Deadly Secrets

Chapter 48: Vengeance

"Ah, mi hijo, glad you could make it. You have brought what I have asked for, I suppose." Rubair folded the newspaper in his hands and placed it on his desk, eyeing him from behind his reading glasses. Rumour had it that—when he was alone in his office—he would pull out a protractor from a drawer and align all the paraphernalia on his desk so they sat in a grid formation on his desk. It was just gossip of course, but its foundation was based on reality. It was a little off-putting, walking into a room where everything was perfectly, obsessively, in order, but that was the kind of man Fernando Rubair was.

He certainly didn't get to where he was by being a disorganised slob.

"Yes, father," Max said, striding into the room with a beige folder tucked under his arm. His father had summoned him that morning through a phone call, and Max had obliged without any hesitation. There was no point in just sitting around, waiting for Zara, who wouldn't wake up until late afternoon.

Hopefully, Hawk-eye didn't notice the exhaustion darkening his son's appearance. Max hadn't slept a wink the night before. Bunking on the couch in the living room, and positioning his body so the entrance to his bedroom was in his light of sight, it had been impossible to fall asleep. Every time he glanced over to the door, in pitch-black darkness, he would imagine Zara swinging it open and run at him like a zombie from World War Z.

She was intoxicated, she wasn't herself, he would tell himself every time that irrational thought crossed his mind. But counting sheep, reciting the nine times table, clearing his thoughts, all failed to quell the uneasiness he felt inside.

But Max knew that the incident couldn't have been attributed solely to her state—sober thoughts are drunken words.

For the sake of his own sanity, he had to consider the incident as a one-off.

She had behaved normally up to that point, so the belief was plausible.

"Excellent," Rubair laced his fingers together, a slight wrinkle in his nose when he looked at his son, "You are recovering well. Although I never was told what the cause of your...injuries were."

He didn't excuse himself for not visiting his son, as was his nature. Max placed the folder on the desk's remaining empty spot, and slid it over to his father, whose scrutinising gaze was still upon him, awaiting an answer.

"I...don't remember. Amnesia," Max said, lowering himself on a lounge chair without making eye-contact. Whereas the atmosphere of Rubair's home office was stifling, the one at the company was chilling. The cool colour scheme, comprised of light blues and blue-greens, reflected the man's callous personality.

Rubair raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but didn't press any further for answers. Instead, tapped the folder, twice with his index finger, thrice with his middle finger. "You have given me much to ponder about over the past week," He started, opening the folder.

Max's arm grew stiffer in his sling. He kept his mouth shut. The ambiguity of his father's statement left a lot of room for misinterpretation.

"A little bird told me that you have been investigating the robbery. Walk me through what you have found as of now." Rubair pushed the opened folder back towards his son, who remained motionless in his seat.

It was a trap, it had to be. "Why?" Max's eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed. He had already attempted to share his findings with his cousin, and he had been treated as a court jester. At the meeting with the inner circle, things had gone better, but only because Max had flung accusations without presenting his evidence.

Now his father, who had made it his life mission to oppose anything his son ever did or said, was willing to listen. Still skeptical, Max's hopes hadn't lifted. His father would hear the explanation, and then mock him, and Max's wasted breath would be like salt to his wounds.