Jennifer Estep: The Spider

“Cesar Vaughn.”

He nodded.

“So what? You think someone blames him for the accident?”

“It’s possible,” Fletcher said. “Especially if Vaughn used substandard building materials or cut corners. That’s what the rumor is, anyway. That he skimped on supplies, labor, and more, and that’s why the terrace collapsed. Supposedly, the families of the victims are getting ready to sue him over it, bankrupt him over it.”

I waved the folder at him. “Yeah, but if someone wants Vaughn dead now, then it sounds like they don’t want to wait around for a lawsuit or any money they might get. They just want his blood.”

Fletcher nodded. “Or maybe they realize that a lawsuit will probably drag on for years, if it doesn’t get thrown out of court somewhere along the way. Look at who his lawyer is.”

I flipped past the photos and scanned through some court documents that Fletcher had included in the file. “Jonah McAllister? But I thought he was Mab Monroe’s personal lawyer. That he worked for her and her alone.”

“He is, and he does,” Fletcher replied. “But Mab happens to own a significant stake in Vaughn’s company. So she has a vested interest in making sure that any trouble Vaughn is in disappears. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s already gotten Elliot Slater to go pay visits to some of the victims’ families to make them reconsider filing their lawsuits.”

Slater was the giant who served as the head of Mab’s security detail and oversaw her bodyguards. At least, that’s what he was on paper. But everyone in the underworld knew that Slater was her top enforcer, who carried out all of her ruthless commands. No visit from Slater was ever pleasant, and most ended with blood and broken bones—at the bare minimum.

“You think Mab wants Vaughn dead? With him gone, that might make it a little harder for the victims’ families to sue.”

Fletcher shrugged a third time. “Maybe. But Vaughn’s company is a cash cow for Mab. He’s probably worth more to her alive and running things smoothly than he is dead and buried.” He hesitated again. “But there’s something else.”

“What?”

“According to our mysterious client, Vaughn has been under some serious stress for months now, and he’s been taking that stress out on his daughter, Charlotte. Hitting her, slapping her, screaming at her.”

“Where’s her mom?” I asked. “Why isn’t she protecting Charlotte?”

“Samantha Vaughn died in a car crash several years ago,” Fletcher answered. “I checked it out with some of my sources. Vaughn has had an Air elemental healer over to his mansion to see to his daughter four times in the last six months, three times for broken bones and once for a concussion. Supposedly, she fell down some stairs, fell off her bike, et cetera, et cetera.”

I snorted. “Yeah. Right.”

I kept going through the file until I found a photo of Charlotte Vaughn. She was a pretty girl, with the same brown eyes that her father had and glossy black hair that had been pulled back into two messy pigtails. She was staring at the camera, but her lips were barely curved up, and her gaze seemed dark and troubled, too dark and troubled for someone so young.

“How old is she?” I asked.

“Thirteen.”

Thirteen. The same age I’d been when a Fire elemental had stormed into my house and murdered my mother, Eira, and my older sister, Annabella. Before torturing me. Before I’d used my magic to collapse the stones of our mansion, accidentally killing my younger sister, Bria, in the process.

My fingers curled inward, my nails digging into my left palm and the spider rune scar there, that small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. Once upon a time, the rune had been a silverstone pendant, which I’d worn until the Fire elemental had superheated the rune with her magic, searing it into my palms like a cattle brand.

For a moment, the stench of charred flesh filled my nose, and I was back in the smoky, ruined remains of my family’s home, trying to swallow down my screams, my palms still burning, burning, burning from the silverstone that had been so cruelly, so brutally, melted into my skin—

“Gin?” Fletcher asked. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

I forced the memories back into the past where they belonged and concentrated on the file in my hand, letting the smooth, slick feel of the photos and papers ground me in the here and now. I flipped through some more pictures of Charlotte, until I came to one of her standing with a guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had the same black hair, tan skin, and brown eyes and was quite handsome, like a younger, leaner, more polished version of his father. The sly grin that he was giving the camera told me that he knew exactly how gorgeous he was. I saw the same smug smile on Finn’s face every day.

“Who’s he?” I asked, showing Fletcher the photo.

“Sebastian Vaughn, Charlotte’s older brother. He’s twenty-three and one of the vice presidents in his father’s construction company. Cesar made him the number two man in the firm a few months ago.”

“Any indication that he knows what caused the terrace to collapse? Or the abuse that their father is inflicting on Charlotte?”

Fletcher shook his head. “Not that I’ve been able to find. Some of his father’s business dealings may be questionable, but Sebastian seems to have kept his nose clean so far. Supposedly, he dotes on Charlotte and is always bringing her presents. If he knew about the abuse, he would probably try to stop it. At least, that’s what my sources think.”

“So what’s the problem? Vaughn obviously isn’t squeaky clean, not if he’s in business with Mab Monroe, and he likes to slap his daughter around. What are we waiting for?”

Fletcher shook his head. “I’m not sure. On the surface, everything seems legit and straightforward. But I’ve been looking into everyone who died that night at the restaurant and all of their friends and family members, and I can’t find anyone with enough cash to pay for a hit, at least not until some of the insurance settlements kick in. But half of the money has already been paid out, and I can’t trace it back to anyone. Of course, someone could have some hidden funds squirreled away that I haven’t found out about yet. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“But?”

“But I’ve got this feeling that there’s something a little bit . . . off about this job. Something I’m missing about the whole situation, although I can’t quite put my finger on what it might be.”

“Did you ask Jo-Jo about it?”

Jolene “Jo-Jo” Deveraux was the dwarven Air elemental who healed Fletcher and me whenever we got injured during a job. And similar to my Stone power, Jo-Jo’s Air magic whispered to her—of all the things that might come to pass. The stones muttered about the actions that people had already taken in a given spot, the crimes they had already committed, but the wind brought with it whispers of all the ways people might act in the future. Usually, if Fletcher had misgivings about a job, he ran things by Jo-Jo to see what she thought and if she might notice something that he’d missed. Sometimes she was able to tell him whether his worry was warranted.

Fletcher picked at a loose thread on one of the couch cushions. “I did ask Jo-Jo, but she said that she couldn’t get a clear sense of things from the information I gave her.”

That wasn’t unusual. Jo-Jo didn’t get supersharp glimpses of the future on cue. Like me, she had to listen to and interpret all the whispers that she heard. People’s thoughts and feelings were constantly changing, shifting even more than the wind, and things often simply got lost in translation. Sometimes Fletcher and I just had to trust in ourselves, that we were smart, sly, and strong enough to do the job and get away with it.