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Rowan

Beatrice paces around me, a grim, thoughtful expression on her face. “I have a couple of questions. You’re going to answer them. Did you speak to Hank today?”

“Um...” I hesitate. Should I say yes or no?

In my peripheral vision, Lickie is chewing on her leash. She used to gnaw through leashes often as a puppy, which is why I upgraded to indestructible leashes. Damn.

“ Hey .” Beatrice aims a kick at my ankle. I’m ready for her, though, and I kick back.

She aims the gun right at my head. “Don’t fucking move. Did you speak to him or not?”

“ Yes ,” I gasp. “But I don’t remember when. He wanted to reschedule the budget meeting again. If you hadn’t destroyed my phone, you could check for yourself.”

“A voice call?”

“Yes,” I lie. It was actually just a series of texts.

“Who else?” she demands.

Think, Gallagher .

“I spoke to Tim’s ex-wife.” Another lie. “She’s a journalist writing a story about the Wincott family. If you hurt me, she’ll be first in line to ask questions. She gave me a big file of names she’s working on. People who knew Marcus Wincott and worked with him. People he paid off for years.”

And now I realize that Beatrice must be one of those people. “Did he pay you, too?” I ask. “Were you supposed to keep quiet? That would sting.” Even as I say it, I get the chills. “So you’re a Wincott, but you can’t tell anyone? But Hank knows, right? He made you a secretary instead of a cousin.”

Beatrice makes a face of pure rage. “Shut up or I really will shoot you.”

My heart skips a beat. There’s something funny about the way she put that. Like she’d prefer not to. “You don’t really want to shoot me, right? Too messy. You won’t get away with it again.”

She shakes her head. “I have a better plan this time.”