My laptop and real phone. “Oh. Thanks.” I get up to grab them.
But he’s frowning at something behind me. “Where’d you get that other phone?”
Shit. But I decide to tell a semitruth. “Seth gave it to me. We’re not supposed to be talking to each other…but we want to. So, extra phone.” I shrug.
Davy looks at me. “Are you guys, like, dating?”
“No,” I say firmly. “We’re just friends.”
My brother’s face is troubled. “Are you sure the police aren’t about to arrest you?”
“Yes.” I try to sound more confident than I feel. “They don’t have any evidence. They can’t.” The last thing I need is Davy worrying about this.
“Okay.” He doesn’t look appeased, though.
I put a hand on his arm. “They can’t arrest me for something I didn’t do. I’ll be fine.”
“You’d tell me if you really thought you were in trouble, right?”
“Yes. It’ll be fine, Davy.”
It has to be.
“Okay.”
Davy finally heads off to his own room.
I let out a breath and run back to Fiona’s secret phone.
I have to read every single text. I have to find concrete proof that this is Harold Montgomery.
And after that, I have to decide what to do with it.
—
I spend the rest of the day and night, with a brief break for dinner, reading through Fiona’s text stream.
I scroll faster. But the more I go on, the more my heart sinks.
I don’t know if this guy was purposely not giving any info out about himself because he knew the phone might be discovered, or if he was just lucky. But there are no specifics, just Meet me at the house at 4PM or 7PM? Downtown office? Which at least tells me it was someone with an office downtown. But that could be millions of people.
The guy was always calling Fiona things like babe and sweetheart and my personal least favorite, my tiny dancer. But she never called him anything. It’s clear, at least to me, that Fiona had no affection for this guy. It was transactional for her. She needed his money and she did what she needed to do to get it. It’s kind of amazing to me he never figured it out. But I guess people can talk themselves into anything if they want it badly enough, see what they want to see.
Then I’m still. Maybe he did figure it out. And that’s why he killed her. Maybe it didn’t have to do with the money. It had to do with the fact she didn’t love him.
There are references to the money part.
212: Check the mail, a little love from me ♥
Fiona: Thank you, I appreciate it
But nothing that points to Harold directly.
Until I get to:
I’m in a meeting until then, but when you get here, call Patrice to let her know you’re at the service elevator. Someone will let you in. Get off at the 12th floor. Then wait for me in my office.
I wonder if Harold Montgomery has an assistant named Patrice.
I turn to my laptop and google Harold Montgomery. Predictably, a bunch of old white men show up, so I add New York, NY to the end of the query.
Still more old white men.
Then I add Wall St.
Bingo.
There’s a professional headshot of Harold Montgomery. Apparently, he’s in the same office building as Thatcher Montgomery Sr.
And there’s a phone number right here.
I start to dial—then remember it’s Saturday. I’ll have to wait until Monday.
But if Harold Montgomery does have an assistant named Patrice—I could take that to the police. That would be pretty strong proof. Wouldn’t it? Or maybe they have a way to trace the number and prove who it belongs to. But if he’s smart, Harold Montgomery would have gotten rid of his own phone a year ago.
Plus, there’s nothing here that one hundred percent proves this phone is Fiona’s. There could be more than one Patrice. There’s the tiny dancer thing—but I didn’t even find the phone in our house. I found the paper with the passcode here—but I have no way of proving that to anyone, either.
I need more evidence.
