I choke on my spit. “Five? That’s a bit obsessive, don’t you think?”
He scoffs like I’m being outrageous. I’m not. I am pleased he’s taking Melody’s safety seriously. I just wish the burden wasn’t on his shoulders. It was the job I was born to fill. “She had a bit of a scare a few years ago on the metro. I decided from then not to take any precautions.”
“What type of incident?” I force through the fear clutching my throat.
Bare feet padding against wooden floorboards sound down the line as Julian replies, “She was assaulted. It’s safe to say it rattled her.”
I grip my phone so hard, I almost crack the screen. “She was assaulted?”
Julian must hear something in my voice I didn’t mean to express. “Not like that. She wasn’t hurt like that.” I swear he whispers, ‘this time,’ but since my pulse is raging in my ears, I can’t testify to that. “She bumped into a woman who wouldn’t know class if it bit her in the ass. She spooked Melody into a nervous breakdown…”
He continues talking, but I don’t hear what he says next. I’m too busy making my own assumptions. They all involve a guy in a sparkly gold cape galloping in to save the day. All men with money have a hero complex. Even without hearing the rest of Julian’s story, I guarantee you they’ve been together since the day he rode in and saved Melody on his white horse. I’m not surprised, just disappointed. I thought Melody was too smart to fall in the category of a damsel in distress.
I tune back into Julian’s dribble with barely a second to spare. “If this has anything to do with Melody’s safety, I can assure you she’s in safe hands.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Your security is so lagging, they missed her exchange with a suspected Russian militant last week.”
Julian doesn’t take my snappy attitude in stride this time around. “Henry Gottle approached her, not the other way around, and we left shortly after. She was never in any danger.”
Now I’m the one left gasping. “Henry Gottle approached Melody?” When an agreeing hum whistles down the line, I squeal like my nuts have never dropped, “When?”
“At the campaign function your father invited us to.” Even a person with a hearing disability wouldn’t have missed the disdain in Julian’s tone when he mentioned my father.
I snap my fingers at Phillipa, demanding a pen and a piece of paper. She rustles up a notepad and a pen from her leather briefcase, acting as if her ears aren’t pricked, eavesdropping on every word Julian and I share.
Once I have the pen and pad in my hand, I ask, more coolly this time, “Did you purchase anything at the function? A cocktail? Campaign pin? Anything at all you couldn’t use cash for?”
I can’t see Julian, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel his shock at the swift change in our conversation. “I purchased a handful of cocktails. Why?”
“Can you recite me the receipt details?”
Julian scoffs. “It was a twenty thousand dollar a plate function. They don’t hand out receipts for fifteen-dollar cocktails.”
Someone without as many digits in their bank account as me would whistle at the impressive per-plate figure he quotes. However, I feel sick about it. The money doesn’t go toward good, scrupulous causes. It funds corruption, political mongering, and keeps men like my father out of jail.
“What about your bank records?” I suggest in a hurry. “Even minute payments have traceable transaction numbers associated with them.”
Phillipa’s face lights up when she clicks to the reason for my inquiry. I’ve suspected for years my father’s campaigns for office were being funded illegally, but with the Bureau not responsible for that side of justice, I’ve never had the chance to prove my theory. Although a transaction number won’t give me all the answers I’m seeking, it will show me where I should be directing my questions.
Julian is either scrubbing his chin or his tired eyes. I don’t know him well enough to know his nervous traits. “Can this wait until the morning? I left my laptop at my penthouse, so I don’t have access to my banking codes.”
Disappointment should be the first thing I feel, but it most certainly isn’t. “You don’t live with Melody?”
Julian’s sigh is more revealing than his next set of words. “No, I don’t.”
If he’s worried I’m tempted to mow his lawn when he isn’t home, he has no reason to fret. I know