Chapter 147 The clean up crew

Chapter 147 The clean up crew


~DAVID'S POV~

I stepped over the threshold, my boots sticking slightly to the floor.

Brad Sterling lay face down on his expensive Persian rug, a halo of dark blood rising around his head. 

The bronze statue Richard had used—a heavy, modernist abstract piece—lay dumped next to him.

"What the hell happened?" I demanded, my voice tight.

Richard shrugged, wiping a splatter of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. It just spread it further.

"He tried to attack me," Richard said, his tone conversational, as if we were discussing a change in stock prices. "I asked him a simple question. I asked where Monica was. The bastard knew, David. I saw it in his eyes. He smirked at me. So I... corrected his attitude."

I ran a hand through my hair, gripping the strands tight enough to hurt. "Is that the reason you killed him? Because he smirked?"

"Relax," Richard scoffed, walking over to the sidebar. "He's not dead. He's just dramatic."

I looked at Richard, who was now casually pouring himself a drink from Brad's crystal decanter, and then back at the body on the floor. 

I dropped to one knee, ignoring the ruin of my suit pants, and pressed two fingers against Brad's neck. My own heart was beating so hard I could barely feel anything else.

Thump... thump...

It was there. Weak. Shallow. But he was alive. I collapsed backward onto my heels, letting out a breath that sounded like a whistle.

"Thank God," I whispered.

For a second there, I really thought I was going to be an accessory to murder. I was already regretting every decision that led me to this moment. 

Partnering with Richard? Using his rage against Alistair? It had seemed brilliant on paper. In reality, Richard wasn't a pawn. 

He was a grenade with the pin pulled out.

"We need to get him to a hospital," I said, standing up. "Now. Before he actually dies."

Richard ignored me. He took a long swallow of the scotch, savoring the burn. He turned away from me, his eyes wandering around the room until they landed on the mantle.

Above the fireplace hung a massive portrait. Brad Sterling, his late wife, and a teenage Monica. She looked innocent in the painting. 

It was a lie, of course.

"If he dies," Richard mused, staring at the painted face of his wife, "do you think she will come out of hiding? For the funeral? She would have to, right? For the reading of the will?"

I stared at him. He was completely gone.

"If that is seriously what you are thinking about right now," I snapped, stepping toward him, "then maybe you should think about this: If Brad dies, you go to jail for life. And do you know what happens then?"

Richard looked at me over the rim of his glass. "What?"

"Monica wins," I said ruthlessly. "She becomes the grieving daughter. The victim of a violent, abusive husband who murdered her father. She pins all her fraud on you. She says you forced her to do it. She walks free, Richard, and you rot in a cell."

Richard's glass paused halfway to his mouth. The logic pierced through his madness. He took another drink, finished it, and let out a sharp, crooked laugh.

"You sure know how to ruin a man's thinking, David," he muttered.

"Sorry," I said dryly. "But I don't feel like spending the rest of my life in a prison cell wondering where it all went wrong. I already regret picking up the phone when you called."

I grabbed his arm. "Put the drink down. Help me get him to my car."

Richard frowned. "I thought you were calling 911."

"Call them and tell them what?" I hissed. "That my brother bludgeoned him with a statue because he wouldn't share his daughter's GPS location? No. We handle this."

"How?"

"I know a guy in Queens," I said rapidly, my mind already working through the logistics. "Private doctor. Off the books. He stitches up mobsters and idiots who get into bar fights. He'll keep Brad alive, and he won't ask questions."

Richard looked doubtful, but the fight had drained out of him. He set the glass down.

"Fine."

"Grab his legs," I ordered. "And we need to clean this blood before the housekeeper or a neighbor comes by."

We lifted Brad. He was heavy, dead weight. We managed to drag him to the side of the room, propping him against the wall for a moment while we dealt with the floor.

The rug was ruined. Drenched.

"It won't scrub out," Richard observed, looking at the dark stain spreading through the fibers.

"Then we get rid of it," I said. "Roll it up. We take it with us."

I grabbed one corner of the heavy Persian rug, Richard grabbed the other. My hands were greasy with sweat. We began to roll it, hiding the evidence of Richard's breakdown within the expensive wool.

"Hurry up," I grunted. "If anyone walks in..."

"What the hell is going on here?"

The voice cut through the room like a knife. We both froze, bent over the rolled-up carpet. Slowly, I turned my head toward the foyer.

Annette stood in the archway.

She was wearing a trench coat, a bag of groceries in her arms. Her eyes were wide, darting from Richard's blood-soaked shirt to the unconscious form of her father propped against the wall, and finally to the rug we were rolling up like clumsy hitmen.

The grocery bag slipped from her hands. It hit the floor with a crash, a jar of something shattering.

"Shit," Richard whispered.