Page 60 of Exiled Heir

He shuddered back, pulling himself away, but I leaned forward, grabbing his chin and staring into his eyes. “Keith, I want you to believe me when I tell you this.Thisis me asking nicely. The next step is I report you, and we see how nicely Prince Bartlett asks you.”

Keith laughed, a low sound. I could tell from it he wasn’t afraid of Cade.

“Or,” I said, “I can keep asking you, and when I get tired, I let Nia ask you. Who’s paying you?”

I sat back, watching him, waiting.

He shifted, and I kept still, like I could wait forever. Wolves were predators, predators used to stalking their prey, waiting for them to make a mistake.

Finally, Keith swallowed.

“House Morrison,” he whispered. “They didn’t give me a name. I meet them at a parking garage. They pay me for any information I can bring.”

“House Morrison,” I said thoughtfully.

It made sense; it was a puzzle piece that fit. Of course House Morrison would want to know what was going on with House Bartlett.

But it fit too neatly. It was too pat. It was like when Jesaiah claimed I had been an agent of House Morrison. Something about it fit perfectly, which made it sound wrong.

“Yeah,” Keith warmed to the idea. “House Morrison pays me to tell them what happens here.”

“And what have you told them so far?” I asked.

Keith went pale. “Nothing about the security. Just details about the people. Where they’re going. What they drive. What they want.”

“Details like when Cade went to the city? What car he was driving? Details that almost got him blown up and poisoned?”

“No, no.” Keith twitched his head.

“That sounds very… neat,” I said.

“It’s the truth,” Keith said.

I waited, staring at him. His pulse beat rapidly at his throat. He looked over at Nia, but she was on her phone, completely ignoring both of us, her back resting against the door.

The longer I stared, the whiter Keith went until he was a shaking, sweating mess.

“Or maybe it wasn’t House Morrison,” he blurted. “It could have been one of the other houses. It could have been the dryads. I don’t know. We always met in secret, and they paid me.”

“Where did you meet?” I asked.

“We met in a parking garage.” His head nodded up and down as he spoke, a bobblehead doll on the dashboard.

That was the second time he’d mentioned a parking garage, so either it was the truth, or when he imagined secret rendezvous with other houses, the only place he could think of was the televised version of Watergate.

“Which garage?” I asked.

“It was on Enterprise Street in Los Santos,” he said quickly.

“That’s a long street.” I waited.

“It was the one across from the theater. The old movie theater that they shut down.”

I knew the one. So, it was a lead to check out.

Nia was staring at him, and I rewound the conversation, realizing that she had looked up from her phone when he had mentioned the dryads.

“Why do you think it was the dryads?” I asked.