by Kris Jayne
Love’s Crossing, the ranching property deeded from Lucinda’s father to her husband after her first marriage, now belonged to the J.P. Star estate. Etta probably worked there in the Canfields’ house, which wasn’t in west Texas. The New York-based sports reporter got that detail wrong. Love’s Crossing was in central Texas, near Llano.
At every turn, the story around J.P. Star and Etta Cross wound together. One piece of information I hadn’t found was evidence of Etta’s marriage to a Mr. Cross, and I was beginning to think he was a phantom.
I told Danny none of this, and I didn’t want to.
“You’re holding out on me.” His eyes narrowed.
I opened my mouth to object, but he cut me off.
“That’s a good thing,” he barked. “Otherwise, I’d be pissed at you for wasting money, but I need a story. A big one. If I don’t get one in the next two weeks, guess who’s reimbursing the paper?”
As if I could afford that right now.
“You’ll get your story this week,” I promised and swallowed hard. “I’m close to something explosive.”
Danny spun in his chair and whooped. “I knew it. Shayna’s chasing Anthony Star-Fucker or whatever his name is, but you’re getting the goods. I can tell.”
“Star-Hunter. His father is Ken Hunter. Married to Theresa Star hyphen Hunter,” I explained.
Did he do any footwork on stories anymore? At least Shayna had made contact with the family. We fed the filth to this fucking beast, and he sat on his narrow ass all day, throwing us pennies in return.
I clutched the arm of my chair and tried to calm down. This wasn’t Danny’s fault. I signed up for this mess, and now, I had to find my way out of it.
Trailing back through the years of news and public records, I found bits and pieces of the Cross family’s lives, and salacious as they were, they didn’t deserve to be reduced to gossip. The heady fun of unraveling the mystery pushed me forward, but I couldn’t publish most of it. I didn’t want to.
That grimy feeling came back again.
I hated this job. I hated myself in this job. And I was stuck because I needed to finish it. Carter made his choices because he cared about his family, and I had to do the same.
Two or three front-page pieces. I’d keep them as focused on the Stars as possible. That’s it. That would give me enough financial leeway to say goodbye.
James had offered me some work before, and maybe Carter really knew some people who could use a freelance writer. I’d text both of them as soon as I got back to the office.
“Whatever their names are, I need details. Soon. We can’t afford to let this story go cold. Sales—on the newsstand, online subscribers, web traffic and ads—are insane. J.P. Star’s death is our hottest story in years. We need to keep interest going with something fresh.” He buggy green eyes flashed with excitement.
I took a deep breath. “I’ll have something for you by the end of next week to run the following Monday.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to fire you,” he sneered.
I grimaced.
“Kidding. Have a sense of humor, Donovan.”
“Sure.” I scooped up my tablet and hurried out.
10
Carter
John Peter Star died trussed up like a Christmas goose and with a ball gag in his mouth.
He was 90.
Waves of news crews descended on Dallas to cover the ignominious death of the oil billionaire turned magnate of international business. His death dropped him precipitously from the Forbes list, bumping up friends and some rivals–which would have made John Peter grumble curses through quick puffs on one of his favorite Cuban cigars.
Police found the elderly man’s body in a five-star hotel room on Christmas Eve after an as-yet-unknown woman called 9-1-1 then split the scene of sexual adventure. Perhaps no one would have known had a tabloid reporter from The Dallas Post not been tipped off by cops and, in the commotion, snuck into the hotel and into the penthouse suite. And snapped a photo. And sold said photo to a national online gossip site.
Now everyone knew. It was all anyone could talk about.
I’d thought the entire thing hilarious and recounted each funny fact of the news story with my cackling childhood friends at the barbershop I frequented whenever I came back to town for the holidays.
When a report notes that police “discovered” you, that alone signals trouble. Dead was, of course, not a good sign. Arms bound. Naked from the waist down. A missing lady friend. The gag.
I rolled with laughter, doubling over and practically out of the barber’s chair. It was an immature reaction, considering I’d be forty on my next birthday. But wild stories of wealth and perversion served the universal need to bring the well-heeled back to earth. All good fun.
Then, six months later, I received the phone call.
“There’s a legal matter I need to discuss with you. Are you available to meet in my Dallas office next Thursday afternoon? It’s vital that we speak,” an attorney informed me.
“Why?”
“I’d rather not say over the phone.”
I rolled my eyes and geared up to tune the man out, reviewing figures on my computer screen. “Well, then I guess you’d rather I not be there. I’m not in Dallas, as my phone number might indicate to you, and have a business to run.”
Dallas wasn’t home anymore. I’d lived in Raleigh for years.
The man persisted. “This is a conversation best had in person. If you’d like me to come to you, I can bring the necessary paperwork, but…” Silence and a sigh. “This has to do with a confidential matter of high importance. Trust me. It’s going to be worth your while. And I’d prefer to talk with you and your siblings at the same time.”
Trust him? All he’d said was his name was William Traynor, an estate attorney. What did he know about Jasmine and Nate? If this was family business, he could deal with me or Mom, but he wasn’t calling about my mother, clearly.
“You’re going to have to explain yourself if you want an appointment. I’m a busy man.”
I worked for a top commercial and residential real estate developer and had projects stretching coast to coast. My time was literally money. Lots of money.
The guy acquiesced. “Okay. Can we meet in person tomorrow? I’ll fly out.”
“Fine.”
So he did. He flew to North Carolina to meet me at my office with shocking news and a nondisclosure agreement.
Now, here I was a week later, using up vacation days and walking out of the private executive elevator at the J.P. Star Energy corporate office.
The Stars wanted the meeting in their boardroom, and William was obliging them. The family members stood outside the doors of the meeting room–all donned in black and whispering. They slid their furtive glances at me with lips pressed tight. Anger? Grief? Probably some of both. But I couldn’t quite tell. I didn’t know these people.
I’d heard of them. All of Dallas had. Their names had been on the lips of every person in the country for months.
The executive floor looked like I would expect. Endless mahogany panels. Photos of oil fields throughout the years with the famous face of John Peter Star staring out at various ages. Four desks lined each side of the reception area opposite the express elevator–two by two. Only two were staffed, and one of the women stood as I stepped onto the floor.
The other woman eyed me then looked quickly away with a raised brow, tapping away on her keyboard.
“Good afternoon. You must be Carter. I’m Hannah Carlsson, Theresa Star-Hunter’s assistant.” The older, icier blonde woman moved forward.
“I must be.”
My taut grin excited a plastered smile from the woman that cracked for a second as we shook hands.
“Theresa and the rest of the family are in the boardroom. I’ll walk you back.”
I followed through reception to the broad hallway extending to the left.
One after the other, more pictures came into view all the way down the ha
ll. In one, a younger version of the old man stood arm-in-arm with T. Boone Pickens–a tick shorter and slighter but, somehow, he still filled the frame. The brim of his straw hat half shaded his face, so only one crystalline eye was visible as if he were a Western pirate. The man’s angled jaw formed a clean-shaven foundation for his pointed features.
This bony redneck?
Hannah deposited me at the doorway of a huge, paneled room with a massive, burled-wood table in the center and seating for over twenty.
Five nervous people already sat clustered at the far end of the room. One wall of floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked all of downtown, peeking over every high-rise except the green-lit building opposite them across the city center.
I barely looked at them. Over their heads, dominating the wall, was a portrait. It had to be at least five feet high.
The thin, sharp-cheeked white man stared back in a black suit and bolo tie. A black cowboy hat with a feather perched forward on his head, framing sharp blue eyes. The man’s wide smile curled, flexing like a crossbow poised to launch.
The news of the past week floated through my head again, less funny and more stomach-churning.
Grandma Etta must have been out of her mind to get mixed up with him. This pervy, fucking liar. This conniving, double-dipping prick. This manipulative, sneak-down-to-the-quarters piece of shit.
My grandfather.
11
Carter
“Have a seat.”
The silky, Southern tone of an older woman drifted toward me as I walked into the room. I patted the burgundy silk pocket square tucked in my dark gray suit jacket. Like me, it was one of Grandma Etta’s creations.
She’d died twenty years ago, but I had rows of them neatly folded and rolled in a closet drawer at home and in my suitcase here. This one featured her favorite flowers, tulips, embroidered in yellow connecting along the edges. A cluster of blooms dotted each corner with her signature, an E and a tiny cross swirled together in the foliage. Yellow tulips meant remembrance. She’d taught me that.
I felt calmer with that square of scrap fabric at my chest. She made the pocket squares with material left over from the interior design business she’d run with a partner until she died. He’d then retired, not wanting to continue after the artistic soul of the business was gone. Maybe he had more information about my grandmother who had suddenly transformed from a clever, hardworking, and reliable matriarch into an enigmatic woman with secrets.
I stared down the side of the twenty-person board room table to the end where the family sat.
Two women anchored the head of the table—one with a platinum blonde puff and the other with a bright auburn bun sitting high atop her head. The difference in hair distracted from the mirror image of their faces. I couldn’t tell which had spoken.
“Yes, Carter, have a seat.” William pointed to an empty chair opposite him. A couple of empty chairs buffered him from the family—or maybe it was the other way around. He had already told the Stars about me. The family didn’t introduce themselves, so I said nothing and sat down.
Flanking the two older women were two younger ones. One had a sleek, unnaturally black bob, and the other had pulled her straight, light brown hair back into a low ponytail. I recognized them from my week’s worth of online Star research—Willa Samson née Gale, daughter of Marie Gale, and Reese Star-Hunter, daughter of Theresa Star-Hunter. Marie and Theresa were J.P. Star’s twin daughters and my father’s half-sisters.
I glanced down my side of the table and saw a young man and a young woman, but I didn’t have a chance to examine them before William cleared his throat with a low-pitched hack.
“If this is all of us for today, we can get started. I know this is an awkward situation, but I’m hoping we can get through this as civilly as possible.”
“Where’s Jude?” Reese asked.
Marie’s auburn bun didn’t move as she turned to face Reese before answering the question about the missing grandson. “He couldn’t get away.”
A disgusted, masculine chortle rumbled in the corner, and I leaned forward to glance on my right. I recognized the only other male relative in the room from the occasional TMZ reports that came across my newsfeed. Anthony Star-Hunter. The oil baron’s entitled, drunken grandson partied with starlets and models, burning through his inheritance until the old man had allegedly cut him off a year ago.
The woman with hair like a thinly gilded cloud gave the kid enough maternal stink eye to warrant a gas mask. That was definitely Theresa Star-Hunter.
William forged on. “I should start by saying John Peter was very specific in his wishes. As difficult as his revelation is, eh, to the family and to you, Carter, he had hopes that you would all find a way to accept each other.”
Anthony grumbled again. “Not likely. Can we get to it? We’re here to discuss Grandfather’s estate, not for a therapy session.”
William removed his glasses and placed them on the table in front of him, folding his hands. “You may want to pay attention to these terms, son. And if you need therapy to meet the requirements of your inheritance, that can be arranged. Theresa, your son—” William started to address the blonde, but she cut him off.
“Nevermind him, William. Continue.” The exasperation in her voice veered toward boredom. Theresa was the power player. All the chaos bearing down on her family because of its own secrets and lies, and she had the nerve to sound put out.
Her twin and the other family members pressed their lips together, looking between William, Theresa, and Anthony with glints of suppressed irritation.
Marie raised a brow. “It has been terribly embarrassing, Theresa. His behavior is appalling.”
Theresa’s voice crisped like winter air. “Quiet. Let William say what he needs to say.”
Marie pinched her features tighter and tighter, tamping down rage. Her eyes narrowed as Willa’s widened to near perfect, terrified circles. Her inky black bob shimmied with every head turn as she followed the angry banter.
I struggled to keep the corners of my mouth from curling up. This stellar family was a mess like any other.
Ignoring her sister and niece, Theresa tilted her chin up and prompted William to speak.
“As I was saying, the thrust of his wishes was to do his best to bring all of his heirs together—including you and your siblings,” he paused, looking my direction. “I’d hoped Jasmine and Nathan would be here today.”
I hadn’t told Jazz or Nate about our relation to the Stars. I also had asked William not to say anything to my mother yet.
“As I told you on the phone, I’m representing the Cross side of the family,” I said, leaning forward to rest my elbows as I had on many a boardroom table. My new aunts and cousins folded their arms, looking like they’d swallowed poison.
“I’d have thought all of you would be champing at the bit to meet your new family,” Theresa crooned.
“We have a family, and we’re not looking for a new one,” I replied with committed calm. If she thought she could ruffle my feathers, she was in for it.
“Not a family with billions of dollars,” Reese answered.
Reese worked as J.P. Star Energy’s chief financial officer and president of business operations. All the money went through her. J.P. had been the CEO and chairman of the board. Her mother, Theresa, sat on the company’s board—along with Marie. Her father, Ken Hunter, had been an executive and board member, but no more. From what I could tell, Marie’s husband, Robert, had nothing to do with the business except using its dividends to fund his investments.
According to articles I’d read, Reese might have been in the running for CEO one day, but her grandfather and the other old school relics on the board balked at having a woman in charge just as they had when Theresa had wanted an executive position. Back then, the men got together and decided Ken should be J.P.’s second in command as chief operations officer and president of field operations. Consensus was that Theresa pulled the strings until eventually pushing her hu
sband gently into retirement and taking over as COO.
Eventually, she insisted that her daughter be CFO. Theresa must have had some sway over her father because, despite his suspicion of women running he show, women formed two-thirds of his top-level executive team when he died.
Below them was a sea of men, including Anthony who had a non-descript vice president title.
I met the obstinate challenge mixed in Reese’s eyes with a hard, steady look that usually evoked a trickle of fear. When she didn’t blink, I answered her in a measured tone. “We don’t have billions, but we’re a family nonetheless—with no one who’s run a woman off the road with his car and avoided jail by pretending to go to rehab.”
I glanced at Anthony, who opened his mouth, but Theresa took hold of his arm and interceded. “Let’s hold the commentary, shall we?”
“It was quite the embarrassment.” Marie sniffed with loud, exaggerated disgust.
So that’s what I was dealing with. The billions may have made them the envy of grasping strangers all over the state, but their family dramas were no different.
At least when the Crosses got together, we didn’t eye each other with barely concealed suspicion. The Stars were coiled in their corners, waiting to strike at anyone who got between them and their money. Maybe it was easier when you didn’t have much.
My father may have died when I was seven, but I had an entire extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins who’d looked out for me. Being a Cross meant someone had your back.
Joining the Star family looked less and less attractive. Jazz, Nate, and I were probably about to inherit some serious cash. If we had hit the surprise inheritance lottery, we’d smile, take the money, and give them the Heisman. I laughed again to myself, imagining the extended arm of the college football trophy stiff-arming each Star. Or maybe it was more of a, “Get thee behind me, Satan,” situation. That’s what Grandma Etta might have said. Maybe that’s why she stayed mum about Dad’s parentage before she died.