She bet he’d never thought of her going against him. That she’d actually come to care for Ink.
There was a low rumbling noise and she glanced up, frowning as she realized that the door was still partially open. After a quick glance around to ascertain she was alone, she moved closer to the door. It was risky. If someone was monitoring the cameras and saw her then Forrest would lose his shit.
But this was her chance.
“Stupid bitch. Does she really think she gets to ask questions? She needs to learn her place.”
“Betsy will do as she’s told. You have enough over her to ensure that,” Kit said in that bored voice.
“Ought to go up there and teach her a fucking lesson.”
She stiffened at the sound of footsteps, looking around frantically for somewhere to hide.
“It will delay your plans if you bruise her,” Kit reminded his boss.
“Fuck.”
“You still want to frame the biker for your brother’s murder?”
What? He wanted to put the blame on Ink for Jonathan’s murder? But why? What did Forrest even care? Unless…
“I need to get the old man to stop focusing on me. I need to give him a scapegoat. Those fucking MC dickheads are perfect. They’re nobodies. Not tied to anyone who will retaliate. And they were seen outside Jonathan’s house in the weeks leading up to his murder.”
“And Ink is the one without a solid alibi for that night,” Kit surmised.
“Exactly. All we need is Betsy to get close to him, plant some fucking evidence then steer the stupid pigs onto him.”
“That shouldn’t be hard.”
“Not that he’ll be going to jail. The old man will make sure he comes to some nasty end before then. But I need to look squeaky clean so that the old man never suspects that I framed that fucking biker dickhead. Which is where Betsy comes in. We’ll need to get rid of her after.”
“Consider it done.”
Both men laughed. And she turned, rushing up the stairs, her hand over her mouth. She barely made it into her private bathroom before her meagre dinner came back up. She vomited until there was nothing left. Then she lay on the cool, marble floor trying to get her racing thoughts to make sense of it all.
She rested a hand on her queasy stomach. Forrest hadn’t been close to his brother as far as she could tell. She had met his father once. While he was a respected member of society, there was something very off about him.
Forrest was going to frame Ink for murder. He had some sort of evidence for her to plant once she got closer to Ink.
She had to warn him.
The only question was how could she do it without signing her own death warrant?
9
Betsy felt awful.
She hadn’t slept. She’d lain awake all night thinking about what she’d learned, trying to figure out some way she could warn Ink. Without it costing her everything. She needed to tell him he was in danger.
He’ll hate you once he learns the truth.
She winced at that thought. It shouldn’t hold sway. She shouldn’t care. It wasn’t like they were ever going to be able to have a relationship. This was all fake.
Right, those feelings you have for him are totally fake.
Eventually, he’d find out that she wasn’t who she said she was.
She was a complete and utter lie.
But what did it matter if he hated her? Better he hate her and be alive.
That’s what mattered here. Keeping him safe and alive.
She walked towards Forrest’s office. She’d delayed as long as she could. It was nearly eleven. Ink was expecting her to text him. She needed a phone.
Thing One was standing in front of the door to Forrest’s office. Awesome. Thing One was only slightly more appealing than Thing Two. But not by much. Pockmarked with a nose that had been broken too many times to heal properly, his eyebrows had almost formed a unibrow and the chest hair that poked through his shirt could have done an otter proud.
He had a perpetual scowl on his face, which he aimed her way as she approached him. She’d rather deal with him than Thing Two. But she knew where one was, the other wasn’t far behind.
Thing One was scary. He was all brawn and no brain. Thing Two wasn’t much smarter. But he was far creepier.
Thing One’s gaze caught on her near non-existent boobs. She’d had some once. A long time ago, before anxiety had made eating an almost impossible task.