Chapter 20

The last time I did this day, it ended with me getting crushed to death. This time, I’m walking through a doily-covered living room in the dark to what I’m assured is a mostly separate basement suite with a thirty-something-year-old guy in a spandex suit. For this being the same fucking day, it never ceases to surprise me.

“We could go to my pla—” I start to say.

Grant holds a finger to his lips. “My mom’s a really light sleeper,” he mouths/barely whispers.

We pass by a skinny, decorative table as we walk towards the staircase heading downstairs. On it there’s an array of family pictures throughout the years. One of a collection of six boys catches my eye. The youngest one in the picture has a mop of brown curly hair that nearly completely covers his eyes. His smile is impossibly big. I know in an instant that it’s him.

Closer to the end of the table, there’s another picture of him. This time he’s a gangly teenager who’s seemingly made entirely out of elbows and knees. His curly hair still flops in front of his eyes. His smile, if possible, is even wider than before. In his hands he holds a trophy out for whoever’s taking the picture. It looks like he just won one of those card game tournaments—not the poker kind. The kind where you collect and deck build. His happiness radiates from the picture.

I swipe the picture, tucking it surreptitiously into my shoulder bag. The lawyer in me argues that it’s for evidence. It will provide clarity and talking points if need be. The truth is that I just need more time to look at it. Between his bright yellow braces elastics and his thumbs up pose, I need more than a couple stolen glances to take it in.

To take it in and marvel at my own stupidity for not seeing completely through his suave penthouse routine immediately.

The basement suite is definitely a basement and debatably a suite. In the part that I can see, there’s a full bathroom, a living room and bedroom, but no kitchen or eating area. I would bet my law degree on the fact that he eats at least eighty percent of his meals with his mom.

I’d bet my bachelor’s that he eats ninety percent with her.

“Hey Hailey,” he says with shifting eyes. He looks uncomfortable. God, did he just bring me to another person’s house? Again? One with a random lady sleeping upstairs?

“Yeah?”

“I know I brought you here to talk…”

This is it. The avoidance. Classic misdirection from someone who doesn’t want to answer questions. He’s going to make something up and then stall until he comes up with a plausible lie.

“Can I just grab a quick shower before we talk?”

I cannot roll my eyes hard enough. Seriously? That’s the best he can come up with?

“No.”

He groans, trying to run his hand through his hair before shaking it out with an exasperated groan.

“I know we really need to talk, but I got all sweaty when we were… you know. And when I sweat in this thing, it makes me break out into hives. It’s a really cheap costume. When we… you know, at that penthouse, I waited too long to get it off and I was itchy for the rest of the day. It was brutal.”

A simpler lie than I thought he’d go for, but it’s almost effective. If I were a more welcoming or kind person I’d buy it. I’d let him shower, come up with his perfect little excuse, and have the wool thoroughly pulled over my eyes.

Nice try.

The thing is, liars count on the kindness of others. They count on people being too polite or just trusting them. It’s how they get away with small indiscretions like cheating to larger ones like ocean contamination.

“Okay, show me,” I challenge him. I steady my gaze and set my jaw.

He shuts his eyes painfully.

“I already admitted to you that I live with my mom. Can’t I keep any of my dignity?” he whines.

“You can have your dignity or my trust. You can’t have both right now.”

He takes a slow breath in. “I really want your trust, Hailey. It was stupid of me to lie to you. I, uh, just wanted to impress you.”

Well, yes it was. It’s stupid of anyone to lie to me. I always find out the truth.

Grant reaches behind and starts to unzip his suit. It catches after a few inches.

“Stupid piece of…” he grunts, yanking on the zipper at an awkward angle. He shoots me a contrite grin and turns slightly away, like somehow that will block my vision of what’s happening right in front of me.

“Do you need a hand?”

Grant pauses and smiles. “Oh no. I can’t let the zipper win. Besides, it can sense fear,” he answers with dead seriousness.

He hops around a little more, stretching and tugging at the zipper that’s apparently being held together by steel rods and super glue.

“Dress up as a superhero,” he mutters to himself. “Chicks dig superheroes. Stupid… Ahh.”

The zipper slides down, sounding like two cheese graters fucking inside a dryer. After another big exhale, he turns to face me and shrugs off the shoulder of his suit. Underneath are the angriest red blotches that I’ve ever seen in my life. They look like caricatures of hives, over exaggerations used for cheesy infomercials. I’m itchy just looking at them.

“Oh god!” I yell. Then, I remember his mom upstairs. “Yes, go shower. Do whatever you need to do to make those go away.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathes.

He practically rips the rest of the spandex. To my delight, he’s only wearing his birthday suit underneath. While it is spotted and streaked with scarlet, he’s still a fine specimen of a man.

“I’ll be out as soon as…” He gestures to his spots, which I swear are making faces at me. Possibly threatening me with (another) slow and painful death.

“Go!” I wave him on. “Just know that I’m going to snoop through every inch of your place while you’re in the shower.”

He chuckles. “Clearly you put all your points into brains and beauty and not stealth.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it. “Nothing. But if you find a green tube of cream that smells like watching Matlock, hang onto it.”

With that, he turns and practically runs to the bathroom. I waste valuable snooping time staring after his ass, wondering how something so patchy can be so biteable.

When I finally get to snooping, it’s an absolute treasure trove for the curious. Compared to the barren penthouse, his couple rooms in the basement are overflowing with personal touches. Too much in fact. Almost literally everything tells a story in here—from the dusty ukulele to the sketchbook filled with observational humour told from the perspective of two cockroaches (one sassy, one sincere).

It takes everything in me to take a breath and prioritize. As much as I want to, I will not run amok like a kid in a stationary store. At least until I’ve found out everything I need to know.

First on my list of things I need to know is his identity. While it’s becoming increasingly unlikely that the billionaire Zagreus Hart lives in his mother’s basement, I’m still not prepared to completely rule it out. The rich are sometimes the most frugal.

A quick scan of the room leads me to a side table in his living room, where he keeps his mail—and I do mean keeps his mail. While I shred all unwanted mail immediately and file all necessary correspondence, Grant apparently leaves it on this table and waits for it to spontaneously compost itself.

There are hundreds of letters and flyers, all bearing the name Grant Morgan. From junk mail offering him insane deals on cruises, to ripped open, empty Comicon envelopes, it all says Grant.

His name is Grant.

He’s not Zagreus Hart.

A tension I’d been holding in between my shoulder blades unlocks. Immediately, I feel better. Even if Grant is just Zagreus’s henchman, at least he’s not the big bad.

At least he didn’t lie to me about his name. That would’ve been a hard one to come back from.

Next on my list of priorities is to find out what he does at Hart Link. If he’s not Zagreus Hart, he still has to be someone ultra important to have the kind of clearance Marigold showed me he had. They don’t let just anyone into the big offices. Even I’ve scarcely been in the name partners’ offices.

The sound of the water stopping kicks me into action. I close my eyes and flick through the information I’ve been amassing on Hart Link Incorporated. I try to imagine every file, hoping something will jump out at me.

Then it does.

The pictures of the employees on the ferry. Many of them were still wearing their I.D. badges when they got off. Makes sense. Since the dress code on the island seems to be casual, it seems like something you’d forget until the end of the day. Not like the uncomfortable clothes that I have to wear for work. I’m always shucking off my heels the second I get in my car. I’m always eager to rid myself of every last vestige of my work uniform.

Not so with a casual one. If I wore casual clothing to work (the thought slithers uncomfortably up my spine), I’d probably keep everything as is. I’d just wear my I.D. badge home and then put it somewhere I wouldn’t forget so I could grab it in the morning. I’d probably put it with something else I couldn’t forget.

Like my keys.

They’re the first thing I drop off into a small dish by my front door when I get home. That way they’re also the last thing I can grab on my way out. They never get lost because they have a set spot. I imagine I.D. badges are similar—especially for such a high security place.

When we first got down here, there was a slim bookcase with some knickknacks on it. Moving briskly, I hustle over there. It’s a long shot, but I have nothing else to go on. I break into a run when I hear the bathroom door open.

Most of the shelves on the bookcase are filled with books, ones I would love to explore and read, just to get a better sense of him. Despite myself and despite the urgency of the situation, I get a quick flash of us lying in bed, tangled in sheets, talking about the books we’re both reading.

One shelf, the one at waist height for Grant’s tall frame, is filled with knickknacks, including a medium-sized pottery bowl. As soon as I pull it down, I know I’ve hit the jackpot. There are keys and… an I.D. badge.

I nearly drop the bowl.

Picking the badge up with trembling hands, the words Hart Link Incorporated practically leap out at me.

Even though I already knew he worked for them, it’s another thing to know.

“Are you looking at my I.D.?” Grant asks from behind me, making me jump.

I spin around to see him with a towel around his waist and his head slung low. As good as he looks in just a towel, even that’s not enough to distract me from what I hold in my hand.

“You work for Zagreus Hart,” I accuse.

He nods, then looks up slowly underneath his already curling curtain of wet hair.

“Did you get a good look at the badge?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I don’t need to say more. He’s a part of a company that pollutes, destroys, and intimidates. He, and everyone like him, are scum. They lord their power over others to do what they will—consequences for the environment be damned.

I save it though, my curious side taking over.

Shifting the badge into both hands, I look it over. At the top, it says Hart Link Incorporated in bold letters. In the middle is a picture of him. His hair flops over in every possible direction, his smile is endearingly wide, and his eyes are closed. I almost snort out a laugh. It’s just so him.

Finally, my eyes catch on the bottom. In plain letters in a boring font, it simply reads: Janitor.