“What? What would you have done? Would you have swooped in and saved the day? Divorced Beth and married your legal sister? I’m sure Mother would’ve given you a glowing stamp of approval on all of that.”
“I would’ve supported her. Financially. That’s all I could’ve done given the circumstances.”
“You can hardly support yourself financially. Don’t think I don’t know about all the personal loans you’ve taken against your trust, all the handouts you’ve accepted from our mother over the years because the two of you can’t seem to live within your extremely generous means.”
Errol is silent for a beat. He won’t look at me.
“Are you going to come clean to Beth about any of this?” I study his face, worry etched across his sun-bronzed forehead. “Because I can’t imagine she’ll want anything to do with you or your biological child if she learns the truth.”
His gaze flicks to mine.
“According to my math, Honor had to have been conceived shortly after your honeymoon,” I add. “So there’s that. And there’s also the fact that Beth hated Larissa with a passion for reasons I never fully understood nor did I try to. I assumed it mostly had to do with our mother’s meddling ways, but now I’m beginning to wonder if she was onto your … perversions. So tell me, brother, do you honestly believe your wife is going to accept and raise this little girl as if she were her own?”
“Don’t talk about my wife as if you know a damn thing about her.”
“I might know her better than you think. For instance, were you aware she was taking birth control pills when the two of you were pouring thousands of dollars into fertility treatments?”
Errol’s hand cups the lower half of his face and he forces a hard breath through flared nostrils. “You’re such a fucking liar.”
“It makes no difference to me whether you believe me or not.” I shrug. “But I’m willing to bet money that she doesn’t want to have kids. This adoption thing is only happening because she’s running out of excuses. You and I both know this baby will be raised by a team of nannies—nannies that’ll surely be bankrolled by our mother because God knows the two of you can’t afford them. But that’s none of my business …”
Errol’s hands clench at his sides, his complexion turning ruddy and flushed, and without warning, the pathetic bastard attempts to deck me with a left hook—which I block.
I squeeze his fisted hand until he’s writhing, and then I shove him into the wall. He slides down, his skinny body landing in a heap on the foyer floor. “Get out of my face, and don’t you ever ask about that child again.”
My brother braces himself against the wall as he rises to a standing, and then he shows himself out, shooting me daggered looks all the while.
When he’s gone, I call my private investigator.
“Have another job for you,” I say when he answers. “If I give you a cell number, can you pull text message records from six, seven years ago? Maybe longer?”
“Without a court order?”
“Do you need one if I own the line?” A decade ago, I purchased a cell plan for Larissa—mostly for safety reasons. There was a brief period when I hadn’t heard from her and I wanted to ensure she’d always be able to reach me if she needed anything. Not only that, but it was a lifeline for her, a way to call 9-1-1 should she have an emergency.
As the years went on and she began to abuse my generosity and willingness to help, I may have stopped taking her calls, but I never stopped paying her cell phone bill.
He’s quiet. “There might be a way, yeah. Not making any promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Email me the account number, phone number, all of that.”
I end the call and email him immediately.
If my brother gets a wild hair and tries to pull some stunt again, I’ll be better equipped to handle his threats with one of my own—transcripts of every text message the two of them ever exchanged.
If that sick bastard wants to raise Honor, he’ll have to pry her from my cold, dead hands.
23
Astaire
“What are you doing?” Bennett asks from the other end of the phone Sunday afternoon.
“Hey, stranger.” I turn down the volume on my Bluetooth speaker, Radiohead fading into nothingness. “Thought you fell off the face of the earth for a hot minute.”
“No, really. What are you doing?”
“Cutting apples.”
“You know you can buy them that way. Already cut. Or you can eat them the way God intended.”
I sniff. “Paper apples. Construction paper. It’s for a unit we’re doing this week. Want to help?”
“As enthralling as that sounds, I’m actually in the midst of a project of my own, and I was hoping you’d have a couple of hours to help.”