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Chapter 734:
He was drunk. She could see it in the looseness of his posture, the redness of his face, the way his hands moved too freely over the women seated beside him. The timestamps ranged from 10 PM to 2 AM. The location, according to Vera’s brief text, was The Velvet Room—Manhattan’s most exclusive, most expensive, most notoriously untouchable private club.
June’s thumb hovered over the final image. A credit card receipt, partially visible, showing a total that made her eyebrows rise. Twenty thousand dollars. For one night. In a club where the membership fee alone exceeded most annual salaries.
“Richard’s company accounts are frozen,” she said aloud, not quite to Easton, not quite to herself. “His personal assets are under court order. He shouldn’t have access to twenty thousand dollars in liquid cash p>
“Black money.” Easton had moved closer—close enough to see the screen, his shoulder almost touching hers. “Offshore accounts. Shell companies p>
June looked at him. “You think he’s laundering through the club p>
𝘙o𝗆a𝗻cе n𝘰𝘷𝘦𝗹ѕ 𝗈𝗻 g𝘢𝗹ոо𝘃еl𝘀.𝘤𝗼𝗆
“I think he’s spending money he can’t explain to a judge.” Easton’s finger traced the edge of the receipt, not touching her, not touching the screen, just indicating. “And I think—” he paused, his legal mind visibly processing, “—if we can get him talking about where it came from, we can get the IRS interested. Tax evasion is easier to prove than murder. And it comes with asset forfeiture p>
June set the phone down. Her hands found each other, fingers interlacing, the pressure of self-comfort she had learned in childhood and never abandoned. “I need to go there. Tonight. While he’s still drunk, still careless, still p>
“No.” Easton’s voice was sharp, absolute—the first time she had heard real anger in it directed at her. “Your ankle is compromised. You can’t walk without support, let alone run if something goes wrong. And The Velvet Room—” he stopped, visibly reining himself in, “—The Velvet Room has connections. Organized crime connections. You don’t walk in there alone, June. Not even for this p>
“Then come with me p>
“I can’t.” The words came out rough, frustrated. “I’m a known entity. My face is in their security database from a case three years ago. I show up, Richard disappears through the back door, and we’ve lost our chance p>
June looked at her ankle. At the wrap, the swelling visible above the brace, the purple bruising that had spread to her toes. Then she looked at the photographs on her phone—at Richard’s flushed face and wandering hands, at the evidence that her parents’ killer was not only free but celebrating.
“I’ll wear flats,” she said. “I’ll stay near the exit. I’ll p>
“You’ll get hurt.” Easton stood, moved to the window, his back to her, his shoulders tight with a tension she could read from across the room. “Or worse. And I can’t—” he stopped, swallowed, “—I can’t watch you walk into that knowing I could have stopped you p>
“Then don’t watch p>
The words hung between them. June pushed herself upright, testing her weight on the injured foot, feeling the ligament protest and hold, protest and hold. She took a step, then another—limping but mobile, functional enough for what she needed to do.
Easton turned. His face was stripped of its professional composure, showing something raw and frightened and absolutely unwilling to let her go.