His Custody

by Tamsen Parker

  Titles by Tamsen Parker

  School Ties

  His Custody

  His Custody

  Tamsen Parker

  INTERMIX

  NEW YORK

  INTERMIX

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Tamsen Parker

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN: 9780399584350

  First Edition: March 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Titles by Tamsen Parker

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For my favorite boundary-pushing authors, who made me believe I, too, could walk on the edge.

  Chapter One

  June

  Jasper’s feet pounded down the linoleum-floored halls, through the endless twists and turns of neutral-colored walls. What Sarah would call beige, sage, dove. As he followed the signs toward the wing he needed to get to, he tried to ignore the pounding in his chest echoing his footfalls. Man up, Andersson.

  A doctor in a white coat and a guy in a suit stood at the end of the hall. Because when the Anderssons and the O’Connells were involved, lawyers and PR were, too. The guy in the suit noticed him first and plastered a serious, sympathetic expression on his face.

  “Mr. Andersson.” Jasper extended a hand and shook. “Davis Wilcox, patient liaison. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Patient liaison his ass. He’d bet anything Mr. Wilcox didn’t liaise with anyone who wasn’t a major benefactor to the hospital. Or didn’t have the potential to be.

  “And this is Doctor Sandra Ettleson. She’s been responsible for Miss O’Connell’s care.”

  “How is she?”

  Doctor Ettleson looked to Mr. Wilcox for a go-ahead that made Jasper’s fists tighten at his sides. He was in no mood to fuck around with rigid formalities or legalese.

  His phone had rung after midnight. He was used to getting calls in the middle of the night, some panicked underling needing direction, or one of his carefree friends wanting to know if he wanted to get a drink or maybe hit something heavier. He was not, however, used to getting a call from the United States Coast Guard telling him his parents’ yacht had sunk off the Connecticut coast and his parents and his kid brother were dead, along with the crew of the boat.

  “What about the O’Connells?” he’d asked. His family’s closest friends. They traveled together, lived two streets away, ate several meals a week together, and their kids had been madly in love. Keyne and Gavin had been inseparable since they were born, two days apart.

  But now they were separated. Gavin had been killed and Keyne had survived. Was maybe the only survivor. Search and rescue was still on the scene, but they weren’t hopeful. And Keyne, god, she was just a kid.

  “Miss O’Connell is asleep—”

  “You mean sedated.”

  Doctor Ettleson blinked. “Yes.”

  “Then say that.” He wasn’t known for his patience under the best of circumstances and at the moment he was strung taut like a double bass.

  “Of course.” Dr. Ettleson flashed Mr. Wilcox another glance and he gave her a go-ahead nod. For fuck’s sake, could the woman not make a decision without a second motion? “Miss O’Connell has been sedated. She was, as you would expect, distraught when she was brought in. Physically, though, she’s as well as can be expected. The hypothermia from being in the water before she was rescued shouldn’t have any long-term effects. There was a laceration on her left upper arm that required stitches, but aside from that and some minor contusions and abrasions, she’s fine.”

  “I’d like to see her.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Wilcox piped up. “Right this way.”

  They showed him into a not-quite-standard room—private, of course, and the décor was more upscale, but the hospital bed was the same. And there was Keyne. Tucked up to her chin under bleached-white linens, her long reddish hair providing a brilliant contrast, her coltish legs outlined under the blanket. If you didn’t know to look for the faint freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and the swell of her cheeks, you wouldn’t be able to tell they were there, but Jasper had known her literally her entire life. All seventeen years of it.

  There was a big gap between him and his brother. Fourteen years. But Gavin hadn’t been the accident, Jasper had. His parents hadn’t meant to have a kid during college, but that’s why it’s called an accident, right? He’d been in this weird generational gap, a child to their parents but a grown-up to Gavin and Keyne, and no one for him to pair off with. No one who wanted to play his games or read his books. But that had been okay. There was plenty of love and affection to go around their self-made Andersson-O’Connell clan and he didn’t often feel left out. Besides, whenever he’d gotten too broody-adolescent, little red-headed Keyne would come and ask him to read her a book. He could never say no.

  And now . . . now it was just the two of them. From seven came two. That’s not how it was supposed to be.

  His jaw clenched and he swallowed. This was no time to lose his cool, to let himself come undone even though his world was ending as definitively as Keyne’s was. Parents, dead. Brother, dead. Godparents, dead. The only family he had left was lying sedated in a hospital bed.

  He talked to Dr. Ettleson and Mr. Wilcox for a few minutes once they were inside Keyne’s room, asking questions about when she could be released, what care would need to be provided. He was careful not to leave any room for argument about where she would be going upon discharge, because she was coming home with him. When he was satisfied, he dismissed them.

  Needing something to keep him busy in the quiet, he sat by Keyne’s bed, making notes on arrangements that would need to be made. Through the fog of dis
belief, he let his planning mind take over, the part that functioned in a crisis when everyone else was flailing around. Jasper wasn’t the flailing type. He made lists instead: legal documents that would need to be obtained, funeral arrangements made. He’d send his housekeeper, Ada, over to the O’Connells’ house to get some things for Keyne: clothes, toothbrush, books. She’d need a new phone, too, although who she was going to call . . . He fought back the sick rising in his throat. She could call him.

  It had been several hours of list-making, emailing, and making quiet phone calls before Keyne’s eyes opened, slow and heavy.

  Whatever drugs they gave her hadn’t worn off yet, or maybe it was the aftereffects from the hypothermia. She looked dazed, and when she’d opened her eyes, she didn’t freak out as would have been well within her rights. Maybe she was wading through a haze of denial like he was—this is not happening, this cannot be happening, things like this don’t happen to people like us.

  “Jasper?”

  It came out a whisper, but the small sound was a heavy weight on his chest. “Yeah, Keyne, it’s me. I’m here.”

  “Am I—What . . .”

  Her green eyes darted back and forth under pinched brows, taking in the room. She looked so young then, and lost.

  “You’re in the hospital. You’re going to be okay.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to volunteer anything else. Your parents are dead. Your boyfriend is dead. Your godparents are dead. The entire crew of a boat you’ve run around on since you were a toddler is dead. Your whole world is about to be turned upside down. She needed to rest and if he could give her a few more hours of peace without everything flooding back, he’d hold back the flood for as long as he could. He’d give her the peace he couldn’t have.

  She blinked at him a few more times and he did his utmost to school his expression. Neutrality. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes went unfocused.

  “I’m tired, Jas.”

  “I know. You can go back to sleep.”

  Her lips pursed and her eyebrows drew together in a pale approximation of the vicious scowl he usually got from her when he was being ridiculous. God, let her stay spaced out and oblivious for as long as possible. Keyne was a tough customer—smart, clever and didn’t put up with bullshit. He’d sometimes thought she was too mature, too tough for Gavin, but Gavin had worshiped her, and that had worked for them. But as tough as she was, this was going to be hard for her to take. It would be hard for anyone to take. She was going to be devastated, and if he was a coward for wanting to keep this from her for as long as possible, so be it.

  Her eyelids, delicate and purple-tinged, fell over her mossy green eyes and soon she was asleep, telltale even breaths deepening. Just in time for his phone to buzz in his pocket.

  He checked the screen before answering, and though there had been a lot of numbers coming up today he didn’t recognize, this one he did: it was Deja. The only person he knew who could flip a switch and get shit done under any circumstances, she was technically his COO but if there was something the woman couldn’t do, he hadn’t found it yet. He was thankful for Deja every day because she was a marvel, but the relief of seeing her number come up at this moment when everything else had gone to shit was palpable. “Yeah.”

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  Fuck. “How bad?”

  “I can do some digging, but you’re not next of kin.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Get it taken care of, Deja.”

  He didn’t bother to say good-bye, but hung up, secure in the knowledge Deja would do as she’d been asked. And if there were a way to get this sorted, she would find it.

  Part of him wanted to rail at the O’Connells for putting him in this position, but no one plans for the apocalypse. His parents would have been listed in the O’Connells’ wills for getting custody of Keyne if anything happened to them. But he wasn’t. Why would he be? Their wills probably hadn’t changed much since Keyne was born, and he would’ve been fourteen at the time and heading off to prep school. He could barely figure out how to do his laundry in the coin-op machines in the dorms, never mind care for anyone else. Not exactly a fit guardian.

  Bill and Marcy O’Connell were good people, the best. But Marcy didn’t have any family and the rest of Bill’s were money-grubbing parasites. Sean had blown through his substantial inheritance with help from his feckless wife, Deborah. They’d both been pretty damn angry when Bill had refused to pay their way out of debt. Probably because he knew they’d only burn through it again. And since then, there had been a long stream of failed get-rich-quick schemes, and he wasn’t confident that they’d limit themselves to aboveboard activities if they thought hanging out on the wrong side of the law could result in a life of luxury.

  No fucking way were they getting their hands on Keyne or everything her parents had worked so hard to build. Not if Jasper had anything to say about it, and he sure as fuck would.

  Chapter Two

  July

  They were fighting again.

  She wasn’t supposed to be able to hear them fighting. Jasper had steered Sarah as far away from Keyne as he was willing to go, and was keeping his voice low.

  It didn’t matter. She could still hear them.

  They were fighting again. Over her. She’d only been at Jasper’s for a month.

  She hugged her knees harder into her chest, dug her nails into her calves. She didn’t want them to fight.

  “She can’t stay here, Jasper.”

  Keyne glanced at Jasper’s broad back, his hands on his hips, looming over Sarah. Sarah was a tall, brassy blonde and gorgeous, but even in her heels, Jasper dwarfed her. Not so much because he was so much taller, though he was taller, but because he was broad like a tree trunk. Keyne could hardly see Sarah because Jasper had placed himself in between the two of them.

  “Where would you have her stay?”

  “I don’t—”

  “She’ll be in foster care over my dead body. And there’s no fucking way the O’Connells are getting her. You have no idea what those people are like. So what would you have me do?”

  Sarah huffed a sigh. “She’s—”

  “What? Is she getting in your way?”

  “She doesn’t do anything. She just sits there. She doesn’t say anything, she won’t look at anyone. She won’t eat, she won’t sleep. She’s like a ghost. The only person she seems to realize exists is you.”

  “What do you want from her? She lost everything. Her life is a level of uncertain right now that you can’t comprehend. Give her a break. It hasn’t even been a month. She’ll get better.”

  She wanted to get up off the couch, walk over and interrupt their arguing. I’m not going to get better. Nothing will ever be better. It doesn’t matter where I am because everywhere is horrible.

  But the idea of moving that far, of making words come out of her mouth in a way that made sense? Thinking about it was exhausting. Doing it might kill her. She’d stay here, let them work it out.

  Everything made her tired, made her ache. Sometimes she hurt so badly she had a hard time distinguishing between what was actual physical pain like from the gash on her arm that still smarted and what was heartache. Heartache was a stupid word. Her whole body hurt and she was so slow. She wished she were dead. At least that would hurt less. And she could be with Gavin. And her mom and dad. And Aunt Emily and Uncle Arvid, who’d been like second parents to her even though they weren’t related by blood at all.

  Her eyes watered, and the hot salty tears burned away some of the icy numbness she’d felt since she’d woken up and Jasper had told her everyone was dead. She hadn’t cried. She’d said “I know,” and she’d barely said another word since. She’d let herself be suspended in the icy block of nothing-matters-anymore, because it didn’t.

  Sometimes she thought about talking, deliberated on it like some kind of major undertaking, and
then decided not to because it was too much for her. What was she supposed to say?

  But those stupid tears. They said something was real. Not everything inside her had died, had been frozen out there in that big, empty ocean. That the waves that didn’t seem so cold at first hadn’t sucked every emotion, every thought, everything from her.

  For the past month, she’d felt like a walking corpse. Jasper told her they’d sedated her when they’d first brought her in, but the drugs were long gone. She couldn’t tell the difference. If Jasper took her hand, she would stand up. If he led her to the car, she would follow. If he tucked her into bed, she would close her eyes. But aside from following the most basic instructions, she had nothing to offer.

  The doctor, the social worker, the grief counselor; they all talked at her, poked and prodded. And she suffered their attentions, let them go through the motions, check off the boxes on the forms they had to fill out. There were a lot of forms.

  At the funeral a couple of weeks ago, she’d gone through the motions. Ada, Jasper’s housekeeper, had helped her dress and done her hair. Jasper had steered her through gauntlets of flashing bulbs and crowds of people offering their condolences, kept her folded under his arm and warded them off.

  Her family and the Anderssons were wealthy enough they attracted the occasional media attention. Usually just at fundraisers and big events, but a tragedy of this magnitude was big news. Reporting on rich people suffering misfortunes of this scale apparently sold papers, or got clicks, or whatever it was media outlets wanted. Never had it occurred to her to hate the people who would take their pictures when they went to events and parties—her parents had always told her to keep her distance while still being friendly, so that’s what she’d done.

  She’d stood by the crypts and watched as people walked by, their emotions pouring out of them while hers lay at the bottom of the ocean somewhere with the boat. The only feeling she’d had was hatred for those strangers standing there with their cameras, capturing what should have been grief. The photographers and the press had made her feel like she was doing death wrong and that had infuriated her. Not enough to burn away the coldness though. No, the rage had stayed trapped behind her frozen feelings.