End Game

by Lisa Renee Jones

“Oozing?” I laugh, digging my ringing cell phone from my jeans. “You’re full of interesting word choices today,” I add, glancing at my caller ID.

  “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not at work today,” she says. “No telling what would come out of my mouth.”

  “Speaking of work,” I say, glancing at my caller ID, “it’s Jessica.” I hit the answer button to immediately hear: “Mike Rogers.”

  “What about him?”

  “I sent you the draft of the public announcement of the sale,” she says. “He’s called me twice already and he’s a real prick today. Can you review it so I can get this man to go away?”

  “I’ll look now.” I end the call and look at Emily. “Mike Rogers is giving Jessica a hard time over the buyout announcement. I need to review it and let Jessica send it to him. Give me five minutes,” I add, already crossing the living area toward my office.

  “Do you want coffee?” she calls out.

  “This won’t take that long.”

  I’ve just rounded my desk and sat down when Emily appears in the doorway and my phone rings again. I glance at it and up at her. “My mother this time,” I tell her, powering up my MacBook. “Based on recent history, the first call of many to follow today.”

  “I’ll call her,” Emily offers. “I handle her better than you.”

  “You do handle her better than me,” I agree, pulling up my email and downloading the document Jessica sent me. “You handle my father better than everyone who isn’t sleeping with him, and some who are too.”

  “That was horrible, Shane,” she chides, leaning on the door frame.

  “But true,” I tell her. “And you know it.”

  “Sadly,” she says, “it is. Maybe it won’t be anymore. Maybe this loss will change him.”

  I give a bitter laugh. “There you go assuming my father is human, sweetheart. He’s not. The man didn’t even repent when he thought he was dying. He’s not going to repent when someone else dies instead.” And the truth of those words really pisses me off, as does the fact that my phone starts ringing again. “My mother again,” I say, glancing at the caller ID.

  “I’m calling,” Emily says, “and I’ll do it elsewhere so you can concentrate.” She disappears into the living room, and I start reading the document, making fast work of sending it back to Jessica.

  I’ve just hung up after calling Jessica when my phone rings yet again, this time a call from Martina’s investment group about the sports complex. From there, the morning snowballs into one thing after another, and Emily ends up on the couch in the corner of the office, helping me. Mostly, she’s playing middle man with me and Jessica as I try to deal with a combination of condolence calls and business I’ve neglected over the past two weeks.

  It’s nearly ten when Jessica arrives to deliver documents I’ve requested, and of course, she’s dressed in fucking black. “A triple shot of gasoline and a white mocha,” she announces, cups in hand. “Never say I didn’t bring you gifts.”

  “You’re a goddess,” Emily says, hurrying toward her.

  “I am,” Jessica agrees, handing Emily the coffees as the doorbell rings. “Which is why that’s a selection of finger foods to get you two through the day. I’ll take care of it.” She disappears into the living room, and Emily rounds my desk.

  I face her and accept the cup she offers me. “Breakfast of champions, right?” she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes, the barely concealed shadows I find there reminding me of her guilt over Derek.

  “Not exactly how we planned this morning,” I say softly, my hand settling on her hip.

  “At least we’re busy,” she says. “We needed to be busy.”

  “I can think of better ways to be busy,” I say, and suddenly I wonder why I allowed our plan to deal with today to include anything but us naked and in bed. Or on the couch. Or anywhere.

  Her palm comes down on my shoulder. “That wouldn’t be good.”

  “Then you must not be thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “I am,” she says. “But alone, we would have fed that sludge.”

  “You really must not be thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “I am thinking what you’re thinking. And what you’re thinking, at least for me, gets a little emotional.”

  “Maybe I need to spank you every time you get emotional,” I suggest, my voice low, suggestive by intent.

  “And what happens when you get emotional?”

  “I spank your pretty pink ass again.”

  Her cheeks heat and those shadows fade away. “You’re being very dirty.”

  “You like me dirty.”

  “Yeah,” she says, her teeth scraping her bottom lip. “I kind of do.” Her cell phone rings, jolting us from the moment. “And there’s a dose of reality,” she says. “That will be your mother again.”

  “Again?” I ask, at the inference that a good deal of those calls she’s been taking this morning are related to this one. “What’s going on with my mother?”

  “The list is long.” She starts to move away and I catch her hand.

  “What list?”

  “She’s having pictures blown up for the service,” Emily says, sipping her coffee. “And she wants a certain cake, because it was Derek’s favorite. And the flowers have to be yellow roses. I could go on.”

  “She decides all of this now?” I ask. “She’s known about his death for two weeks.”

  “It’s the last thing she can do for her son.”

  “But she didn’t want to do it until twenty-four hours before the funeral?”

  “Shane,” she says softly. “You’re being too hard on her. That’s your way of dealing with this, though, and I get that. But this is her way. In her time. And I doubt that it felt real to her until she got back here.” She presses her hand to my face. “She needs to do this and I’m going to help her.”

  I cover her hand with mine, searching her face and finding more of those shadows in her eyes. “This isn’t just about her. What’s going on with you?”

  “She reminds me of my mother after my father died,” she says, no hesitation to her voice. “A little of me after he died too. Guilt is hard to live with, and neither my mother nor I deserved it. I can’t imagine what it’s like to know you do deserve it. And before you even go there, you don’t deserve it.”

  “But my parents do. You are who I’m worried about right now. You’re supposed to rest.”

  “I’m going to be medically released later this week. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t have to do this to yourself.”

  “I want to do this, Shane.”

  Her phone starts ringing again, and as much as I want to hold on to her, to spare her more pain, I look into her eyes, and I know this is part of her grieving process. This is what she needs to do, and I make myself let her go, turning to find Jessica entering the room. “I set up food in the fridge and on the island,” she says, crossing to sit down in the visitor chair. “I’ve also had a delivery sent to your parents’ house for this evening and tomorrow morning. There’s a catering service handling the gathering at their place after the funeral.”

  Food and funerals do not sit well right about now, and I change the subject. “Did you bring the contracts legal wanted me to review?”

  She purses her lips. “Yes. I did. But really, Shane. They can wait. I told them next week.”

  “They need them now,” I say, trying not to think about yellow flowers and cakes. “Thus why I need them now.”

  “Fine,” Jessica says, reaching into her oversized bag to set a folder on the desk. “But after this, you need to just be with Emily. I’ll handle Maggie and everything else. That’s what I do. I handle things.” She glances at Emily, where she sits on the couch, talking away to my mother, I assume, before returning her attention to me. “Be with her.” My phone rings and Jessica grabs it before I can get my hand on it. “I’ll get it,” she says. “Remember. That’s what I do. I handle things. And well, I might add.” She punches
the answer button. “This is Jessica. Can I help you?” Her eyes go wide and she covers the receiver. “Mike Rogers.”

  “And I handle assholes,” I murmur, reaching for the phone and taking the call. “What do you need, Mike?”

  “We need to talk terms and transition,” he announces.

  “Terms and transition,” I repeat, leaning back in my chair, amused already by the direction this is taking and all too aware that he thinks the timing of the funeral will weaken my negotiation skills. He’s wrong. “The terms are contractual and done. And we’ll announce the transition Wednesday.”

  “I’m not happy with the terms overall.”

  “You signed the contract,” I repeat. “And I have to tell you,” I add, “I wrote that document myself. You won’t be getting out of it.”

  “My problem is with the hedge fund operation.”

  “It wasn’t a problem. You were staying in until your contract and investments came to conclusion.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “In other words,” I say, “you discovered my father is alive and well and still managing your money.”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “Sounds like the personal problem of a man who can’t keep it in his pants.” I don’t give him time to reply. “Believe me, Mike. As much as I want a clean break, I will not allow this deal to tear apart projects that impact other investors. And I won’t open myself and our remaining stockholders up to legal action by those investors you end up hurting.”

  “How about legal action from me? I spoke to my attorney today. I’m pulling out my money.”

  “If your attorney told you that you could get away with that, he’d be talking to me, not you. You want out. You find me the money to replace your funds from a source I can get on board with. Otherwise, you’re making money. You’ll keep making money, and when your contract is up, you’re free. But hey. If it helps, I’ll ask my father, out of the kindness of his heart, to offer up your spot to someone else.”

  “This isn’t over,” he growls, and hangs up, and I have no idea why but my gaze lands on an email from my mother and I open it. It’s a mistake that has me staring at photos of Derek and me over the years: playing baseball, at a hockey game. Laughing. Enjoying life. Every photo a knife carving out a piece of my heart.

  I close my MacBook and shut my eyes, aware immediately after that Jessica is staring at me. I open them again.

  “What can I do?” she asks.

  “I need a replacement for my father to run the hedge fund division,” I say, agreeing with Mike on one thing. “I don’t trust my father, and I won’t clean up the company to have him destroy it again.”

  “I thought your father went into remission.”

  “He’s retiring,” I say. “And even if he wasn’t, I saved that division in the hopes that Derek would eventually come around and take it over. Obviously, he won’t be coming around again ever. I need candidates on my desk Wednesday morning. The best, Jessica. Someone who could swim circles around my father, and that won’t be easy. Go make it happen.”

  “I’ll find the best,” she says. “But I won’t promise you I can do that by this Wednesday. Monday.”

  “Fine. Monday.”

  The doorbell rings and Jessica stands. “I’ll get it on my way out,” she says, grabbing her bag where she’s set it on the floor and then hurrying away.

  Almost instantly, Emily claims the seat Jessica has just abandoned, her eyes searching mine.

  “Say what you want to say,” I urge her.

  “I know I told you I support you pushing your father out last night. And I do. But maybe you should make big decisions like this after the funeral.”

  “My decision is made.”

  “You kept the hedge fund division for a reason, Shane.”

  “And as I said, I kept it for Derek.”

  “Are you sure it was just for Derek?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  The air shifts, and my gaze lifts to find Seth standing in the doorway, his version of black—a gray suit; his version of emotional—a hard-set jaw and no visible emotions at all. Emily twists around in her chair and moves to the side of the desk to face him.

  “Emily,” he greets her.

  “Hey, Seth,” she says.

  And that’s the extent of Seth’s ability to make small talk, his attention shifting immediately back to me. “Can I speak to you a moment?”

  “I can leave,” Emily offers.

  “I need air,” I say, standing. Yellow flowers, childhood pictures, and Mike Rogers are swimming in my mind. “We’ll go to the patio.”

  Seth disappears into the living room, and I walk to Emily, kiss her hard on the lips, and then head for the door. I’ve stepped into the living room, and I have no idea why, but I pause, then back up to find Emily sitting in my chair, her hand on her face, obviously upset. “Emily,” I say softly.

  Her hand falls from her face and her eyes meet mine, surprise on her face. “Whatever you think you just saw, you didn’t.” She stands up. “Go talk to Seth. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” I say, and I am suddenly angry at how true that statement rings. “But I’m going make sure you are. That’s a promise.” I turn away and walk to the patio, exiting to join Seth, who is standing at the railing, his back to me.

  “Tell me you found her brother,” I say, stepping to his side, letting the cold steel of the rail touch my palms.

  We face each other, each with an elbow on the railing. “He’s been off the radar since before we got involved.”

  “That’s not an acceptable answer.”

  “Rick didn’t just work for—and piss off—a small hacking operation. The Geminis are international criminals, feared by many. They don’t make mistakes. If he’s dead, he won’t be found. Ever.”

  “And those criminals think Emily knows too much. If he’s alive, at any time he could lead them right to her. So I repeat: that’s an unacceptable answer. Find him. Deal with him. Make this problem go away once and for all.”

  His eyes narrow at me. “Make this problem go away,” he repeats. “That’s a vague use of language. I need you to be specific.”

  “Find him and evaluate him,” I say. “Then we’ll define the meaning behind the language. Now, Seth. Not later. If Nick’s team can’t do the job, hire someone who can.”

  “Nick isn’t the problem here. He and I have worked on this together, and we both believe there’s only one solution that meets your need for immediacy, and it’s not without risks.”

  “And that is?”

  “Kill off Emily. The real Emily, and do it in her hometown, inclusive of a funeral. This, we hope, convinces the Geminis she’s gone and no longer a threat. And if Rick’s alive, it should lure him out of the shadows.”

  “Do it.”

  At the sound of Emily’s voice, Seth and I turn to find her standing on the patio, her arms folded in front of her chest. “Kill me off,” she says. “Get me off their radar so I know they won’t come here.”

  “What are the risks?” I ask, remembering Seth’s warning.

  “For starters,” Seth says, answering me directly. “Emily’s stepfather is dead and missing. Emily’s brother is simply missing. Both will be suspects, but that said, as of now they both have passports that show they’ve been out of the country for several months. They have alibis. They’ll be low priority.”

  “But they’ll want to talk to them,” Emily presses.

  “If they do,” he says, “we’ll make sure they think they do, through our people.”

  “You used the word ‘risk,’” I point out. “If it’s that simple, why that word choice?”

  “Because the police investigation is the least of our concerns,” he replies, looking at Emily. “If your brother responds to your death by returning home, openly or secretly—”

  “The Geminis might kill him,” she supplies.

  “That’s correct,” Seth replies.

  I expect Emily’
s retreat from the plan with this news, but it doesn’t come. Instead she says, “Right now, if my brother is alive, he’s like Derek. He has one foot in the grave and is ready to take someone else with him. And it might not be me. It could be someone else. It could be one of you, and I can’t live with that. Kill me off.”

  She’s saying what I want her to say and what I believe to be the right choice, but her body is stiff, her voice uneven. “We’ll talk about it,” I say. “We can decide after the funeral.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” she says. “I want to do it.” She looks at Seth. “When can this happen?”

  “To ensure it’s believable, we need a month of planning.”

  “Then start planning now,” she says, her eyes meeting mine. “This has always been in the back of my mind, Shane. It’s clearly in yours, or I wouldn’t have walked in on this conversation. We need to do this.”

  Anger hums around her, but it’s not at me or at Seth. I know this because it’s a familiar anger, the kind I know so well, I can all but taste it on my lips. It’s what I felt when I was trying to save Derek, and it was magnified when he died and I no longer had that option. “Make it happen, Seth,” I say without looking at him, my eyes on Emily.

  “I’ll update you soon,” he says, walking toward the door and exiting, while Emily walks to the rail and presses her hands to the steel. I step to her side, and together we stand there, staring out at the Denver skyline, seconds ticking by, her thoughts seeming to breathe into the wind until finally she says, “I want to save my brother, but I also want to save us from my brother.” She glances over at me. “You are probably the only person on this planet who could understand that statement.”

  “Too well,” I agree, relieved that she sees her brother as the threat he could well become. “Too damn well.”

  She inhales and turns back to the skyline, and silence ticks between us for a full minute or more before she asks, “Does it feel different to you, knowing Derek is dead? Do you feel his absence?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It does and I do.”

  “Do you think that’s because you know he’s dead? Or do you think that’s because your world shifted in some way when he died?”