my gaze to my phone resting on my knees, feeling almost silly that I hoped to see a message from Samson to distract me.

  “Why did you turn him down, Matilda?” Milton’s tone had softened considerably, to the point it felt like a different conversation.

  I closed my eyes and focused on even breaths. If I could sleep a few feet away from a hit man and fight a fae in an abandoned kitchen, I could deal with my father.

  “I don’t love him.” I curled my fingers into my palms, nails digging into my skin. “To be honest, I don’t even like him anymore.”

  The conversation in the elevator, still fresh, ensured I’d never like him again either.

  “There are a lot of things I don’t like.” My father dropped his hands onto the armrests of his chair. “I don’t like taxes, yet I pay them. I haven’t liked a presidential candidate in over twenty years, yet I vote.”

  Those were both a world away from marrying the human equivalent of a trout, but I bit the words back.

  “But there are some things you can’t stomach.” He heaved a sigh.

  My heart lurched, and I met his gaze. He…wasn’t mad?

  “Then why set me up with him?” I asked, skeptical. Richard had certainly upped his game since I turned him down at The Dove, but I assumed my father had been the one stoking the flames.

  “I thought it was a good idea at the time. He was eager to take you out, and since our families have been so close for so long, it made sense.” Milton smirked and leaned forward on his desk. His hands still shook, and the whites of his eyes had yellowed.

  The years and years of suffering his scathing criticism and belittling scoffs had me unconvinced that his intentions had been that innocent. My father hadn’t shown me an ounce of empathy in twenty-six years, and the way he looked at me then told me he was aware.

  “He came to my office, begging for me to speak with you about it. You broke that poor boy’s heart, Matilda.”

  I swallowed. Be brave. Be honest.

  Be Milton Ashby for a moment. Just this once.

  “Quite frankly, I don’t think I did.” Another breath. Brave! Be brave! “Humiliated him? Sure. No one in the borough thought I’d turn him down. It must’ve come as a surprise.”

  My father nodded, a movement so slight it might not have been intentional. He picked his letter opener back up. “You don’t believe the boy loves you? At all?”

  “No.” If there had been any doubts whatsoever, the elevator cleared them up. “He likes the idea of marrying an Ashby. That’s it.”

  Even if my father recanted on his proclamation, changed his will, and disowned me in front of the Manhattan elite on Friday, it would be worth it. For the first time in my life, I’d told Milton Ashby no…and I never thought I’d do that.

  “There will be others. Donna’s sons will graduate from Dartmouth in December. Good Dartmouth boys.” My father waved his letter opener a little, his graduation year engraved on the handle. Even though Hudson had been dismissed from Dartmouth, my father wouldn’t turn his back on his own alma mater. “Have your fun with Mr. Brown. Get it out of your system now. You’ve got obligations, but they can wait a while longer, I suppose.”

  I don’t think I could’ve thought of a more horrifying conversation to have with Milton Ashby if I tried.

  “Can I take the rest of the week off?” I changed the subject. “I’m struggling with everything…and I need some time to compose myself before we go public.”

  And elude Rolf and Circle Seven. No big deal.

  “It’ll come out of your vacation time. If you’re fine with that, then be my guest.” Milton reclined in his chair, the leather creaking beneath the strain of his body pushing on it. “Although you have to be at the Horseshoe Club this Friday. No exceptions. This is a critical part of the reveal to the public. I’d appreciate your support.”

  The urge to grin like an absolute idiot was stifled only by the fear he’d take everything back if I did. I needed time off. I had to focus on not dying. “Of course, sir.”

  He nodded once: his cue that the conversation was over.

  “And if Mr. Brown gets a haircut, you can even bring him.” Crushing relief swept me up in a brilliant wave. I wouldn’t be alone with Rolf or Richard. Thank God.

  William Deutsch had to have been eavesdropping because his seamless transition back to the desk couldn’t have happened otherwise. Pen in hand, I began to sign my father’s terms and conditions.

  My father had only asked for one year of employment in exchange for his shares. I could stomach a year to help Gerard get things in order. If I wanted to leave after that, I could.

  I’d never thought about leaving before. The nausea pulling at my insides ushered in a brand-new swell of fear the likes of which I’d never experienced. I’d almost been th
rown off a balcony by a monster, and I’d dumped an eligible bachelor in the middle of a swanky restaurant, but the idea I could leave the only life I’d ever known behind in the wake of my father’s death scared me in a different way.

  “It’s time for me to call in Hudson,” Milton said after I signed the last form. Twenty-seven signatures for preliminary paper work. My hand might break off if they kept this up. “He’s…unhappy.”

  That was likely the understatement of the century. “He had every opportunity,” is all I could make myself say.

  “Have you heard anything about Blair this morning?” He put his letter opener down again and pressed some numbers on the phone: Hudson’s extension.

  The empty desk I passed in my flustered escape from Richard came to mind as the meeting from the past weekend sank deep. “Blair…isn’t here? Is she sick?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t call in, and she always has in the past.” My father pressed his phone to his ear. “But I do know if I don’t hear from her today, she’s lost her job.”

  Blair, one of two people that could have been Rolf in disguise, hadn’t called in to work.

  My heart lifted. While Blair didn’t have much incentive to move against me and the idea didn’t make a whole lot of sense, the hope that Gerard might not have bought my contract propelled me to my feet. Samson and I had some investigating to do.

  Twenty-Seven

  Samson popped out of a conference room as I made my way to the elevator. There had been a fear that Richard stayed behind to verbally abuse me again, and the overwhelming relief that he hadn’t forced me to collapse against the wall of the elevator. Thank God for small favors.

  “Blair didn’t come in to work today,” I said after the door closed.

  Samson lifted his eyebrows. He knew what that meant. “Not sick?”

  “My father wasn’t sure. He said she didn’t show up today, and she didn’t call in.” The hope that Gerard wasn’t in cahoots with Rolf and the fear that Blair had been murdered fought inside my stomach. “All I know is Blair was in my father’s office on Saturday…and I think it’s a little too coincidental that she doesn’t show up to work after we know Rolf was somewhere in that room.”

  Tiffany waved from her desk as Samson and I briskly walked by to head for the parking garage. Her nose scrunched up when we passed, and I didn’t need to ask why. Whispered conversations between a man and a woman invited all sorts of theories.

  Samson jerked open the glass door and allowed me to go out first. “If he’s anything like the others, he won’t know shit except for payoff and the target. But if he’s impersonating this Blair chick, it makes me think he was given more information.”

  I gnawed on the inside of my lip as we made our way to the Mercedes. If Rolf had killed Blair and taken her place, it stood to reason that he had more information than the previous assassins did. It would have taken some sleuthing to figure out who would be in my father’s office this past Saturday.

  “I still think he’ll wait for the party to make a move,” Samson said the second he slid into the driver’s seat. “That’s when I’d do it. People are drunk, distracted, and easily separated. Plenty of people around to take the blame, which is perfect for the terms of your contract.”

  I cocked my head to the side and appraised him. It had to be a fascinating thing to evaluate everywhere you planned to go as a potential place to commit a murder. “Speaking of the party, as my boyfriend, my father said you could come if you got a haircut.”

  Samson frowned and started the car. “You really think I’m going to let someone with a sharp ass pair of scissors around my carotid right now? Hell. No.”

  “You’re a telepath. You could see their intent when they were massaging your head or whatever it is barbers do.”

  “I wouldn’t until they touched me. They could kill me before they get to that part.”

  “Who cut your hair for the last thirty years?” Samson snorted, and I leaned over the console to narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve always gone around looking like that.”

  “Vee cut it for me for a while.” He turned his head a little to look at me. “And I’m twenty-nine…I think.”

  The idea that he wouldn’t know his actual birthday jarred me almost as much as his not having a last name.

  “If I ordered some clippers, would you let me do it?” Samson backed the car out of my parking spot with a scowl. “Please? I’d feel much better if you were with me at the party. Apparently, men cut their own hair all the time, so I think I can figure it out.”

  He glanced at me a couple of times as he shifted to drive. The heat from the outside had nothing to do with the sweat on my palms.

  “You could make it look worse,” he said.

  “It cannot possibly look any worse.”

  Samson groaned and turned his eyes toward the roof of my car. “Fine.”

  I clapped my hands and situated myself in my seat. The idea of cutting his hair made my heart flutter, for some reason. “We’ll have to get you a suit too.”

  His nostrils flared. “This isn’t coming out of my pay.”

  “Of course not.” I pulled my phone out of my purse and clicked on Eliza’s name as we started our descent from the Ashby Building garage. “But I’ll let you take it with you in the end anyway. Who knows? Maybe you’ll need to infiltrate a diplomat’s party or something in your quest to…do whatever you’re going to do after this.”

  “I don’t need a suit to chop off Frank’s head.”

  I opened my mouth to retort, but Eliza’s voice echoed in my ear.

  “Yes, Matilda?”

  “Eliza.” I took a deep breath and prayed she didn’t hear Samson’s quip. “I need you to get me Blair’s address.”

  Blair lived in an apartment off the Hudson River in Washington Heights. It was eight stories tall with an excellent view across the river into New Jersey, and to be honest, I was surprised she could afford such a thing on her salary.

  The parking garage for the complex sat behind it, connected to the building by a sidewalk outlined with shrubs. Samson walked with a hand hovering close to his side, fingers twitching. The constant state of vigilance was an exhausting thing to witness, and I could imagine how tired he must be when he lay down to sleep.

  “Third floor?” Samson asked as we walked toward the large double front door. It was surrounded by a stone casing and topped with an ornately sculpted transom. The building was old, but it had recently seen some renovations. The smell of floor wax said as much.

  Blair’s apartment, one of four on the third floor, sat at the end of the hall. I pressed my ear to the door, hearing only the echo of plumbing rumbling somewhere in the building. I raised my fist and knocked three times.

  Nothing.

  “Maybe she isn’t here?” I suggested as Samson grabbed the doorknob and turned. Locked. “Maybe we should come back later?”

  “No.” Samson dug around in his pocket and pulled out his key ring, stopping at a small gold one. “I’m hungry, and I don’t want to drive all the way over here again.”

  My jaw dropped when he stuck the key in the lock and threw all his weight on the end of it. He turned the knob without trouble, pulled his little key out, and pushed the door open.

  “This is illegal!”

  “Most of the things we’ve done the past couple weeks have been illegal.” Samson held the door open, and I slowly stepped inside. “I technically don’t exist. It’ll be fine.”

  “But I do exist! If we get caught—”

  “We won’t.” Samson dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “Just in case, don’t touch anything. Let me do that.”

  After a hard swallow and a silent pep talk, I crossed into Blair’s apartment. An Ashby was breaking and entering. A first, I’m sure.

  As it turned out, Blair’s apartment wasn’t even an apartment—it was a closet. The walls were painted a soft gray, and thick curtains draped over the single window spanning the length of the back wall. An
unmade bed was pressed against the wall on the left, and a cat with a smashed-in face had nestled itself inside the pile of sheets. It poked its white head up with a shrill meow as we let ourselves in.

  “She isn’t here,” Samson said and shut the door. Like I couldn’t see it myself.

  “Maybe she’s out with someone?” I suggested and followed Samson into the space carved out for the kitchen. A pair of completely empty bowls sat by the cabinets. Piles of dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, holding varying degrees of dried or congealed food.

  “She hasn’t been here for a bit.” Samson squatted down and picked up a pair of pastel-pink bowls. “No cat food. Water bowl is bone-dry.”

  As Samson filled the water bowl, I scanned the room, hoping to see something to help us. Anything. Samson dug a bag of cat food out of the cabinet below the sink. The cat meowed and slunk around Samson’s feet as he put the filled bowls on the ground. Poor thing must’ve been starving.

  “It doesn’t smell like fae.” Samson stuck his nose in the air and sniffed. “At least enough for me to smell it.”

  “There has to be something though.” I shook my head and pinched the bridge of my nose. “She hasn’t ever done this before. Blair might not follow the dress code, but she’s always at work and always on time. She wouldn’t have a job with my father if she did otherwise.”

  The cat meowed at Samson’s feet, sated for the time being. Did cats mind strangers in their homes? This one seemed friendly enough.

  “The stuff people want to hide is in the bedroom.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Nine times out of ten.” Samson leaned toward me, eyebrows raised. “Bedroom.”

  I didn’t hide things in my bedroom. I didn’t really hide things period, so maybe listening to the career criminal was best in this case. Since the studio was less than eight hundred square feet, we found Blair’s bedroom easily.

  Blair’s bedroom and living space were the things of nightmares. A cute desk with distressed paint and crystal knobs certainly gave the room a facelift. However, the sheer amount of clutter and piles of clothes sitting on the floor took away from it. How could she stand this?