Harrison twisted the cap off the bottle and the pink, disc-sized pills spilled on the desk. He snatched up several and chewed them to ward off the nausea and then noisily twisted the cap off the ibuprofen to ward off his pounding headache. Swallowing a few in one gulp along with the water, he drew in several deep, noisy breaths.
He couldn’t get Mitchell’s dying smile out of his head. No matter how much he’d screamed at Mitchell to hang on, it hadn’t mattered in the end.
Shutting out Toby’s concerned face, he turned abruptly to the row of windows that looked out over the city and took in a long, shaky breath.
The people of Denver, Colorado, looked like little ants from the twenty-sixth floor of his office building, but even a view he normally enjoyed disappeared.
“What’s the matter?”
Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he turned. What’s the matter? Try everything.
Could he let his overprotective loving uncle win this battle and potentially have another death on his hands?
He lowered slowly into his office chair and lifted his favorite pen. Carefully, he tapped it against his very full desk calendar. Work, he needed to work.
“Harrison?” Toby frowned.
“It’s Uncle Dean.” He gnawed at his lip. But it wasn’t Dean’s fault. He wasn’t the one that messed up. I brought this into my life.
“Is he interfering again?” Concern etched the big guy’s face.
“Of course he is, and he’s throwing money at the problem like usual, thinking that will fix it.”
He knew that was an unfair statement, Dean cared about his safety above everything else, but his uncle was throwing money at something that couldn’t be fixed. Nothing was going to fix this, he was flawed, and there was no fixing that.
Toby’s brow creased. “How?”
“What?” He frowned having lost his train of thought.
“How did he throw money at it?” Toby pressed.
“It’s too long to go into.” There was no sense in worrying Toby. Harrison spun the chair around to the window, not really seeing anything.
The first threat had been a small, typed note with the words “you’ll pay” written on it delivered to his office in a sealed envelope.
Harrison knew with certainty that Edward had sent it. Bastard. His back spasmed and he reached behind to rub at the soreness, willing the pain meds to kick in.
It wasn’t that he’d opened his heart to Edward, thank god. He’d done something much worse, he’d trusted him.
Embarrassment over bad choices had kept his mouth shut about the previous note, but the hatefulness behind what was delivered today left him feeling concerned. So much so that when the dead flowers and the same sick note arrived in his office this morning, he’d made the mistake of showing them to Marty.
His assistant, never any good at not interfering, had immediately taken the ominous items to his uncle.
Pressing his lips together, he swiveled back around to his desk and Toby. His friend had squeezed his large frame into one of the small office chairs in front of his desk and sat quietly, looking over a printed report. The man worked in his video feed department and had his face buried in a report more often than not.
What Harrison needed to do was come up with a plan to thwart his uncle, because he didn’t have it in him to deal with putting another life at risk. Call him a coward, but he just couldn’t do it. Mitchell’s life had ended over death threats from an unhappy employee. This time, the threat was a bitter ex-boyfriend playing a stupid and childish game with notes. Nobody was getting hurt or killed this time, not over a few stupid notes and dead flowers.
“We’ve run out of time for an early breakfast.” Toby looked up from the report, reminding him that they were supposed to hit the cafe down the block for coffee and food.
“I know and it’ll need to wait until tomorrow,” he agreed. Ignoring the way his stomach gnawed on itself, he pulled his day planner over and flipped through the pages.
“I can stick around,” Toby said, leaning forward and jogging his attention back. His friend was a worrier.
“I have appointments starting now and throughout the morning.” He gave a small smile.
A quick rap on the door filled the room and Marty Baker poked her head inside. Her green eyes held concern. She wore her messy hair in a bun, and her expensive pantsuit had more than a few wrinkles.
He couldn’t survive without her. The forty year old woman was a top-notch assistant and had been with him since the day he’d come to work with his father after college.
Harrison should have anticipated her move to tell his uncle about the damned delivery.
“Your eleven o’clock is here, Mr. Trudel.”
“Thank you, Marty. Give me five minutes before sending him in.”
Marty eyed him and stayed in the doorway.
Toby stood, ran his fingers through his bright red hair, and approached his chair. “Call me if you need someone to hang out with or talk.” His friend squeezed his shoulder.
“I will.”
Marty continued to eye him after Toby left the room.
“You could have warned me,” Harrison grumbled at her.
“If I had done that, you would have found a way around it. Now, it’s done.” She nodded decisively and snapped the door closed.
He sighed and tapped his pen on the desk before spinning back to the window.
While his personal life was a mess, he found comfort in the order of his job.
As Trudel Industries’ Technical Operations Manager, he met with and vetted future clientele and generated new business for their real time security software program.
Running his father’s company alongside of his uncle was rewarding, and he was sure his dad would have wanted that for them. Only Henry Trudel wasn’t here to ask. His father was gone and had left him in an extremely difficult situation.
Oh god, dad, what were you thinking? A lump formed in his throat. No matter how much he wished at that very moment for Henry’s guidance, nothing on earth could bring his dad back.
Knuckles rapped on the door.
“Come in.”
He squared his shoulders and stood, straightening his tie.
The elevator pinged to a stop on his floor of the parking garage. Just before lunch, the place was deserted. He stopped because the area looked darker than usual. Frowning, he pulled out his car keys and cell phone.
“Security,” the desk answered on the first ring.
“Renee?”
“Hi, Mr. Trudel.”
“Hey, can you have the lights checked in the parking garage? My level seems to be dimly lit.”
The place was packed with cars in every spot, but nothing moved in the quiet space.
“Sure thing!” the perky woman said.
Smiling, he tucked his phone away and approached his BMW.
Hitting the button on the key fob, his foot kicked something on the ground. Whatever it was, it broke with a light tinkling sound.
Frowning, he reached down and then jerked back with a quick, sucking breath at the sharp, stabbing pain in his hand.
“What the hell?” he hissed.
A red, sticky substance covered his palm and in the dim light, an open cut oozed blood. He held his hand to his nose and a sweet, familiar scent of strawberry filled the air.
Something dark on the windshield drew him around to the front of his car. The same sticky substance streaked across the white hood with a large, red X, and words had been painted across the windshield.