The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,74
of brace-yourself.
Rather as someone who was ready for a bomb to go off might take cover behind cement.
“Edward?”
He slowed as he got to the anteroom before his father’s office. “Edward … ?”
William Baldwine’s door was shut, and Lane couldn’t remember whether he had been the one to close it when they’d done the evac the day before. As he reached for the knob, he had no idea what he was going to find on the other side.
And he wasn’t sure he wanted to see it.
He pushed the panels wide. “Edward—”
The office was dark, and when he hit the light switch on the wall, no one was there. “Where the hell are—”
When he turned around, Edward was right behind him. “Looking for me?”
Lane barked out a curse and grabbed the front of his own chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my old haunts.”
Lane looked for things in his brother’s hands, pockets, behind Edward’s back. “Seriously. What are you doing?”
“Where is senior management?”
“Down at HQ in smaller offices.”
“You fired them?”
“I told them just to get out first.” He measured his brother’s face. “Or they were going to jail.”
Edward smiled. “Are you going to run the company yourself?”
“No.”
There was a pause. “What’s your plan, then?”
“All I wanted to do was get them out of here.”
“And you think that’s going to stop the financial bleed?”
“Father is dead. I think that’s what will stop it. But until I know that for sure, I’m not taking chances.”
Edward nodded. “Well, you’re not wrong. Not at all. But you may want to think about who is going to be in charge now that he’s dead.”
“Any chance you’re looking for a job?”
“I have one. I’m an alcoholic now.”
Lane stared over his brother’s shoulder, out into the empty reception area. “Edward. I have to know something, and it’s just you and me here, okay?”
“Actually, this entire place is bugged. Cameras hidden, microphones tucked away. There is nothing secret under this roof, so be careful what you ask.”
Lane found himself wanting another drink.
And after a tense moment, he merely muttered, “Are you coming to the visitation?”
“I don’t know why I would. I’m not in mourning and I have no intention of paying any respects. No offense.”
“None taken and I can understand all that. But Mother will probably come down for it.”
“You think so?”
Lane nodded, and waited for his brother to say something further. The man didn’t, though. “Listen, Edward … I’m really sorry about—”
“Nothing. You’re sorry for nothing because none of it, none of this, was your fault. You can only apologize for your own wrongs. Is that all, little brother?”
When Lane couldn’t think of anything else, Edward nodded. “That’s all, then. Take care, and don’t call me if you need something. I’m not the kind of resource you want.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The Porsche got a lot of attention as Lane drove through the Rolling Meadows neighborhood, but not because he was going fast. Just the sight of the convertible and sound of the engine were enough to bring out the double takes of the dog walkers, the kids playing in the driveways, the moms pushing strollers. The houses were packed in tight, but they were of good size, most of them brick with cupolas or bay windows on the first floor and dormers or shallow porches on the second to distinguish them—rather like siblings who shared the same coloring but had different facial features. There were Volvos or Infinitis or Acuras parked in short driveways, basketball hoops above garage doors, decks with grills out in back.
With the late-afternoon sun shining down over postcard-worthy trees, and all the lawns glowing green, and all those kids running in packs, it was a throwback to before the iChildhood generation.
With quiet insistence, the GPS on the 911 navigated him through the rabbit warren of streets that were arranged by types of trees, flowers and, finally, fruits.
Cerise Circle was no different from any of the other lanes, roads, and ways in the development. And when he came up to the home he was in search of, there was nothing to distinguish it from its larger gene pool.
Lane let the convertible roll to a stop across the street. With the top down, he could hear the rhythmic dribble of a basketball behind its garage, the bounce-bounce-bounce echoing off the house next door.
Killing the engine, he got out and walked over the pavement toward the sound. The kid who was LeBron’ing it was out of sight around the back, and Lane really wanted to just get back in his damn