Page 93 of Steal My Heart

“You’re taking up brain space with this game instead of forming visual PTSD memories,” he translates.

“You had PTSD?” I wonder.

“Play.”

Huffing, I take a seat and hit play. Focusing on the game, it is pretty satisfying when I get a huge row and the blocks disappear. Before I know it, the timer is going off.

Tossing the game on the lounge chair, I call to Maks, “You still suck.”

“Your swim lessons are still this afternoon,” he calls back.

I stomp into the house, finding Nola, who’s perched on the top of the refrigerator. “Why am I wet in these clothes? Maks, that’s why. Go claw his eyes out,” I tell her.

With bored indifference, she looks at me before swiping the treat jar with her paw. It goes flying from the top of the fridge, the jar shattering on the kitchen floor.

She hops down, nibbling a treat.

“So that’s why you were up there. I would’ve given you a treat; you didn’t have to be a menace.”

“That bobcat still out there?” Corinne calls from the pantry.

“She’s not a bobcat.” I sigh.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Angelo

Maks knocks on the study door, and I beckon him to enter. He joins me, handing me a phone. “Clone of Bennett’s. Original has been disposed of, along with him.”

“Excellent.” I read through his messages, finding the text message thread between Bennett and Mayor Morrissey. Scrolling, I get to the final message exchange.

After consideration, my client is not interested in collaborating with you and your incoming administration.

A shame we won’t have a friendly working relationship over the next four years. Good luck to your client and his business endeavors.

“Bennett, the lying weasel,” I grit.

“Go back to the main messages; there’s an exchange of interest between an unknown number and Bennett,” Maks tells me.

I click on filters, returning to the main message screen.

“Is the contact named ‘Cornbread?’”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“You think this is Fabien?”

He holds up his hands. “I’m not going to assume anything after the last man to do so was suffocated to death.”

Valid point.

“‘Cornbread.’” I think out loud. “That’s an unusual moniker. I’d be amazed if my brother has eaten a piece of cornbread his entire life. Is it prison slang?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

I scroll through the messages that span a few months, with days between each message and the reply.

Cornbread: Back in business!