Dealing with the Devil

July 7, 2020. The Najbreit Estate

Before I know it, it’s dark out. I find myself standing outside Hyerim’s suite at eight pm, wondering if I should knock. She said to come by at night. Would now be the right time? The unbidden image of her, naked atop her bedsheets and lying in wait for me, flashes through my mind. My heart quickens.

I push open the door, stepping into the cool marble hallways of Hyerim’s suite. I walk past the Impressionist masterworks hanging from the walls, miraculously undamaged by the sprinklers going off yesterday. Perhaps they were simply taken into storage yesterday, a ‘lucky’ coincidence.

At the end of the hallway is a thin screen-door. I see Hyerim’s silhouette through the door. She is, indeed, on her bed, and she appears to be wearing… very little. My heart jumps again. Am I ready for this?

This door practically melts to the side under my touch.

Hyerim sits on her bed, one leg crossed over the other, a thin pair of glasses perched on her nose for show. She wears a nude-colored bra and matching panties.

“You’ve come ready to play,” she says, glancing down at the low bulge in my pants, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“I’ve come ready to help,” I smile back, meeting her straight in the eyes this time.

“So you were right,” a third voice smoothly says. Father walks out of the adjoining study, dressed in a full suit. His eyes crinkle as he takes in the scene before him. “Claude Ashworth, you’ve decided to fall into line.”

What the fuck?

This wasn’t what I was expecting, but the longer my pause is, the more suspicious I look…

“Of course, that goes for you too, Mr. Najbreit,” I say. “Anything you need. Your wish is my command.”

“Is that so?” he says.

He takes a seat on the bed next to Hyerim, placing a protective arm around her.

“Then all I need is for you to answer these questions of mine truthfully,” he says.

I keep my face impassive, struggling to match his composure.

“That I can do,” I say. “Is something wrong?”

It’s Hyerim who answers this question.

“Claude Ashworth,” she says slowly, her tongue lingering over the syllables of my adopted name. “You are quite a capable man. In the space of a few months, you have become the artist in residence in our household. But your artistry might be the least remarkable thing about you.”

“After all, what artist has the kind of business acumen to play hardball with a deal worth billions of dollars?” Father asks.

“Or the grace to socialise with Hollywood’s hottest?” Hyerim adds.

“Or the savvy to play politics with a foreign Congress?”

“Or a killer instinct backed by seeming experience and training?”

The last question hangs in the air, leaving me staring at the two of them.

One of you killed my mom, I think. Do you know what happened, Father? Is this your strange, twisted, **** for me? Did you lure me back home to disgrace me in the deepest possible way?

“What kind of artist could ingratiate himself so quickly with so many members of my family?” Father asks. “What kind of artist could earn our trust so effortlessly, navigate our complexities with such ease?” He pauses, staring into my eyes, seeming to peer right into my soul. “Now tell me. Which family sent you here?”

I stifle the urge to break out into laughter. Really? This is what their concern was? But it makes perfect sense, from their perspective. I am a spy sent from a rival family, sent to gather intelligence or wreck some kind of havoc on the Najbreits.

Hyerim must see the twitch in my face, because she says: “My husband has a reputation that you know very well. Don’t even try lying to him.”

“Well, I’m flattered that you think so highly of me,” I smile. “But the answer to your question, I’m afraid, is a simple one. It was your family, the Najbreits, that sent me here. I became friends with Tiffany, and then Claire, and before I knew it, it was you that extended me an invitation to this household.”

Father chuckles.

“That is technically the truth,” he says. “But we’re looking for a better answer than that. Which family was the first to suggest that you come back here?”

“The Najbreits,” I answer again.

Still the truth. I realise, as long as he’s chasing down the wrong rabbit hole, I am safe.

“So you were approached after you made contact with us?” Hyerim asks.

“Or maybe it’s not a family who sent him, as we suspected,” Father says, glancing at Hyerim. “Tell me all of the people who instructed you to ingratiate yourself with us.”

I stare back at him. He’s not going to be happy with this answer.

“Nobody,” I say. “Other than myself. I came here of my own accord.”

Father lets out a low hmmm….

Hyerim frowns, looking to Father for an answer. She doesn’t believe me.

“Either you are the best liar I have ever met,” Father says, “or you are telling the truth.”

“So you’re a rogue agent,” Hyerim says.

She cocks her head to the side, subtly presenting her tantalising flesh to me.

“I’ve never worked for anyone in that way before,” I protest, trying to ignore her luscious body. “I’ve never been anybody’s agent.”

“But you have had experience with the wrong side of the law,” Father says. He stands up, pausing. “We’ve seen your records. They’re more complete than you might think.”

Fuck. Hyerim did say that she was going to bring this up again at some point. I still have no better idea of what my record is supposed to look like. I have no way of getting in touch with Mr. Samuel. Not without potentially exposing him, or me.

“What’s your point?” I say.

“We don’t know all the details of what you did back then,” Hyerim says. “But we do know that you must have received some kind of training.”

I play dumb, staring at her, then realising what that might imply, and I tilt my head up, trying not to stare at the wrong places…

“It won’t come as a surprise that we’ve been monitoring the activity on your phone,” she says.

I nod.

“We’ve seen the messages you’e exchanged with Sean Corolla,” Father says. “Your efforts to investigate the pedophile ring are laudable.”

“But also eerily systematic,” Hyerim says. “Your approach is too methodical and too precise. You seem… too experienced.”

Only because you sicced a private investigator on my tail for twenty years, I think. I better be experienced by this point.

“If you think I’ve come to your family to cause harm, I haven’t—” I begin saying, but Father shakes his head.

“Your intentions are your own,” he says. “I am not one to judge the purity of your goals. But I am in a position to better align them with mine. So let me offer you a deal.”

Hyerim looks at Father, surprised.

He leans down to hear ear and whispers something to her. She strokes her chin for a few seconds, looking at me all the while. She nods her agreement.

“What’s clear to us,” Father says, “is that while you might know what you’re doing with your investigation, you lack the resources and manpower to do the job. You’re stuck.”

“I have a few ideas,” I say defensively. And it is true, but they are long shots, and Father must know that too.

“You also have a problem with the Simonds family,” Father says. “They want dirt on you. We happen to know that it exists. And we wouldn’t want that material to fall into the wrong hands, would we?”

So the bastard’s blackmailing me now.

“No,” I say, coldly. “I wouldn’t want that.”

“We happen to have a problem of our own that we’re stuck on,” Father says smoothly. “We could use someone with your expertise and insight. It’s a sensitive matter, so I will need your utmost secrecy. But we will make it well worth your while, should you agree.”

The carrot and the stick. Classic move, Father.

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You give me the resources I need to carry out my investigation. In exchange, I consult with you on some case that’s bothering you. Help you out however I can. And at the end of the day, the Simonds are left dry.”

“That’s right,” Father says.

“I can work with that,” I say. “But the art lessons with Salome, my role as an artist…”

“All of that can continue,” Hyerim says. “We don’t want any outsiders to get suspicious.”

“But we need one last thing before we move on,” Father says. “I need to know that we can trust you. So, Claude Ashworth, do you swear to never discuss what we’re about to show you with anybody outside of the family?”

“I do,” I say.

Father smiles, and we shake hands.