Alpha's Irresistible Neighbor

By: J.P. Comeau


I tucked my phone away and picked up the files. “Now that I have found where Gunther was holing himself up at, I’m heading back into Charlotte to do some more digging. It’s a lot of information to piece together, but if you want a clear-cut picture of what all happened, our daily meetings are going to have to take a backseat.”

“Whatever gets me answers is just fine with me.”

I nodded. “All right, then. Bi-weekly check-ins? Monday and Friday?”

He shrugged. “That’s fine with me.”

“And of course, I’ll call you if anything serious pops up.”

Mikael stole a glance toward the women. “I’d appreciate that.”

I clapped his upper arm with my hand. “Get back in there to your fiancée. I’m sure she’s worried. I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?”

He moved away from me. “Sounds good. See you then.”

As I watched him head back toward the two women leaning over a ripped-up looking scrapbook, I decided to keep my mouth shut on everything else I had found. Because what I had found was substantial, but I still hadn’t sorted through all of it yet. The sensitive files? They weren’t just random files from their private servers. They were files from B.L. Holdings, but strictly the women, not just his daughter, Leila’s, file. And their files had a lot in common. More specifically, the loan and business grant program the company used to offer entrepreneurs back during the first few years of operation.

It seemed that Gunther had the files on all of the women they had turned down during that four-year timeframe.

Including his daughter’s file.

I was right.

Gunther didn’t do any of this to avenge his daughter, or whatever the hell he had fed to everyone. He had done this on principle. This was something that had been ingrained into him because of the life he had led. A rule that had been reinforced again, and again, and again, morphing into the warped sense of reality the man now operated with.

Gunther had wanted to take Mikael’s freedom away on principle.

And that meant I had a hell of a lot more work to do than I had originally thought two months before.





“All right, you slimy bastard,” I murmured as I pushed through the massive wooden double doors of Gunther’s Charlotte-based mansion, “where do you keep your secrets.”

The plush Victorian home reminded me of vampire castles in stories my mother used to tell me whenever I was a child. She was a horror fan, and loved telling me spooky stories just before bedtime. Most people would’ve called it weird, or possibly abusive. But, I loved the darkness just as much as she did.

And as I stood there beneath the black crystal chandelier, I drew in a deep, solid breath.

“Let’s get to work,” I murmured to myself.

I made a beeline for Gunther’s home office that sat down a dead-end hallway with nothing else on it. The walls were covered with what I could only assume were wildly-expensive paintings, and as I reached for the doorknob, I paused.

I always had to take a moment before entering the private domain of Evil.

Because that shit was a great deal more contagious than people ever realized.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

I threw the door open and let the musty, dusty air hit my face. The cold air came rushing out, wrapping around my entire body and rooting me to my place. It was almost as if the aura left behind by that man was trying to taunt me. Trying to pull me into the shadows that had haunted me my entire life. But, it had taken me cashing in just about every single favor law enforcement owed me in order to secure this house for me to rifle through.

So, with a gut of steel and a mind set toward getting some answers, I stepped through the threshold.

The good thing about Gunther being behind bars was that I didn’t have to fight through police scouring the place in order to go through things. It was just me, the files, and the secrets the walls of this place kept to itself.

If these walls could fucking talk…

Now that Gunther was currently on trial, the police no longer had a need to trash his place. And after paying some movers a decent sum of money, I was able to get everything put back in its place. Furniture. Artwork. Bed frames and mattresses. To me, everything was evidence, from the way he set up his bedroom down to the kind of wood he used for his kitchen table, everything had to be accounted for.

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