Because I have nothing better to do, I plant my ass on the sidewalk and stare blindly at the stream of cars and customers gassing up their vehicles, washing down their windshields, stopping in for a quick snack. Everybody’s life is going on with envious normality while mine is in shambles. The worst of it is that I feel like I had the golden ring—the answer—within reach only to find out that it didn’t exist at all.
What ifs and if onlys haunt me. What if I’d responded earlier? If only I didn’t get sent away in the first place. What if I’d kept my mouth shut? If only I could’ve convinced my mom that Dylan wasn’t safe.
“Let’s go,” East says.
I look up to see him holding a six-pack and three-foot long metal club wrapped in yellow rubber, which my brain helpfully informs me is an anti-theft device. I remember that, but not the shit about Mrs. Roquet. I hate myself.
“I’m not interested in drinking,” I respond harshly, irritated that his go-to solution is booze. Getting lit isn’t going to solve any of my problems.
“Neither am I.” He twists the box around so I can see that it’s 7-Up. “There’s a park over here. Let’s go.” He doesn’t wait for me.
I watch him walk away for a beat and then drag myself to my feet. He’s been so good to me. He’s listened to my problems, waited patiently through my tantrums, stuck by me even though I lost all my memories. He’s been a real friend. If I didn’t have East through this whole mess, I’d be lost. So if he wants to have a drink, then I’m going to sit with him while he has that damned drink.
He’s waiting on the black-tarred basketball court for me, the soda at his feet and the club in his hand. He offers it to me when I reach him.
I take it, surprised by its heft. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask. “Neither of us have wheels.”
“When I get frustrated, I feel better when I hit something. There are always fights down at the docks. Some guys do it for money, but Reed and I would go down there because slamming your fist into a guy’s face is real satisfying. I’m guessing that’s your style—”
I shudder. “No.”
“—so I bought the soda and the club.” He waves a hand at the six-pack. “Beat the shit out of this. I promise it will make you feel better.”
I’m not convinced, but I take a small swing.
He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around mine and slams the club onto the cans. Fizz sprays up and I jump back, but he holds me steady. “Put some mustard in it, Hart. How do you feel about your dad breaking your wrist?”
Fucking awful. This time I bring it down harder. There’s a satisfying crunching sound as the sides of the cans cave in. I don’t dodge the spray of carbonated liquid. Instead, I put my shoulder into my next swing. That’s for my dad taking bribes. Whack! That one’s for kicking me out of the house. Whack! This one is for Mrs. Roquet dying before I can get her statement. Whack! This is for Felicity and Kyle and my stupid fucking memory loss. I slam that rod into the cans until there is nothing but crushed metal and a pool of white fizzy drink bubbling like a dead fish on the pavement.
“How do you feel?” East asks, pulling the club from my hand.
I wipe a sticky wrist across my forehead. “Surprisingly better.” Throwing tantrums and beating soda cans into submission might be a temporary fix, but until I get Dylan out of that house, I’m not going to be able to live with myself. I beat back a wave of helplessness. Feeling sorry for myself will solve nothing.
I blow my hair out of my face and try to gather my thoughts. My head’s clearer now. I recite the pieces of evidence we do have. “I have a text of a dead woman. My dad would get that thrown out in a second. Anyone can fake a text these days. What we need to do is go to the source.”
“Interrogate your dad?” Easton rubs his hands together. “I’m down for that.”
“No. We break into his office—his home office.”
“Tonight?”
I shrug. “Why not? It’s not that late yet, and we’re already out and about, Scooby-Doo’ing like pros.”
Easton snickers, then goes serious. “You think he keeps anything in his office?”
“It can’t hurt to try.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? It could really hurt your family.”
I settle a hard look at East. “If I don’t, he’ll hurt Dylan. Best thing I can do is find proof he’s taking bribes and then turn him in.”
East pulls me against him. “I’m there with you. All the way.”
Chapter 28
Easton
“I can’t believe I’m using a chauffeured Town Car to spy on someone.” I didn’t want to hire out a car for this spy-capade, so Hartley and I are making do with my dad’s driver, who wasted no time picking us up from the gas station. “Can you look a little less conspicuous?” I ask Durand, tapping his shoulder.
He slides down in his seat. “Will this do, Mr. Easton?” He’s mocking us, but we deserve it.
This cloak and dagger shit probably looks ridiculous to anyone who doesn’t know what’s going on inside the Wright household. The idea of casing her dad’s study seemed good a half hour ago, but now I’m not so sure. What happens if she gets caught? I’m not going to stand around while her father breaks her other wrist, but I’m not sure how to broach the topic. Hey, babe, but I might have to beat your dad’s face in tonight. Hope that’s okay.
But Hart’s tired of doing nothing. She said that she was too passive before. I don’t know if that’s a fair characterization, but I understand wanting to take action. I’m always in favor of doing instead of sitting around.
"No offense, but this car is pretty noticeable.” Hart looks worried.
"No offense taken, miss," Durand replies.
“Let’s go take a closer look. That’s why we’re here, right?” I give her a chance to back out.
“Yup,” she replies, and hops out.
I guess that’s my answer. "We'll be back," I say as I slide out of the car after her.
"I'll be here." Durand's in a cheerful mood. I think he's into this spy shit. It’s probably way more interesting than just driving me in a big boring ass loop from home to school to hospital and back again.
I flip up my collar against the chilly night air and hustle after Hart, who's stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring back down the road.
"The accident happened close to here, didn't it?" she says when I catch up to her.
"Do you remember something?" I search her face for signs of recognition.
"No, but I heard that it took place around the curve." She points to the sharp corner that we passed.
The nightmarish scene flashes in front of my eyes. The back end of her car crumpled. Glass from the twins’ windshield strewn on the gravel. Seb's body twenty feet from the Range Rover.
I turn my back on the scene and block her view. If she can't remember, what's the point of dwelling on it? It's not going to undo the accident. "You're both better now," I say. "That's what's important."
She stares past my shoulder and then nods sharply as if trying to come to terms with it. "Right. Okay, let's do this." She looks around, taking in the houses, many of them mansions, lining the street. The Royal property is large enough that we can’t see the house next door, but the homes in Hartley’s neighborhood aren’t as isolated. "Should we pretend we lost our dog and that's why we're running through people's backyards and looking into windows?"
I cough lightly to cover a laugh. "That might attract more attention than you want."
"We don’t have a choice. Mrs. Roquet is dead. The only option we have left is to get direct evidence from my dad.” She shoves her hands inside the pockets of my navy overcoat, her shoulders hanging so low, they’re going to brush the sidewalk soon.
"Let's walk in the back, along the property line," I suggest, because she’s right. This is as good as anything.
"What if someone shoots at us because we look like we're going to rob these houses?"
"Your jacket is worth a couple
of mortgage payments. I don't think anyone is going to mistake you for a burglar."
"Of course it is.” She rolls her eyes. “Do you get an allergy if your clothes cost less than four figures?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. And my dick shrinks, too.”
“Only you, Easton, would be confident enough to joke about your dick getting smaller.”
“Big dick problems,” I solemnly intone. We reach the end of the lot line. No dogs are chasing us yet.
“How can you sleep in that shabby apartment if you like nice things?”
Because it's your place, I want to answer, but I don't think she's ready for that. "Because it's private. I don't have to deal with the twins or Ella." And you're there. “Why were you okay with it? Your house isn’t a shack.”
“Eh. It’s not that nice inside. I think my parents bought it because they wanted to look richer than they really are. We don’t own designer gear like you do. Mom talks about how expensive things are. Keeping up appearances are important to them. When I asked Parker for help, she told me I was making the family look bad.”
“That sucks.”
Her shoulders hitch slightly. “It is what it is.”
She sounds resigned. Out of all the things that make me the angriest about Hart’s position is how her family totally abandoned her. My brothers and I may fight, Seb may have woken up a completely different person, but we’re always there for each other. And when Ella came into our family, even when we weren’t entirely sold on her, the minute someone tried to hurt her, we were ready to defend her. Family stands up for family.
I guess I’m Hartley’s family now.
“This is it,” she whispers. Hart’s backyard is decent-sized but bare, with no real landscaping work done. Mostly grass and a couple trees. Her family’s mansion is dark except for a single room on the end of the first floor where a blue light flickers. Someone’s watching television.
“The fourth window over on the first floor is my dad’s office.”
I study the back. The wraparound porch has two sets of French doors, one set leading to the kitchen, the other to the family room. The latter doors are where Hart thinks we can go in. Apparently the security alarm hasn’t worked in years, so I’m not overly concerned that alarm bells will go off once we enter the house.
“What’s your plan of attack?” I ask her.
“From what you said, Dad was pretty bold. He met with people in the house, so I bet he has stuff in his office.”
“Wouldn’t it be in a safe?”
“Maybe? But what’s the harm in looking? What’s he going to do? Kick me out?”
He might hit you and then I’d have to hit him back. But I keep my reservations to myself.
She creeps over to peek inside the family room. “Mom’s on the couch, but I think she’s sleeping.”
I pop up from my crouched position to take a brief inventory of the scene. Mrs. Wright does look like she's out. Her head is tilted awkwardly to the side and the remote is lying in her slack hand. Mr. Wright isn’t around.
“Maybe he’s out meeting with a client,” Hart says quietly.
We sidle along the house and stop below her dad’s office. She peers in the window and gives me the thumbs up sign. The office is empty. She scuttles over to a large metal barbecue and reaches underneath, where she swears there is a key to the patio doors. I hear the scrape of metal against metal and a small exclamation of excitement.
“I was right,” she crows, flashing a key in front of my eyes.
“Awesome. Let’s go.” Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I tell myself to loosen up. There’s no real danger here. This is her fucking family house. If she wants to case her father’s office, then that’s what we’re going to do.
She fits the key into the lock and starts to turn the handle when we hear his voice.
We both drop to the ground, lying as flat as we can against the concrete slab.
“I told you I’m taking care of it, but these matters are delicate and need to be dealt with slowly and carefully, otherwise we’re both going to get into trouble.”
Hartley reaches out and grabs my hand. I squeeze it back. She bats at it. She wants something.
“What?” I mouth.
She holds her hand up to her ear. She wants me to call someone?
No, she’s shaking her head. She mimics holding a phone and then points it upward. It finally occurs to me. She wants me to record this.
I pull out my phone and open the voice memo app to start recording. I hope this works.
“I want to be paid in cash. I don’t care how difficult it is to get five million in cash. That’s how I want to be paid.”
Five million? No wonder he can afford to live in this house on a DA’s salary. It must be a big case, too, because what else would be worth that? A sick feeling burbles in my gut. There’s only one really big case that’s going on in Bayview right now—Steve O’Halloran’s murder trial.
“I did try to scare the girl into not testifying, but she’s stubborn. So I’m going to have to fix the matter by botching some evidence. Your attorneys should be smart enough to get the case dismissed on those grounds.”
There’s another moment of silence as Mr. Wright listens to the caller.
“If you’re so worried about your daughter’s testimony, then my suggestion is to make it so she can’t testify. Do you see me having a problem with my daughter? I know how to keep the little bitch in line.”
My veins harden to ice. Make it that Ella can’t testify? Is he suggesting Steve kill Ella? Rage and fear form a lethal combo in my chest, making my ribs ache. No way. No fucking way is Steve getting his hands on Ella.
Beside me, Hartley is equally stricken. The little bitch line hurt her, I can see it in her eyes. Not for the first time, I wish I could strangle her father to death. And if I had any doubts before about what this conversation means, Mr. Wright has now crushed them. Steve is trying to buy his way out of the trial, and Wright is more than happy to help, so long as he gets his payout.
“I want half tomorrow, a deposit of sorts. I won’t go near that evidence until I have half the money. Meet me at Winwood Park at ten. And remember, I want cash.”
A wave of nausea crashes over me. Hart didn’t ask me to back her up hoping to put her dad in prison. She just wants to be able to free her sister. But I can’t be quiet about what I’ve just heard. Ella has to know that her sperm donor, the one that tried to kill her, is trying to weasel his way out of serving any time for killing my dad’s former girlfriend. And that he might be coming after her again to stop her from testifying against him.
This is a fucking awful dilemma.
“That asshole,” Mr. Wright fumes. He disappears from the door and we hear him yell, “I’m hungry! Make me a sandwich,” his voice fading with each word.
Hartley jumps to her feet and gestures for me to follow her. We race back in the direction we came from, and she doesn’t stop running until we reach Durand. She opens the door with shaking hands and says, “Go. Please, let’s go.”
“Where to?” Durand asks, shooting me a worried glance.
“I think we’ll need to go to your place.” She raises her anguished eyes to mine. “You need to tell your dad when he gets back.”
“So you know,” I say, my heart thudding loudly.
“It’s Ella’s case, isn’t it?” She sounds miserable.
“Yeah, it is.” My throat hurts bad. “If we tell my dad, he won’t stop until yours is put away for a very long time.”
She swallows and it looks painful for her, too. “So be it.”
Chapter 29
Hartley
“They’re meeting tomorrow night,” I finish, slumping in emotional exhaustion. “Or wait, I guess that would be tonight, since it’s technically morning now.” It’s past two a.m. and I’m ready to keel over.
Callum doesn’t look much better than I feel. He’s literally been traveling for the past twenty-four hours, and you can see it in the weary lines of his fac
e. We waited up for hours for him to get in from London. I expected it to be even later, but unlike normal people, Callum Royal doesn’t have to go through Customs or wait at the baggage carousel. I guess that’s the perk of having your own plane.
Easton wraps an arm around my shoulder and hauls me close, daring Ella or his dad to say a word against what I’ve just told them. Neither of them does. Ella’s too angry and Callum is…I think shocked and saddened, as if he can’t believe his longtime friend has sunk so low. I think what scared him the most is the implication that Steve might harm Ella to stop her from testifying, and that my dad was actually encouraging it. Ella had gone pale during that part, but now her face is red with anger. She wants Steve’s blood, and I don’t blame her one bit.
“Is that it?” Callum asks.
I nod. “That’s it. Or at least, that’s all I know.”
I hand him my phone with Mrs. Roquet’s message on it, and he reads it carefully.
“This is the woman you saw,” he prompts.
“Yes.”
“But she’s passed away now?”
“Yeah, we went over there tonight and the neighbor said that after her son died from an overdose last year, Mrs. Roquet lost the will to live. I think that’s why it took her so long to respond to me. If you look at the time stamps on the messages, I waited over six months for her to text back.”
“It was her that brought you back to Bayview,” Easton guesses.
“I think so.”
Callum sets both my phone and Easton’s on the desk behind him. “I’m going to be straight with you, Hartley. I can’t allow this to happen. I have to protect my family at all costs, and that means exposing this corruption and stopping your father.”
“Dad—” Easton begins.
I cut him off with a raised hand. “No. I understand. All I want to do is protect my family too. I need to get Dylan out of the house before all of this becomes public. I’m afraid he’ll take his anger out on her. Will you please help her?”