The Lie by Natalie Wrye (most inspirational books of all time .txt) 📗

away, I glance back at Lachlan, no longer liking the look on his face as he stares into space, his giant brain seemingly hard at work as he considers my questions.

He glances back at my face.

“Okay, Jesus. Yes. I know Frank Levins. He’s the guy that brokered the deal between my family's company and yours. How could I not?”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere…” I stare. “You want to tell why you're feeding info about me to Frank?”

One of my oldest friends blinks, hazel eyes going cold as he watches me. His muscular shoulders stiffen and jerk. “What—What the hell? I haven’t been doing any of that, Fletch. I don't talk to that prick."

“Well, someone is… Someone we know. Or someone I know. Someone close to me. And I need to know who.”

“Fucking Christ, Fletch… I don't know. All I have to go on is a hunch with a guy. I don't know jack about anything else.” He pauses. “What, you think this guy is coming after you or something?”

I snort. “I don't think he is. I know it. And I need to know how and when…” I exhale, my breathing blowing hard. "You want to tell me about this hunch of yours?”

Lachlan looks at me, and then out into the distance, his sandy brows folding together on his chiseled face. “I don’t want to be right.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” He shakes his head, his eyes still far away. “Because I could be wrong,” he says, long and drawn-out. “I…… I just have this……this feeling.”

“What sort of feeling?”

“That Chris Jackson…” He pauses. “Chris Jackson has been working with Frank Levins.”

His words are a warning—sharp and decisive, and I know that Lachlan knows more than what's he saying.

But my phone buzzes again.

Kev’s name flashes on my phone—again, and I growl in frustration, this entire morning, this whole day, getting the better of me.

I excuse myself.

Make sure I head past the bedroom door of the Bannekers—the groom’s busybody parents, I turn the corner, tucking myself away so I can answer the annoying Scot’s call.

My voice is a raspy explosion.

“Kev, Jesus. What the fuck, man? What’s going on? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

But my anger is dashed—drowned and strangled the second I hear Kevin’s voice.

The usually jolly Scot sounds anxious, even nervous, as I pick up the phone.

“Drew? That you?”

“Yeah? It's me, man. What's up?”

“Did you get the rest of my message? I'm freaking out. My English got a thousand times better, I'm so panicked. I'm inventing new curse words every minute.”

“Wait, what, Kev? I didn't get your last text. I was…busy. What the hell happened? And what was that nonsense about the bar being closed? It's Sunday. The bar is never closed on Sunday.”

I can hear Kev muttering to himself. The phone line crackles, going in and out.

I can barely hear him.

There's no pause in between his words. He just keeps talking. “It’s the damn clichéd chain of events. It’s like we’re cursed.”

“You're still there?” I ask.

“Yeah. I just needed to talk to you. I had to tell you.” He's quiet for a moment. “Andrew, don't tell anyone. This is serious. It's real, like this is for real. The new guys at the bar…they won't let me in the door.” I hear Kev sigh. “I'm not going crazy. I swear I'm not. It's not just me. It's everyone. When you left…”

“I know, man. But I’m coming back. I’ll be back to The Alchemist in a few days, I swear. And everything will be better than before, I can guarantee you—"

“But the…the numbers are different,” Kev says. “The bar has been closed for hours. They have to let me back in.”

“Who?” I nearly roar, confusion besting me.

“The city,” he answers, his large voice gritty. “The city shut down the bar. Shut down The Alchemist.”

“You're joking, right? This is some kind of joke. Some sick Scottish joke. I told you to stop drinking that expired beer in your fridge, didn’t I?”

“No, Drew, I’m telling you, it's real. It's real. Do you hear me?” He hesitates, tripping over his words. “First, last year's fire. And now this load of jobby. Fucking bawjaws. That's all it is. Someone's screwing with us.”

Chris Jackson.

Fuck. I'd almost forgotten about him.

The man that practically dug the ground that put my grandfather into an early grave.

A finance giant with corrupt connections all over the world, he'd bribed, bought and swindled his moneyed way all over the world, cutting swathes through companies and partnering with businesses only to beg off with millions.

My grandfather's business was one of them.

Fletcher Financial Group had only been one of Jackson's victims. And when we'd taken the blow, my grandfather never recovered.

Not from the betrayal. Or the cancer that only worsened in its aftermath.

He'd wanted me to take over the company then.

And I'd been too mad, too petty from feeling like my grandfather's pet and too fucking selfish to accept.

Running one hand through my hair, I pull at the strands, trying to put the staggered pieces of all of it together.

Chris Jackson.

Last year's Alchemist fire.

My grandfather's estate.

Frank Levins.

It had to have all been connected in some toxic cocktail that I had yet to properly swallow. I drop my hand from my hair, my thoughts circling back to the one woman at the center of it all who matters most.

I wet my lips, finding them dry, her name a croak on my mouth.

“Nancy… Where is Nancy?”

I know she had errands to run, but in my near-death experience with Sabrina, I hadn't realized…

She never called. She never texted.

She's been off the radar for hours.

Not even a normal bite me text in sight.

I swallow, my throat feeling like sandpaper with each move.

I exhale. “Was she there?”

I know she was. I know that.

“Was she?” I ask Kev.

Kev shrugs. “I cain't say. I dinna see her after she left.”

I look at the wall. The only thing on it is a dusty clock that looks like it's been there since the age of dinosaurs.

It's one-fifteen.

Nancy should have been back already.

I've been home for two