“Who owns this place?” I ask. Her gaze flits to mine, and there is the briefest hint of panic—an apology she’s gulping down. I hit on something. “The owner prefers to remain as a silent partner,” she supplies. “Any issues are mine to handle.” I scoff, realization smacking me in the face like a baseball bat. “It’s him, isn’t it? He owns this place. That’s why he brought me here—so he could control the situation. He was always ten steps ahead, setting my life ablaze while I chased the fireworks. He still is. Fuck.” “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her quavering tenor telling me I nailed it. Somehow,
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