Free Dirtiest Lie by Cleo Peitsche Page A

together.
    Hawthorne sips his wine. He’s not looking at me, but I can tell from the way he’s holding himself that he’s going to say or do something that I’ll find irritating.
    “If you were going to analyze him,” Hawthorne begins, still looking off across the table, through the wide dining room and out the darkened window—at his own reflection? No. At mine. Hawthorne takes another sip.
    Curiosity gets the better of me. “Yes?”
    Hawthorne’s steely blue gaze swings my way. “What would your analysis be?” he asks. “What are your grandfather’s strengths? His weaknesses?”
    Analyze my grandfather?
    I attempt to repress a sigh, but it escapes my throat anyway.
    “He likes the con,” I say. “If there’s a direct line to something, he’ll take the roundabout way if it means putting one over on someone else. Unless there’s a chance he’ll end up missing out, of course. Then he’ll trample anyone he needs to.”
    “Think of it like an employee report,” Hawthorne suggests.
    “Fire him, and make sure security stands over him while he cleans out his desk,” I say. “Maybe conduct a cavity search on the way out.”
    Slade laughs, but I wasn’t trying to be funny.
    “He’s sneaky,” I say, dropping my hands onto my lap. I’m not being demure; I don’t want my bosses to see how much I’m shaking.
    “All the more reason to make sure he ends up in jail. Are you ok?” Romeo asks, but his warm, deep voice doesn’t have the same soothing influence as usual.
    “It’s one thing to be hiding from him,” I say. “It made me feel nimble. Safe.”
    “You never felt safe,” Hawthorne says. “A lot of bluster, though.”
    My head comes up, and I meet his stare. “You’re obviously qualified to analyze everyone, so why do I need to be here?” The words snap out in guttural bursts, but there’s no venom, no bite. Just fear, and I’m sure everyone can hear it.
    Hawthorne leans in. “Any chance today’s lesson stuck? Can you just answer our questions? What’s going on?”
    “I can’t pay attention to what you’re saying when your elbows are on the table,” I sniff.
    “Nice deflection,” Hawthorne says. “But it’s not going to work.” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand you. This guy has ruined your life, and you’re clearly terrified of him, but you seem to want to protect him.”
    “That’s bullshit,” I hiss, and even though I’m angry, it’s not directed at Hawthorne. I’m left holding all that negative energy, unsure what to do if I can’t run away and I can’t lash out.
    “Actually, while Hawthorne didn’t frame things in the way I would have, I do agree with him,” Romeo says. “You seem to be of two minds about your grandfather, and it’s confusing. Do you feel some kind of familial obligation—”
    “Absolutely not. He’s not a nice guy,” I say. “He’s spent a lifetime honing his ability to sniff out other sociopaths who would stop at nothing to get ahead. If there’s an official to be bribed, within minutes they’ll be stuck together like magnets. You might think he has money problems, but I suspect he’s got stashes in offshore accounts. He’s got resources and he’s resourceful.”
    The entire time I’m talking, my voice is getting higher and more frantic, and my fingers clench rhythmically into fists. I will myself to settle down, to sit up straight, open my hands, breathe from the center of my body.
    But it does me no good.
    “Why don’t we show you the observatory,” Romeo says, standing. He holds a hand out to me.
    When I slip my fingers into his, they’re surrounded by his warm strength.

Chapter 10

    The observatory is actually a short drive from the house. I should feel comforted by the cloak of night wrapped around us as we walk into the building, but that little exercise at the dinner table, thinking of my grandfather, has unsettled me.
    He’s not a man to underestimate, though he likes to project vulnerability when it