Chapter 58

"I just don't understand," Charis Robinson says to her son over family dinner. "I know they said it was a heart attack, but I also heard that a private investigator has been at the mansion, asking questions."

"Who told you that?" Charles asks, his fork freezing mid air. "I haven't heard anything about a private investigator. And I'd think I'd be the first to know."

Charis shrugs. "I have friends in high places, too, you know.

"It just seems odd," she continues casually, cutting into her baked potato but keeping an eye on her son across the table. "First all this business with Nicole, then her mysterious death, now this investigator…why would he be investigating a heart attack, I ask you?"

"There is no private investigator," Charles snaps, dropping his fork and pushing his chair back from the table. "My god, Mother, you can't believe every little bit of gossip you overhear. Now, please excuse me. I have to make some calls."

He storms out of the dining room, slamming the door behind him.

Charis takes a long sip of her wine, looking worried.

"How many 'accidents' do you expect me to arrange for you, Charles?" the voice over the phone snaps at him. "Have you ever considered not screwing up in the first place, instead of just killing everyone who discovers your incompetence?"

Charles scowls and grits his teeth, wanting to lash out but knowing he can't. No, he needs Dillon on his side. He can't piss him off too much, or he won't help anymore. Worse, he might decide to go to the police.

Probably not, since that would implicate him as well, but you never know. He could strike some kind of immunity deal with the prosecutor, exchange what he knows for protection against being held accountable himself. It's happened before.

"I understand your concern," he begins, trying to hold onto his temper, but Dillon snorts and cuts him off.

"You do not." Dillon sounds almost amused. "You're a fool, Charles. Do you know how difficult it is to keep arranging unfortunate accidents for half the people in your life? First your ex-fiancé…"

"Excuse me, but that was an actual accident," Charles snaps. "You were supposed to have her framed. The car accident was just a particularly convenient outcome."

"I very much doubt that she's actually dead," Dillon continues as if he didn't hear Charles. "Did you know that? That accident was too pat, too convenient, as you say. Only it's convenient for her, not you. But you're a fool; you don't see that."

"She can't possibly still be alive!" Charles exclaims. "There was no way to arrange that accident in such a way that she survived. Cameras saw her get into the car, saw her go over the edge, saw her car on fire with a body inside."

"Mhmm," Dillon hums noncommittally. "Believe what you want, but I don't think she's dead. Frankly, I'm starting to enjoy this, Charles. You're a rat, and I don't like you. I'm only in this for the money. Which, by the way…"

Charles winces, knowing what's coming, and he tries to head Dillon off.

"Look, I know I still owe you for the rest of the payment for that frame job," he hastens to say. "And I'll get it to you, I will."

"And you still haven't paid me for the poison," Dillon says, sounding less amused now. "How many freebies do you think I'm in the habit of handing out, Charles?"

"I paid you for the gun," Charles says desperately.

"You did," Dillon says. "And you bungled that move, too. The gang member survived, didn't he? And you still don't have any control over the drug trade. You should have paid me the full amount for a hit, not tried to get your idiot lackey to do it."

"I couldn't afford the whole job," Charles growls. "And you know it."

"I do," Dillon says. "Which is why it didn't go to plan, Charles, because you cheap out on everything. And it also makes me extremely reluctant to agree to do a full hit on your mother. Where is that money going to come from?"

"I'll get it," Charles says, grinding his teeth again.

"I've heard that one before," Dillon says. "Pay me for the poison, and then we'll talk. Maybe. But I'll need the full amount, in cash, upfront this time. I'm not going to be played for a fool by some spoiled idiot with delusions of grandeur."

He hangs up, and Charles glares down at his phone in fury. Delusions of grandeur, indeed. Charles is going to make it. He is. But first, he needs his mother out of the way. She knows too much.

He goes to the drinks cart to pour himself a whisky and sinks down into a plush armchair to think. The embezzlement is going well enough for now – he thinks Claire has noticed the discrepancies in the accounts, but he's been so clever, so careful, that she can't trace it back to him.

But it's not enough. He can't pull enough to cover a hit – that would be too much, all at once. He'd get caught immediately.

He either needs another source of untraceable income, or he will need to figure out the hit himself. And this time, it can't go wrong. It just can't.

He's running out of time, and he's also running out of options.

As if on cue, his phone rings. Charles looks at the number on the screen and winces, feeling genuinely fearful for the first time this evening. He doesn't want to answer, but it will be worse if he doesn't.

"Hello?" he says, his mouth dry as he answers.

"Charles," the voice on the other end of the line says. "You know why I'm calling, I presume."

"I – I do," Charles stammers. "Look, I know I'm behind on my payments, but…"

"But nothing," the voice says. "I fronted you an enormous amount of money, Charles. A truly enormous amount. I took a great personal risk. A gamble, as it were."

"I…" Charles starts to say, but the voice keeps talking as if he can't hear him.

"I had assumed that taking a gamble and giving you enough money to secure a position as the spouse of a potential Alpha heir would be a good investment. I expected almost immediate returns. I was promised immediate returns, in fact. By you."

Charles opens and closes his mouth a few times, but no sound comes out.

"But I overestimated you," the voice continues silkily, calmly. "I didn't realize that you're an idiot who can't put his money where his mouth is. I've been following your exploits, Charles. Bungled murder attempts…that business with your ex-fianceé…"

Charles feels a surge of anger again. Why does everyone keep bringing up Nicole, for god's sake? He had nothing to do with that accident! Honestly, NIcole's very timely death was a success, if you ask him. She's gone, isn't she? She can't come back to bite him. It's even better than her being in prison.

Charles gets no credit for anything. It's starting to annoy him.

"Hello?" the voice says. "Anything to say for yourself?"

"I…" Charles scrambles for something to say. "I'm still working on it. I have a few ideas…"

"Your ideas," the voice interrupts, "are shit. I'm not happy, Charles. I want to see results very soon, or it's going to be your body they're pulling out of a burning car next. Am I understood?"

Charles barely refrains from whimpering.

"Yes," he says. "I'll be in touch soon."

"See that you are," the voice says, and hangs up.

Charles gulps down the rest of his whisky and sloppily refills his glass.

First things first, his mother needs to be eliminated. And then he can go from there.

He just needs a little more time.