Page 111 of Twisted Control

It’s a major risk. The little shit is still firmly in his father’s pocket. One wrong word and he could tip Maverick off. Who’d tell Ray, then the moment I find Grace, I’d be walking straight into a trap.

Or maybe I’m being paranoid.

Either way, I don’t have many options left.

I drive to the next town over and pull into a dingy bar on the outskirts. I slip the bartender a twenty and ask if I can use the landline. He gives me a long once-over but eventually shrugs and slides the old phone across the counter.

“Need the number for Whitmore too,” I say. “The supplement company.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask questions. He taps something into an old tablet, then turns it toward me. The corporate number is displayed on the screen.

I dial.

When the receptionist answers, I keep my voice low and professional. “Finn Whitmore, please.”

Of course it doesn’t work that easily. I’m put on the corporate merry-go-round. After several minutes of hold music and transfers, he finally picks up.

“Finn Whitmore,” he answers, sounding bored already.

“Where’s your sister?”

He lets out a sharp laugh. “Took you long enough.”

“Answer the question.”

“And why exactly would I do that?” he asks lazily. “So you can sprint over there and make things even worse?”

“So I don’t chop you up into little pieces,” I say flatly.

“Mm.” He sounds almost thoughtful. “Tempting.”

There’s a long pause on the line. Then Finn sighs.

“You know, I’ve actually been thinking,” he says. “Dad hates you. He’s furious. Honestly, I haven’t seen him this unstable in years.” There’s genuine delight in his voice now. “If you and Grace got together after all this? I think it might actually send him over the edge.”

I close my eyes briefly. Of course that’s his angle.

“Where is she?”

“Relax. She’s safe.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Even if I told you where she is,” Finn says, “you can’t just barge in there acting like a psycho. What’s the plan?”

“I’ll tell her I’m sorry⁠—”

“She just found out her boyfriend kills people for money. It’s going to take more than a sorry to fix this one.”

I drag a hand down my face.

“What else am I supposed to say?” I ask.

“Christ,” he mutters. “You really are ill-equipped for this. Hitman is obviously a hard sell. But my sister is also deeply materialistic.”

“She’s not materialistic⁠—”

“She is. We can use it to our advantage.”