I had to find it first.
Quickening my steps, I approached the small office that Max occupied. The door was slightly ajar and inside I could hear someone rifling through papers and opening desk drawers.
I laid my palm on the front of the wooden door—the door that still had Max’s name on it—and pushed it open.
The man standing behind my desk looked up in irritation.
The irritation quickly vanished and I was very pleased to see blatant shock ripple through his entire body.
I knew then that this bastard had a hand in murdering my brother.
Red spots that looked suspiciously like blood swam before my eyes, blocking a lot of my vision and making me think of causing him serious pain. I’d never hated someone just on sight until now. Even if he hadn’t given such an obvious look of guilt, I would have hated him.
He looked smarmy. He looked dirty. He looked like a corrupt businessman that cared about no one but himself.
It was going to be an absolute pleasure to make this asshole suffer.
I cocked my head to the side and did a sweeping glance at the box on my desk, the messed-up papers, and the guilty look written across his ugly face. “Did someone forget to tell me I was fired?”
“Maxwell,” the man said, casually pulling his hand out of the drawer he had been searching. He gave a nervous laugh and then glanced at the door—the door which I was blocking. He glanced back at me, plastering a fake smile across his face. The little beads of sweat that gathered at his hairline gave me an immense amount of pleasure.
“Who said you were fired?”
“Well, the receptionist sure seemed surprised to see me. Along with several other employees. Why else would you be going through my desk and boxing up my belongings?”
He cleared his throat. “You certainly are not fired!” He tried to laugh. It sounded more like he was being strangled. “We became worried yesterday when you didn’t come into work. We tried to call, but you weren’t answering. We were very afraid something was wrong.”
“So you automatically come in here to box up my stuff?”
“I just didn’t want anything to happen to your items while we were figuring out where you were.”
What a lying sack of shit. I sincerely wanted to plow my knuckles into his garbage spewing mouth. This son of a bitch thought my brother was dead.
I took a breath, reigning in my extreme temper. “So I’m not fired?”
“Of course not! We would never fire one of the most bright, young, and promising men at this firm.”
Uh-huh.
And mother’s liked watching their sons go off to war.
“What happened yesterday? It’s not like you to not show up. To not call. Is something wrong? Is Charlotte okay?”
My back teeth slammed together. I did not like hearing Charlotte’s name on this scum’s lips.
“Charlotte is fine,” I said, short. “I had a bit of an accident.”
“Oh?” he said. The sweat on his forehead was much more pronounced now.
“Someone ran my car off the road,” I said, watching him very carefully.
His eyes widened and his lips parted. It was a good impression of being surprised. “My God! You weren’t hurt?”
“No, but my car was totaled. It was quite a mess to clean up,” I said, flat. “And my phone was destroyed so I couldn’t call in. I’m sure you’ll understand.” I looked directly into his eyes, not backing down, not so much as glancing away.
“Of course, of course.” He came around the desk and motioned to my office. “So glad you’re okay.”
I almost laughed. I considered picking up the stapler on the end of the desk and hitting him upside the head with it. I considered confronting him here and now about his dirty, underhanded dealings.
But I didn’t.
I needed to control myself.
Self-control wasn’t something I was good at.
“Was there something you needed?” I said, changing the subject abruptly. I wanted to keep him on his toes.
“Excuse me?”
“You were going through my desk. Is there something that you needed? A file? A phone number?” A flash drive.
“Oh, yes,” he said, his eyes darting around. “I was looking for the Matthews account file.”
“It was likely in my car the other night. Nothing was salvageable.”
His face paled. “You’re very lucky to have not been hurt.”
“Oh, I don’t know about luck,” I said, walking around and taking a seat in the black chair behind my desk. After getting comfortable, I glanced up. “I’d call it more divine intervention.”
“You would?”
“It’s not my time to die. There are still some things here on Earth that I need to do.” I enjoyed the ominous undertone to my words. I hoped he understood exactly what I was saying.