Chapter 45

"It's just weird," Charles snaps at Trent Mickle, who flinches slightly at his boss's tone. "Who is she? Where did she come from?"

"Dr. Evelyn Prism, from Australia," Mickle begins tentatively, wondering how many times they're going to have this conversation.

Charles actually picks up a pen and flings it at Mickle's head. Mickle dodges, and the pen harmlessly hits the doorway with a smack.

"I know all that," Charles roars at Mickle. "But it doesn't make sense! You know as well as I do that the whole thing is fishy. It's rotten. Something is rotten in the state of this mansion, and her name is – supposedly – Dr. Evelyn Prism."

"I just don't know what you want me to say, boss," Mickle says helplessly, waving his hands vaguely. "I've looked her up. She doesn't have a big online presence, but that's not surprising, given that she worked in remote locations for her entire career thus far."

"There must be something off," Charles says. "Something you can find. Fabricated degrees, reverse-searched images that link back to her real identity, something."

"Boss, I'm sorry, but there isn't! We've been over and over this," Mickle says wearily, rubbing his face. "Her degrees are legitimate. I even checked with the admissions offices of both her undergraduate establishment and her medical school.

"I have her transcripts. I have employment records in Australia, going back in the days before she started work with the werewolf communities in the bush. I even spoke to someone who remembers her from their intern days."

"But it's not possible," Charles hisses. "That woman is not who she says she is. I know she's not. She's interfering with my plans – every time something seems to go wrong, she is at the heart of it. It all comes back to her."

"Maybe she's just a really good doctor?" Mickle offers weakly.

"Don't be an idiot, Mickle," Charles snaps. "She's operating only as someone who has insider information could. Someone like Nicole."

There's a long silence between the two of them. Mickle tries to choose his words carefully, but he knows Charles is going to blow his stack no matter what. Still, he has to say something.

"Nicole is dead, boss," he begins cautiously.

Another pen flies by his ear, and Mickle frowns. He's starting to lose his patience with Charles and with this job. Mickle is an administrative assistant, and a good one. Instead, Charles has him bumbling around like some sort of half-spy, half manservant, and Mickle is getting tired of it.

He draws the line at people throwing things at him. He can find a better job than this, easily. It wouldn't be as prestigious, but it would likely pay a bit better – Charles is a real skinflint – and he can almost guarantee the bosses wouldn't be insulting him, sending him on wild goose chases, and throwing shit at him on a daily basis.

"Nicole can't be dead," Charles is ranting now, standing up and pacing back and forth behind his desk. Mickle eyes the whisky decanter sitting nearby and wonders how many Charles has had this evening, exactly.

"She can't be dead, because she's somehow informing this Evelyn of secret information and working to defeat all my plans. It's a conspiracy, Mickle, I know it is!"

His voice ends on a high-pitched shriek, and Mickle can barely disguise his disgust. Charles has always been a bit of an asshole, sure, but he used to be a genuinely good businessman, one who could teach someone like Mickle a lot.

Now, he just seems paranoid and delusional. Not to mention constantly sozzled.

"Again, boss, what do you want me to do about it?" Mickle asks, this time with considerably less patience. "We've looked into every aspect of her death, and it all checks out. I've looked into this Dr. Prism, and she checks out. Unless there's some kind of supernatural force at work, here, I think you're off base."

Charles picks up a third pen and winds it back, and Mickle finally snaps.

"And if you throw one more goddamn thing at me, I will quit this job and take my story straight to the press," he says. "I'm not screwing around, Charles. I don't even care about the NDA. With what I know, you'd be out on your ass from this mansion so fast that you wouldn't have a penny left for a lawsuit."

Charles gapes like a fish at Mickle for a few moments, clearly in disbelief. He does drop the pen, though.

"That's better. Now, is there anything sane and reasonable that you want me to do to further investigate this woman? Because short of magically becoming psychic and reading her mind, I don't see what else I can do."

Charles makes a visible effort to calm himself.

"We need to have her followed," he says in a more measured voice. "Either you can do it, or you can get someone else. But I want to know everything about her – not her past, we've tried that, but what she's up to now."

"Very well," Mickle says, his tone subordinate and agreeable again. "I'll see what I can do, boss."

"Come to me the moment you find out anything, Mickle. That's all. You're dismissed."

"Can this be our new tradition?" Liam asks, plopping down next to Marcus at the bar and waving at the bartender for a beer. "I like this so much better than sitting in your office and drinking whisky. You don't even drink the good stuff, you know."

Marcus snorts with laughter. Liam never fails to brighten his mood.

"I drink Talisker, for god's sake," he says, amused.

"Yes, and it's rubbish," Liam says, taking a long gulp of his beer and smacking his lips with satisfaction. "If it's not Laphroaig, I don't want to know about it."

"Laphroaig tastes like drinking a bonfire," Marcus says. "It's so strong-tasting, it was the only whisky allowed during Prohibition, for medicinal purposes. They figured it tasted so foul, no one would drink it for fun."

Liam rolls his eyes.

"Americans," he says dismissively.

"You're half American," Marcus points out. "And you're drinking an American beer."

"Did we come here to discuss my drinking habits, or did we come here to discuss your love life?" Liam sounds prim, and Marcus laughs again.

"All right, we can discuss my love life," he says. "And yes, this can be our new tradition. I rather like it here, in fact. It reminds me…" he trails off.

"Reminds you of what?" Liam asks with a knowing smile.

"Well, it reminds me of Nicole. And – and Evelyn. Not that I ever saw either of them in a dive bar, mind you. It's just that…well, they're both so professional and poised and beautiful, and they fit right into high-society events, like my sister's wedding or my mother's parties."

"But?" prompts Liam, not drawing attention to the fact that Marcus still refers to Nicole in the present tense.

"But they're also both so laid back, so – so fun, Liam. I feel like I can relax around them, cut loose. Drink a beer, for god's sake, take off my tie and unbutton my shirt a little."

"Heaven forfend," Liam jokes. Marcus rolls his eyes.

"I mean it," he says. Then he pauses before adding, "I asked her out. On a date. This week."

"Who?" Liam asks. "Not Lydia, surely. You don't want to have to dodge that bullet twice." Liam had, of course, heard all about the breakup scene, and he still feels a bit guilty about the whole thing. After all, Lydia was his idea, and he's the one who pushed it.

"Evelyn," Marcus says. "We're going out for dinner and to the ballet, and then we're going for drinks afterward."

Liam raises his eyes, impressed.

"Cheers, my friend," he says, raising his glass. They clink and drink.

"Thank you," Marcus says, sighing and closing his eyes. "I already feel…I feel…"

"Happy," Liam says quietly. "You feel happy, and I can tell, because I can see it written all over your face."

"Yes," Marcus smiles. "The idea of going out with Evelyn makes me very, very happy."