Off the Grid (20 page)

“It’s the right kind of treatment for the problems we see here.” Her hands landed on her hips, the fire back in her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter to people who never see the need for it. People who have no experience with addiction. Unless you count gravy boats and socket wrenches. Jason is going to paint you as a radical. He’s going to try and use this information to discredit you.”

“He can’t discredit me if I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Was she for real? “How can you be so naïve? He’s going to tear your reputation to shreds. The radical doctor whose mentally ill, drug addicted sister was murdered in a squalid downtown hotel room. Every time your name comes up it will be associated with the lovely trifecta of booze, drugs, and criminal activity. You’ll never get another dollar in funding. Once he kicks you out of this building he’ll make sure no one else is interested in leasing you space.”

She said nothing. Hurt brought a sheen to her lovely eyes. The fight ebbed out of her. The energy. The precious spark giving her life. It was in the slump of her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes, the wringing of her hands. She was done, caving in on herself. Giving too much. Expecting nothing. It had to stop.

He had to stop her.

“It’s time for you to distance yourself. From now on I’ll deal with Drummond. I’ll make the arrangements, see this through. But you? You are done with this.”

A hint of yesterday’s Sophie surfaced. “You don’t get to decide for me.”

“Yeah, I do. Gallagher’s right. This isn’t worth the fallout.” He swallowed back the flare of guilt. The pain of disappointing her stabbed at him, but fear was a great motivator. And he had plenty of it. For her. “I’ll finalize the legalities with Jason over child support. The rest of it is for the police. It’s done. We’re done. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days.”

He didn’t wait to hear her answer, but headed through her office door.
Coward
. It was a whisper in his ear. He shook it off. After tonight was done, he’d talk to her. Explain. If she still wanted to slap him down, fine. He could live with leaving her if it meant salvaging her reputation. Her safety. Her life.

He walked through the crammed clinic. The high of doing the right thing lasted until he hit the street. His steps slowed the further he walked. Each inhalation of winter air stabbed at his lungs. He took a steady breath. It did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. He braced against what he had to do and prepared to meet a friend for lunch, the crushing weight of choice and sacrifice killing his appetite. Then it was party time.

Chapter Nine

Sophie wasn’t an idiot, contrary to popular belief. She rummaged in her clutch for her gilt-edged invitation. The tuxedoed woman guarding the entrance checked her name against the list on her clipboard and nodded. Caleb wasn’t the only one with friends in high places. If he was in attendance, so was she. Someone had to make sure he didn’t sacrifice himself at the altar of stupidity.

She smoothed a hand over her hip, the material covering them like gloss on lips. The dress fit a little snugger than she remembered. A couple of years out of date, it had none of the naughty goddess appeal of the little black dress she’d bought to torture Caleb with on Christmas Eve. But it provided more coverage. She wasn’t out to attract attention. Going glam wasn’t the way to crash this glitzy North Shore bash.

The whole place flickered with hundreds of little outside lights. Inside the lighting was subdued but oh-so-carefully charming. 13,000 square feet of house built on prime waterfront real estate. Ocean views meant lots of windows. Yards of glass. All without a smudge. Like the house in the Twilight movies. Go figure.

Inside she spotted an Emily Carr on one interior wall and a still life of Mary Pratt’s on another. Decadent arrangements of blood red hydrangea and creamy white roses dripped from silver urns. Live music played in the background, soft and passive. Surfaces gleamed, conversation flowed, and jewels sparkled. Guests mingled around the pièce de résistance. Sophie figured it was more phallic symbol than Christmas tree.

Waiters in spotless white button-down shirts and jet black pants mingled with trays of canapés and wine. Gowned women and tuxedoed men mingled, plates and drink glasses in hand. Sophie snagged a glass off a tray, more to have something in her hand than any urge to drink. Her stomach revolted at the very idea. Her objective? Find Caleb. They’d figure out the rest later.

Proof the universe provided was in the convenient parting of a group of people. There he stood looking gorgeous in black tie parlaying with the rich and famous. Was there ever any doubt? He fit in here, polished, at ease, surrounded by his peers. He smiled, lifted his glass at a quip while she stood alone, the proverbial cheese.

A woman squeezed in beside him and he shifted to make room for her, lent his cheek for a kiss. She threaded her arm through his, a smile the size of Queen Charlotte Sound lighting up her face. Strapless, short red stretch left miles of tanned skin to appreciate.

Tiffany.

Like the blue box with the white ribbon she begged to be unwrapped. Sophie had gotten it wrong. So wrong. Caleb wasn’t here to avenge anything. Jealousy snaked its way down to her fingers. They wrapped around her clutch, crushing the soft fabric until she could separate out its meager contents. Then she pictured them wrapped around a set of something a whole lot more delicate. And Caleb’s face twisted in pain.

She spun around intending to leave only to come up short.

“Doctor Monroe, I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list.” Jason Drummond put a hand on her elbow holding her in place. She wanted to slap the hoity look off his face. He tsked. “Don’t be too upset with Caleb. His attention span is short and Tiffany is a favorite of his.”

Her heart stopped. Not because she believed him, but because she didn’t. It was his leer. He had mean in his eyes as Marnie would say. She indulged in a mouthful of wine to buy a couple of seconds to calm the hell down. To think. To trust.

“Nothing to say, Dr. Monroe?”

“At least she’s age appropriate.” She stared straight at him. Took in his hard eyes, the twelve inches of height he had on her, the eighty plus pounds. “What’s your excuse?”

She winced, the pressure on her elbow increasing. There would be bruises there in the morning. “You might remember you’re here on my sufferance. The second I cease to find you amusing I’ll have you thrown out. You need to ask yourself if your reputation can handle being tossed out onto the street.”

The laughter bubbled out of her, she couldn’t help it. The man’s arrogance knew no bounds. “You do not want to go down the reputation road with me.”

He tugged her close, smiled like he was preparing to share a naughty secret. “Then again maybe I do.”

She tried to yank her arm back. It did no good. He was stronger than her.

“Seeing as you’re just a different kind of whore.” His breath grazed her cheek, stinking of alcohol and tobacco. “I’m sure you can spread your legs with the best of them.”

She recoiled, repulsed. Ready to do battle.

“There you are.” Caleb’s arm wrapped around her waist and tugged. Jason had no choice. He let her go. At first glance, Caleb’s grin was easy. Second glance, not so much. He lowered his head and kissed her on the lips. Slow, warm, with a bit of warning mixed in.

Jason let a little of his façade slip. He gestured at Caleb. “The two of you can show yourselves out.”

Caleb blocked his exit. “You and I need to talk.”

“Tonight is for celebrating the future. Progress. Moving forward. As neither of you seem to be fans of the program, you can leave. Immediately.” He snagged a glass of wine off a passing tray and toasted in their direction.

Caleb didn’t budge. “I spoke to Kimberley McKay today. She doesn’t send her regards by the way.”

Alerted Sophie searched his face. Who the hell was Kimberley McKay?

Jason’s astonishment was temporary. Mute hatred came next, casting a little black venomous cloud over the three of them.

Caleb nodded at Sophie, a gleam of triumph in his serious eyes. “We went to school together. The three of us. You’d like her. Right now she’s on maternity leave from her job as an addictions counselor on the East Coast.”

Jason affected a bored look while a very unattractive red stained his cheeks. “I’m glad to hear she’s doing well. She suffered from her share of problems. Delusions being one of them if I remember correctly.”

“I guess a quarter of a million dollars buys a lot of therapy. Now I think it’s time to take this conversation elsewhere, don’t you?”

His lips thinned and he held out his hand. “After you.”

Sophie grabbed for Caleb’s hand. “Don’t.”

He gave her fingers a squeeze. “It’ll be fine.”

Jason spread his hands. “I’m a little pressed for time, so…”

“This will just take a second.” Caleb stepped in front of Sophie. “Go home, Sophie. Please.”

Not on your life, Caleb Quinn.
It was going to take a hell of a lot longer than
a few seconds
to convince her to leave. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find Tiffany. We’ll chat. A cat fight might be just the thing this dull bash needs.”

“Sophie—”

“Caleb,” demanded Jason.

“I’m right behind you.” He turned back to Sophie. “I know what I’m doing.”

She searched his face. “It’s what you’re sacrificing that worries me.”

“I’m not.”

She didn’t believe him. “Well, be careful doing whatever it is you’re not doing.”

Sophie reached up and pulled his head down. Her mouth opened over his and discretion wasn’t her aim. If Tiffany was watching she wanted her to get the message. Caleb Quinn was hers. “I’m still really pissed at you.”

“Noted.” On a parting smile he followed her sister’s murderer out of the room.

She’d be waiting. Patience was a virtue. The only one she could claim. And she took care of her own. Otherwise Marnie would haunt her for the rest of her days.

****

Caleb inspected Jason’s private sanctum. Unlike his corporate office space it was steeped in wood paneling. Upholstered chairs flanked a mammoth black walnut desk. Photos hung on the walls. But unlike Sophie’s most of these showed Jason tagging big game, reeling in big fish, or shaking hands with big celebrities. Draperies hung from rods, awards lined shelves. Even in the midst of all the fuss the man stood out. But where everyone else saw Prince Charming he saw a narcissist and a manipulator. And so much worse.

“You can’t prove anything.” Jason turned from his overly casual contemplation of the view.

“Maybe that’s not what this is about.”

“Spare me the rhetoric and get to your point. In case you haven’t noticed I’m kind of busy.” He went to his desk and poured a drink.

Caleb nodded at his glass. “It’s a rare thing to see you without a drink in your hand these days.”

“And here I was under the impression you didn’t care.”

Caleb crossed his arms. “Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

“This is getting tedious.” He swilled back a mouthful of scotch. “Get away with what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“To which I say bullshit. Now, I have a few requests.” Caleb shook his head. “Should you refuse to grant these requests I’m going to make your life hell.”

Jason snorted out a laugh. “Something we both know you don’t have the balls for.”

“It’s not too late for you to do the right thing.”

“By a lying, cheating whore? I don’t think so.”

“She’s the mother of your child.”

“I don’t have a child. When I do? He’ll come from quality and he’ll be raised in the appropriate manner.”

“Like you were?”

“Again, point? Since you don’t have one, get the hell out of my house and take the good doctor with you.”

“My point? Let’s see. You pay for sex. You have them dress like schoolgirls. Then you pay them off. When people get in your way you have them murdered.”

“And I’m guessing if you could prove it we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then fuck you for being stupid because here’s how it’s going to work. You will pay child support. You’re going to gift Sophie the building you bought out from under her. While you’re at it, you’re also going to arrange to fund 100 low income apartments in the Downtown Eastside.”

“And why the hell would I do all that?” His scorn paired well with his flat eyes.

“The idea there’s no such thing as bad publicity may apply to billionaire party girls, but I don’t think it applies to you.” Caleb flipped open his cell phone and pulled up the photo he’d taken of the bald man lurking downstairs at the party. The one with the swastika tattoo blotted out by a bad makeup job. He turned it around to show Jason. “He’s one of yours. Don’t bother denying it. He was there the night you found us at the Empress. And he was at the Balmoral the night Marnie was killed. I saw him.”

Jason remained silent.

Caleb tilted his head. “Nothing to say.”

Jason shrugged, spread his hands. “So what? I’m hardly responsible for where my employees land on their off time.”

He shoved his phone back into his pocket. “You’re right, of course. I can’t prove anything.”

Jason dropped down into his overstuffed desk chair. “Then I guess there’s nothing left except for you to get the hell out of my house.”

Caleb leaned over and planted his fists on the front of the desk. “Then again, I don’t need proof to ruin you. All I need to do is whisper in the ear of the right people. Rumor and ruin.”

“But whose ruin?”

“In the interest of full disclosure I’ll inform you I’m hiring a private investigator to track your moves. Consider me your version of a restraining order. Do not come near Sophie or Kellie and Quinn again.” Caleb pulled a stack of papers from the inside pocket of his tuxedo. He tossed them on the desk. “I’ve marked all the places requiring your signature.”

“You’re going to regret this.” The gloss he showed the world slipped, his glamor spell broken. Through the cracks the cost of living two lives showed on his face.

“You had sex with an eighteen year old girl. You threw her and your unborn child out into the street.” He pushed all the disgust churning in his gut into his next words. “You’re a rapist—”