Page 50 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Davey

M y fingers rake through my hair, digging into my scalp as I wait for the elevator to make its descent.

Getting here was a goddamn nightmare. I stupidly assumed that I’d have no issues leaving at five in the morning, but the paparazzi were peaking over our back fence before I even walked the short distance from our townhome to the carriage house.

A pack of vultures was camped just outside the garage doors as they opened. The flashes were going off before I even took my car out of park. Steven stood guard at the back just to make sure none of them tried to sneak in behind me.

They were disappointed to find it was just me behind the wheel, but not too disappointed to put their cameras down. One of them had the brilliant idea to step directly into my path as I pulled into the alley, daring me to commit vehicular manslaughter before sunrise.

The last time we had cameras outside our door like this was in the weeks leading up to our wedding.

Thank God I had the foresight to ask Cora and Steven to come to the townhouse before we parted ways last night.

If they hadn’t shown up just as I was putting on my jacket, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving Natalie to sleep alone.

William’s death has put a microscope on everyone.

From what I’ve heard, Jeremy is dealing with the same swarm.

Don’t these people have lives ?

We’d been discussing the idea of Natalie and me investing in our own team.

It first came up in the spring, but we shelved it when we assumed Elena was behind the threats being made against my wife.

Since then, we’ve relied on Silas’s crew as we always have.

They’ve been generous, and I’ve come to see them as extended family, but they’re at their limit.

Between whatever Peter Lynch might be up to and this latest surge in media attention, the cracks are starting to show.

My body sways when the elevator jerks to a stop. The biometric scanner blinks awake beside the door, waiting for my passcode and thumbprint. I give it both. It flashes green, then the doors slide open with their usual groan.

The hallway is mostly empty, aside from a few folding chairs stacked against one blank wall. Down at the far end, a closed door muffles a sharp voice. I don’t slow down to listen. Instead, I turn to the unmarked door just a few feet to my right, twist the handle, and push it open.

It’s not a big office, but it’s enough. A handful of chairs, a coffee machine, a mini-fridge, and a tower of monitors stacked along one wall.

Only three screens are lit. Silas and Elena are perched at the edge of their seats as they watch Brenden Mercer’s head snap back when Cillian’s fist connects square with his nose.

Blood pours down his face from multiple angles.

Neither acknowledges me. Their eyes stay glued to the man who might hold some or none of the answers we’ve been looking for.

I grab a chair near the door and drag it beside Elena before settling into it. “How long have they been at it?”

“Hour and a half, give or take,” Silas says, leaning back.

“When did you get here?”

Elena shrugs, her gaze fixed on the screen. “About an hour ago.”

“You arrived just in time. I think Cillian is done playing around,” Silas admits, nodding towards our friend’s face on the screen, each line around his mouth etched with frustration .

Though we’re confident that no one has immediate access to the files William hid on the servers, we’re still not entirely sure who might’ve known about the facilities just by proximity.

Last night, I asked Natalie if she wanted to come with me this morning.

I knew Elena would be with Silas. It wasn’t that I wanted her to witness this, but she has just as much right as the rest of us.

Regardless, she turned me down. For all the fire she had in her just days ago, it vanished the moment she walked away from that final lunch with William. I don’t blame her.

He knew about what Shaw did to her, and he did nothing .

I’ve never wanted to kill a dead man more in my life.

Drag him out of the morgue just to put a bullet between his eyes.

Since that lunch two days ago, Natalie’s gone quiet.

I hate it, but if that’s what she needs to process it, she can take all the time she wants.

I’ve got nothing but time when it comes to her.

A flicker of movement catches my eye. Brenden’s purple-ringed eyes dart wildly from one captor to the other as Lloyd steps behind him. Blood still pours from his nose, thick and steady, down to the front of his shirt’s collar. Thin, red lines streak down his forearms.

Lloyd’s always had a preference for scalpels. They’re efficient. Maybe there’s something else he likes about them, but I’ve never asked.

Brenden Mercer is in his early forties and spent almost fifteen years at William's side. Officially, he’s been called everything from senior advisor to executive liaison.

Truth be told, he’s a glorified PA. William strung him along with title changes and raises, but his role stayed the same.

Still, he’s the most likely to know something about Deming and Sierra Blanca, or maybe just enough to point us toward someone who does.

Still, I have to give credit where credit is due; I didn’t expect him to hold out for more than a few minutes, let alone over an hour.

Lloyd grips Brenden’s thinning hair and yanks his head back, exposing his neck. Cillian saunters closer, a slim blade twirling expertly between his fingers. His dirty-blonde hair is slicked back, as if he's dressed for the occasion .

“Come on, Bren,” Cillian says. “Just give us something to work with here.”

Brenden stutters out the most pathetic sob. “I–I d–don’t know anything!”

Cillian exhales, long and slow. Tired. Disappointed.

Wrong answer .

In a blink, Cill buries the knife into Brenden’s thigh. His scream slices through the speakers and bounces off the walls. Elena jolts, her eyes going wide. Silas’s hand lands on her knee with a reassuring squeeze.

“You don’t have to watch this,” he offers, though the words are nearly lost under all the shrieking. The top of Brenden’s tan pants is already soaking through, red flowing around the knife. A stain of piss forms around his groin. I grimace, watching Lloyd’s boots take the brunt of both.

When Elena doesn’t answer, I peek over at her. Her eyes stay locked on the screen, but her hand now circles Silas’s wrist, thumb gliding over his skin in silent reassurance.

“It’s a shame,” Cillian says, drawing me back to the show. “I always liked you. We were all upset when we saw your name on the Sierra Blanca and Deming server files,” he lies easily, twisting the handle.

Brenden howls. The blood trails over top and under the fabric, down to where his thighs meet the chair. Cillian’s always careful to miss major arteries, but this one might be cutting it close.

“I–I shouldn’t be!” Brenden croaks, his voice breaking through a mess of tears, snot, and blood. “I barely knew about them! Wi–William handled those! H–he didn’t t–trust me.”

Bingo.

“He trusted you enough to tell you they existed,” Cillian counters, looming over him. “And to have you keep tabs on Davey while he audited the servers. I’d say that makes you one of his more trusted confidants.”

He presses his palm into the knife’s hilt, driving it deeper into Brenden’s thigh. With a wail, Brenden tries to lurch forward to stop him, but Lloyd and the rope binding his body hold him still .

“You’re really willing to die protecting a dead man?” Lloyd asks, incredulous. “William would’ve thrown you to the wolves like he was doing to his own son. All he ever cared about was keeping you useful.”

Cillian hums in agreement and finally lifts his hand from the blade. Brenden exhales shakily, relief loosening a fraction of tension in his shoulders, but he’s still tightly coiled.

“Things would just be easier if you complied,” Cillian says, taking a small step back. “It doesn’t have to be so… painful.”

Though Cill does nothing in particular, panic splits across Brenden’s face like a fault line finally giving way.

“I knew about them,” he gasps. “I knew what was h–happening, but I wasn’t involved. I swear to G–god, I wasn’t part of it!”

Lloyd leans over the top of Brenden’s head, grip tightening in his hair. “Then who was?”

“William!” Brenden nearly shouts. “He handled e–everything himself after Shaw. Said he c–couldn’t trust anyone.”

Cillian tilts his head. “Why?”

Brenden swallows hard. “I d–don’t know. When Shaw resigned, he said that segregation was safer. F–fewer eyes on each part.”

“Who managed logistics?” Lloyd asks, arms crossed now. “Transportation? Procurement?”

“William. He worked with m–many teams,” Brenden admits, his breathing hitching. “But in Deming, Shaw ha-handled it. He had his own resources to find the k–kind of patients they needed for the research.”

Cillian’s voice sharpens. “What kind of resources?”

“I don’t know,” Brenden insists, voice cracking when Cillian moves toward the knife again.

“I don’t know . Whoever it was, t–they could create fake identities, forge d–documents, clean up leaks.

If someone tried to go public, they disappeared.

If a patient started talking, they were relocated or h–handled. ”

“So a fixer.”

Brenden nods frantically. “Exactly. That’s what it w–was. ”

Next to me, Elena goes eerily still.

In the glow of the monitors, her free hand trembles. She lifts it to her mouth, covering it. Her eyes are glassy, disbelief flooding every inch of her face as something clicks together in her brain.

“Lena,” Silas says, voice sharp. He takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Talk to me. What is it?”

With unsettling calm, Elena reaches forward and presses a button on the keyboard in front of us. The red light on the microphone flashes on. Across the screen, Cillian lifts his head at the unexpected cue, the earbud he’s wearing now visible.

Then Elena speaks. Her voice is low but clear. Stronger than it has any right to be, given the way she’s shaking.

“Ask him if he knows Peter Lynch.”

I go rigid. So does Silas.

On the monitor, Cillian gives the barest nod before turning his attention back to Brenden, arms folding across his chest.

“Have you ever heard of someone named Peter Lynch?”

Even before Brenden answers, I see it. That flicker of recognition in his swollen, bloodied eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes.