“Yeah, well, I don’t want it.” It’s the truth, but I also know it’s futile. Football—getting out of here—all of that is a long shot. South Side has its tentacles in me, and they’re latched on deep and painful.
“No, but think about it,” Rath goes on, and I’m surprised to see some life spark back in his eyes. “You have the clearest, most obvious motive. Daniel fucks with your Lady. His boot-licking foot soldier tries to kill you. Plus, those initials? This isn’t about Daniel. It’s about you.” Head snapping back in realization, he adds, “It’s about us. All four of us. Someone wanted Daniel to think we were responsible. But why? To get us all pissed at each other? What’s the end game there?”
“We’re going to have to figure out who’s behind all this,” is my answer. “I don’t like not knowing who’s got a gun pointed at my fucking temple.”
“Speaking of which, we shouldn’t be talking about this without Story,” Tristian says, pointing to the ceiling. “We promised.”
“I have no intention of making any moves without her.”
There’s a knock on the library door and we look over, startled to see Martin in the doorway. He’s dressed casually, in a sweater and khaki pants. A manila envelope is in his hand.
“What are you doing here so late?” I ask, putting my glass down. “It’s Thanksgiving. Don’t they give you the day off?”
The Lords employ Martin and he provides legal counsel for the frat—primarily us. But all said, we have nothing to do with his job. Even my father, the King, is only loosely involved. Martin’s firm has been representing LDZ since long before any of us were involved. It’s a testament to Forsyth’s foothold in this town that a tradition like this isn’t even thought about twice. He’s just here to serve us as needed.
“I took a few hours,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”
“Yeah, we booked it after pie,” Rath says, resting a hand on his stomach. “Sitting through another hour of father-son-step-Lady tension isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.”
“Well,” he says, walking in the room. “I wanted to drop off Marcus’ discharge paperwork. He’ll be fine.”
I blink at the envelope, remembering. The three of us have been a little busy with more pressing matters, but LDZ is chugging along. Some of the more senior guys organized a prank against the Counts last week, ambushing the rival frat members’ poker game. Marcus had been caught speeding away from the scene of the crime and graciously took the fall.
“You got him off?” I ask, only giving the contents of the envelope a cursory glance.
“Of course I did,” is Martin’s response. He doesn’t even sound arrogant about it, just matter-of-fact. Tapping his temple, he sagely says, “A good lawyer knows the law. But a great lawyer knows the judge.”
Tristian and Rath share a low, appreciative chuckle, but it makes my eyes tighten in suspicion. “You know a lot of people, don’t you?” I shift to stand, wincing at the tug and pull in my side. The alcohol and pills aren’t enough to cut through all the pain. I lift the hem of my untucked shirt, revealing the healed bullet wound. Martin’s expression is neutral, carefully contained to nothing but a quizzical slant of his eyebrows. “Do you know who did this to me?” I ask.
His gaze flicks down to the wound and back up to my face. “There’s been chatter, sir. Gossip and such.”
Tristian leans forward at this. “What are people saying?”
Martin nods at my gut. “Well, I don’t put much stock into scuttlebutt, but Lord Killian was shot, and no one’s seen Nick Hoplite since. There’s been varying speculation as to how those two situations might be connected.”
I take a guess. “They think I killed him.”
Martin doesn’t even bat an eye. “That’s the gist.”
Lowering my shirt, I offer, “I didn’t.”
That one belongs to Story.
He shrugs. “Might as well let them think you did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the frat this well organized to retaliate against the other houses. Have you seen the board? Those boys are out for blood.”
“Wait,” Rath says, a divot appearing between his eyebrows. “They think the other frats are involved?”
Martin’s eyes flash in surprise. “Aren’t they?”
Tristian and I have a short, concise discussion with our eyes, but I’m the one who decides, “You’re right, Martin. Let them think whatever.” We’ve been slacking when it comes to The Game, so it can only benefit us to have the frat fired up. Plus, it’s not like the truth is so far divorced from the gossip. I didn’t kill Ugly Nick, but I would have, given half the chance, and whoever put the hit out on me was the same person who killed Viv. Even my father suspects another house. No skin off my back. “I don’t know what you hear or how much you’re privy to, but if you hear anymore gossip about who put this hit out on me, I want to know. Immediately.”