I sigh and reach up to pat at the freshly cut ends of my A-line bob, sucking in a deep breath that smells like the floral perfume the woman at Sephora spritzed me with. I can do this, I think as I dial up my brother again and finally get an answer.
“Lyric,” he says, sounding groggy and pissed, like I've woken him from a nap or something. I should be mad at Royal for putting my brother in the hospital, but … it's his own damn fault. What kind of dumbass shakes down an outlaw motorcycle club? I mean, seriously? “You finally decided to get back to me.”
I pause on the sidewalk outside the office, wishing I smoked so I'd have something to do out here. I end up just fumbling around inside my purse, pretending to look for something.
“I don't have a lot of time right now. I'm at the office, so spill it. What happened yesterday?”
My brother sighs, like he's too tired for this shit right now. Too bad. So am I.
“The agents were really nice. They asked about Brent, if I'd known why he was in town, what we'd talked about, that sort of thing. I told them we were old friends, that you used to date, that we had some beers and played some golf. They think they're here for routine bullshit. Both of them seemed pretty convinced that Brent was here of his own accord—and that he killed himself.”
There's a long pause as I pull out a stick of gum and pop it between my freshly colored lips. The woman at the store practically begged me to buy the tube of burgundy red lipstick she slathered across my mouth. I think it's called Liquorice. Yeah, the spelling bothers me, too. It's supposed to be Licorice, damn it.
“Did he?” Sully interjects before I get a chance to speak. “Kill himself, I mean?”
My pulse thunders hot and quick in my veins, but I clamp down on it. If I start sweating and stuttering every time I need to lie, this whole dating an outlaw thing is going to go south quick.
“How the hell would I know?” I ask, and then glance over my shoulder at the glass doors to the office. “I've got to go, Sully. I'll try to stop by the hospital later and bring you some takeout. Anything in particular?”
“Everything sounds good when compared to this garbage they've been feeding me.” Sully sighs and hangs up without saying bye, as usual back to ignoring and underestimating. Good. The attitude that's always bothered me should come in handy right about now. Blend in, be seamless, disappear. I take a deep breath and drop my phone in my purse, heading inside to find Kailey seated at her desk and waiting for me.
Great.
“Good morning,” I say as I try to breeze past her. Doesn't work. She rises from her desk and follows after me, heels loud against the wood floors, softening as they hit the carpeting on the stairs.
“The FBI is here,” she whispers as I pause with one hand on the rail and keep my face forward. The last thing I need is for her to see the cuts on my cheeks and demand an explanation. I'm sure that'll come later, but in this moment, I need to keep my cool. “They're in Dad's office, waiting for you.”
“Okay,” I say, like I don't much care either way. Professional, businesslike, completely in control. I can do this; I've been groomed for this moment. More politics. I can do politics. “Thank you, Kailey.”
I sweep up the stairs, chin high, heels high. Yep. I felt … different today, like the thought of wearing subdued kitten heels was going to drive me crazy. I took my craziest 'night out on the town' shoes from my closet and threw the red heels on my feet without a second thought.
Okay, so maybe I had a millisecond of doubt, but that's passed, and I'm feeling good … if not a little like I might topple over and break my head open.
“Nice shoes,” Kailey says, sounding confused before she finally retreats back down to the lobby to answer the phone. I suppress a small smile and pause at my desk to deposit my purse and laptop, watching from the corner of my eye as my father steps out of his office.
“Miss Rentz,” he says, using the same trick I do when I talk about him, distancing our familial relation by calling me by my last name. “There are two agents from the FBI that'd like to speak with you a moment.” He steps out of his office as I shed my wool coat and drape it over the back of my chair, pulling my shoulders back and moving confidently across the hideous blue carpeting on the floor.
If he notices my new haircut or my uncharacteristically flawless makeup, he hides his surprise well—so well that I'm pretty positive he doesn't notice at all—and motions me into his office with a generous sweep of his hand.
The door closes behind me as I force a professional smile for the two agents rising from their seats to look at me.
“You must be Lyric,” the woman says, extending a warm, dry hand for me to shake. Her liquid brown eyes shimmer as she takes me in with a practiced eye, starting at my face and working her way down to my red heels. “I'm Special Agent Shelley, and this is Special Agent Garza.”