The After Hours Deception, page 1
The After Hours Deception
Masquerade Inc. Cozy Mysteries #1
Patti Larsen
Kobo Edition
Copyright 2019 by Patti Larsen
Find out more about me at
http://www.pattilarsen.com
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Kobo Edition, License Notes
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Moment De La Mort
He grins over his glass of champagne. Everything is going exactly the way he intended and, dare he say so himself, he’s killing it.
Absolutely killing it.
He drains the glass, sets it aside, sits back. Laughs out loud though there’s no one there to hear it, as far as he’s aware. Not that he’s aware of much aside from his ego’s vanity, cheek, conceit.
That laugh is more than enough to hide movement behind him. His arrogance allows the sneak approach. Which means, of course, he’s so distracted by his own pomposity he doesn’t see the napkin-wrapped hand hover over the melting pool in the silver basin, nor does he witness said hand remove the dripping and empty bottle of bubbly from the ice bucket.
He’s far too deeply sunk into that self-satisfying realm of audacity that devours common sense to even ponder for a moment everything might not, in fact, be working out as he’d intended.
The hand rises, bottle gripped within the pristine white napkin, catching any drops that might give warning. Hovers overhead a moment, though out of hesitation or anticipation he’ll surely never discover. And, at last, brings it down, hard and fast and with purpose to the target intended.
He’s too busy congratulating himself on a job well done to even comprehend the end has come before his time, that fleeting moment between life and eternal darkness sparing him understanding.
Death by hubris. How fitting.
***
Chapter One
Boxes were heavy. Not that I was complaining or anything. It was just.
Boxes. Heavy.
Argh.
Especially when said boxes contained the sum and total of my entire existence. Corrugated hell encompassing millennial decisions made without thought for the future beyond the moment of pleasure that doing my best to recreate the life my parents had evoked. Only to end in a long, slow trudge up a narrow set of stairs over said parent’s garage in a desperate attempt to evade bankruptcy and utter despondency embedded in shame, guilt and the bitter taste of failure.
I apparently put the ‘suck’ in success.
My boots made soft protesting noises on the staircase’s wooden surface, a sort of thump-thump-are-you-kidding-me-right-now that echoed into my bones and gave me heartburn at the age of twenty-freaking-eight. While my energetic and charming Father Figure #2, Pops, hurried on ahead of me as though he was younger than me rather than twice my age.
Why did crashing and burning make me feel old?
My toe caught on the edge of the next step, and I inhaled sharply, clutching at the box in my arms like it might save me from faceplanting. Instead, I leaned hard into the railing, knowing it might fail at any second and dump me on the asphalt below in a sad and tragic end for Petal Morgan, serial student, career connoisseur and oh-so-quaint collector of bills, debt and collapsed net worth.
No such luck. Seriously. Dying right then? Might be preferable to the alternative.
Salvation strode up from behind me, Father Figure #1, Dad, (his choice, I swear), bumping into me with the front of his own burden, grunting faintly when he realized I’d come to a complete and sullen stop.
“Pet,” he grumbled. “Move it or lose it.”
Sigh. That was what I got for having a career FBI agent for a father. Bossypants super special whatchamacallit.
I heaved myself onward and upward, no idea what was in the paper disguised as solid and supportive packing material I held in my arms but certain at any moment my truly wretched packing skills would end in the tumbling exodus of the contents onto the stairs before me if I didn’t hurry the heck up already.
Two more. One more. Felt like an old 80s aerobics video rah-rah, you-can-do-it as I finished the climb for the (thanks for the expression, Gen X Dad) umpteenth time and, blowing my blonde bangs out of my eyes, I panted a little while depositing said vestibule of all things my life on top of yet another container that cradled the deepest, darkest secrets of an almost thirty in eighteen more months woman trying her best not to be embarrassed by her present living conditions.
Not helping that my younger brother grinned at me from the freshly completed kitchen—one of the only rooms in the apartment that bore such a label—like he was taking bets on how long I’d be stuck here and couldn’t wait to rub it in.
“You know,” Jordan said on exactly that teasing trajectory, setting his own box of Petal goodness on the laminate counter made to look like marble, “you’re stealing my bachelor pad and I’m not sure I’m going to forgive you for it.”
He was lucky he was adorable in his early twenties African American slenderness and sweeter than I was, not to mention ten feet away because one of my boots might have made an impression on him otherwise.
“We’re delighted to have you home, aren’t we, Andy?” Pops spoke up in that ever-cheerful way of his, ageless Asian heritage belying the fifty-something of his birthdate, his nearly black eyes sparkling with good humor, still not a trace of gray in his pin-straight hair cut short enough to almost be called a buzz. His excitement at my return balanced out the not-so-enthusiastic mumble Dad let out while he set aside the box he’d been lugging, bending at the knees as he was supposed to, tall and rather wide-shouldered six-plus feet towering over all of us in white-shirted, dark-tied FBI precision.
“Delighted.” Dad’s flat tone and blank expression did nothing to hide the laughter in those blue eyes devoid of judgment despite the fact he’d sighed when I’d first confessed how much trouble I was in and just needed somewhere to hide from the collection agencies while I regrouped and pulled myself together already.
Seriously, this was his fault. Supervisory Special Agent Andrew Walker chose to adopt me, right? Raised me to this pillar of societal perfection placed before him in the still evolving, supposed-to-be-rentable apartment in his new house, but familiar town, outside Quantico, Virginia.
My failures in life? His failures. So there.
“Freeloading kids.” Dad winked at Jordan who eye-rolled with a wide grin that made his white teeth flash against that gorgeous dark skin of his. At least my adopted brother wasn’t neck-deep in enough debt to drown the most industrious of wanna-be success stories, unlike his pasty-faced sister despite her good looks and natural blonde locks, slim and athletic frame and endearing pearly smile everyone always said would take her far in the world.
All the way to wrack and ruin.
Maybe seeing me stumble from one lackluster opportunity to another pathetic attempt at making my way with the time I’d had so far on Earth had given Jordan the impetus he needed to grasp financial security by the short and curlies and win for both of us.
That was if being a yoga instructor could earn out into something that didn’t eventually relegate him to spending the rest of his life in the main house with our fathers. Yeah. Real success stories evolved from the kids who squatted in this place of residence.
You’re welcome, little bro.
“At least you have someone you know and trust living here, Dad.” Jordan had always taken great pleasure in giving our federal agent father a good ribbing. Case in point, I snickered while Dad shuffled his feet, frowning, mumbling something about getting another box before turning and striding down the steps into the early May sunshine.
“He’s just cautious,” Pops said, that beaming smile and empathetic caring about as familiar as Dad’s grumpy cynicism.
“Pops,” Jordan said, dark eyes locked on me, “we moved in here, what, two months ago?”
Our second father sighed. “Almost three,” he said like doing so betrayed the love of his life out of some kind of father solidarity.
“And the whole reason we bought this house,” Jordan gestured around him, closing the distance between him and me while Pops just crossed his arms over his chest and watched, “is so that you can fix up this,” another wave, free arm landing around my shoulders, my taller little brother leaning into me, “and rent it out. For extra income or something.” He snorted. “Like you two need it.”
Pops dropped his hands to his sides, shrugged. “You know Andy,” he said. “Always thinking about the future.”
Wow, that sounded weak, even from Dad’s main supporter. “Pray tell, dear brother,” I said, taking up his teasing tone and grinning back at him, “why then, would you say, is this very apartment—that specified source of extra income—not finished and/or rented?”
“Why, my darling sister,” Jordan said, free hand now pressed to the logo on his t-shirt, extravagance expanding with his broad chest, “as it turns out, our dear and amazing Dad #1 hadn’t thought through the whole idea prior to the execution of such a scheme, had he?”
Pops let out a soft snort, shaking his head, then l
“Untrusting.” Jordan released me to tick off descriptors on one hand with the other. “Judgmental.” He looked skyward a moment before smiling again. “Paranoid.” He met my gaze one more time. “Did I cover it?”
I clenched my lips together to keep the laughter in, shaking my head while Pops sighed softly.
“Fine,” he said. “The apartment isn’t done because Andy realized he’d have to rent to a stranger and doing thorough, FBI-level background checks on possible renters is illegal.” He tapped his toe on the floor, practical and brandless white sneakers ridiculous at the base of his black dress pants, beige button-up mostly shrouded in that thin brown sweater he loved to wear. The one with the patches on the elbows Dad gave him for Christmas three years ago to replace the previous one Pops wore out by donning it like a uniform every single day of every term.
If he wasn’t a college professor, he’d look ridiculous. I guess he got a pass, though I always wondered what his students thought of him and if he was teased behind his back for his choice of clichéd attire.
Dr. Sam Ito, Dean of Arts and Sciences, total and utter nerd.
Pops hugged me suddenly, Jordan, too, and I melted into my second father instantly. He always smelled like nuts for some reason, and despite his lean frame, he was surprisingly strong. They were an odd pair, our fathers, but they worked and that was all I cared about.
“I’m happy about how things worked out,” Pops whispered in my ear. “I get my family back, even if it’s just for a little while.” He pulled away then, blinking far too much and too rapidly, Jordan clearing his throat, wiping at his own eyes, while I felt like I’d taken on far too much of Dad and not nearly enough of the sweet man standing in front of me.
Speak of the devil, Dad grunted faintly, footfalls stopping at the top of the steps, his shadow falling over us when his bulky body blocked out the sunlight.
“Last one, Pet,” he said. I took it from him, setting it aside on the plywood floor, hugging him in thanks. He paused as I did, chin on the top of my head, the scent of his familiar cologne and the heat of him reminding me of the past, of being small and terrified and alone until the tall and kind man I’d never met before picked me up and hugged me and promised me he’d protect me from what happened to my mother.
Yeah, I wasn’t going there right now. And it turned out I had enough of Pops in me, after all, to make my own eyes sting.
I stepped away from Dad before the waterworks could start for real, though I had no idea if he was aware of why I was suddenly tense and uncomfortable. Just like him to give me space and let it go, though, without question. Funny, he had always given me the room I needed to sort out what I wanted to say before sitting down with me to hear it.
I might have teased him for being a hard-ass special agent, but Dad was the bomb.
“You can fix it up however you like, I guess.” He swept the room with that intense and watchful gaze of his. I’d never, ever been able to hide anything from him, and stopped trying a long time ago.
I accepted his offer to step away from emotional conversation and nodded, both hands firmly in my back pockets, my ponytail shivering down the back of my t-shirt. “It’s great, Dad, Pops. Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
Pops kissed my cheek before waving Jordan off toward the door. “You get settled then come in for dinner,” he said. “I’m making gnocchi, your favorite.”
Soft, homemade clouds of pillowy potato goodness? “Alfredo sauce?”
He winked over one shoulder and disappeared with my brother ahead of him, Dad joining them, though he paused at the door, glancing back at me, blue eyes shadowed by the backlight of the sun, so it was impossible to gauge his expression.
“Welcome home, Pet,” he said, soft and full of love before my stoic and confident father disappeared down the stairs, leaving me to the remnants of my life.
***
Chapter Two
It was quickly apparent it was going to take me a lot longer than the half-hour or so I had before dinner to unpack and create the kind of interior space I needed to actually feel at home up here. At least I had a roof over my head, didn’t have to live in the main house with my fathers and my brother and I was safe, had food to eat and even the chance to dig myself out of the hole I found myself in.
I was further ahead than some people I knew, and I needed to get over myself and this princess attitude of why me? I’d chosen to cultivate.
Except, it was hard, standing here, staring at the sum and total of my life so far in those few and rather pathetic cardboard boxes on the plywood floor of an unfinished space I knew would likely remain that way because I wasn’t really all that good at follow-through. Part of the reason I stood here, right?
Okay, five minutes of wallowing. And go.
Why didn’t my life work out the way I wanted it to, how everyone said it should? Hadn’t I done all the things right, won the genetic lottery, had a brain in my head, clever and charismatic and confident enough to succeed at anything?
Apparently not.
Turned out being attractive and funny had very little to do with loving what you did, finding a paying job that didn’t require previous experience, interning for free in jobs that were supposed to create said experience, tripping over drinking hard on weekends, traveling to find yourself while modeling and acting and any number of other activities that blonde twentysomethings were supposed to aspire to, only to have all of it fall flat, stale and end in bitter disappointment and weight gain I was made to feel guilty over and a rather unhappy relationship with alcohol and old, white men who thought they owned me the last of my recent legacy.
Not. Complaining.
Just tired. And pretty sure being raised in the kind of environment I’d spent my first eight glorious (yes, that was sarcasm) years wasn’t helping any. Formative or not, until the man I called Dad held me in his arms, I’d never once felt truly safe.
No excuses, honest. But not everyone got the fairytale beginning that ended in a happily ever after.
I sank to the surface of the double bed pushed against the far wall of the open space, the bachelor feel not really bothering me that much, to be honest. I liked the lack of walls aside from the small bathroom’s enclosed privacy, the way the central pillars, mere jack posts at that point, cold metal begging to be disguised with faux panels of wood or boxed in with drywall, creating a natural dividing line down the middle of the long, narrow space. And the mattress was comfortable, equal parts firm and springy, elevated by a stand and box spring enough my feet barely reached the floor. It was cool up here as the sun set and I rose again to close the door, watching the blue sky turning red and orange over the rooftops of the suburban neighborhood of this town I now called home again.
Martingale might not have been a metropolis, but its proximity to Washington D.C. at least offered me some options. Not that I was against small towns or anything, but I’d spent my high school years here and didn’t recall it being all that memorable outside six long and annoying terms hating everything and wishing for summer. Thanks to Dad’s job with the FBI, we’d moved a lot when we were young, Martingale our longest stop. This was the first time, I think, he planned to stay anywhere longer than a few years, his new instructor position at Quantico one of those retirement-ready offerings I was sure he’d fought tooth and nail. Dad had the heart of a lion and the soul of an investigator. Taking a job teaching recruits never sounded like something he’d agree to willingly.
I needed to ask him why, I guess, but like him, I tended to wait and give space. He’d fill me in when he was ready.
Maybe he did it for Pops? That was possible. Being a professor, bobbing from college to college, didn’t really allow for tenure. It could be Dad finally gave Pops the chance to do what he loved. And getting this sweet job as dean for a full faculty? The more I thought about it—and stopped thinking about myself, wow, look at me getting over my need to whine already—the more it made sense.
