by Charles, Eva
“She earned a scholarship, and I supplemented it so her family wouldn’t have any financial burden.”
“It sounds as though you’ve been very generous with her.” I don’t like Gleason’s tone or what he’s implying, and I’m two seconds away from throwing the fucker off my property.
“Spit it out. Say what’s on your mind. But I highly recommend you tread carefully when it comes to my friendship with Ms. Duval.” I glare at Gleason.
“Have you ever had an intimate relationship with her?” Alves asks as politely as you can ask a guy if he’s been boning some chick.
“When we were teenagers, she was my girlfriend. We broke up while I was away at prep school. And until recently, we haven’t had much contact. We reconnected sometime around the election, and we’ve been dating.”
“You paid her tuition even though you had broken up.” I never said I paid her tuition after we had broken up. I was purposely vague about the timeline. They’ve sifted through her life pretty thoroughly. Gabrielle will need a lawyer when she meets with them. It doesn’t matter whether or not she did anything wrong. It’s easy to be misunderstood. “The gift was for her parents. It might seem overly generous, but my grandparents left us a large inheritance. I didn’t miss the money.”
“So, you had no contact with Ms. Duval, but you assumed the loan on the hotel? Was that a gift to her parents too?”
Fucker. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to. I had no idea Ms. Duval was purchasing the hotel or returning to Charleston, for that matter. I might have assumed a loan for her had I known, but I didn’t.”
“Are you familiar with Godfrey LTD?” Alves asks, watching me closely.
I nod. “Yes, of course. It’s a small holding company for some real estate investments that my family is involved with in South Carolina. It’s essentially a subsidiary of a subsidiary of Wilder Holdings. It allows us to enter into a contractual agreement for local real estate while maintaining a measure of anonymity.”
“Godfrey LTD holds Ms. Duval’s hotel loan.”
That is a bald-faced lie. What are they up to?
I briefly consider terminating the interview until I can have a lawyer present. But I want to know more about where they’re headed first. I look from Alves to Gleason and shake my head. “You’re mistaken. I’m familiar with all the real estate in that portfolio. Neither The Gatehouse or Ms. Duval are part of Godfrey holdings.”
“When we investigate a fire, one of the first things we do is trace the origin of any loans on the property. The hotel was a risky investment and Ms. Duval had incurred substantial debt. She was operating at the margins, with no liquid assets, and little equity in the place. She essentially had no way to repay the loan if the smallest thing went awry. A fire would be a good way to recoup your investment. It’s not an uncommon practice.”
“Are you suggesting I set fire to Ms. Duval’s hotel to recoup some money? I don’t know a damn thing about that loan.” But I bet my father does. That sonofabitch.
Gleason pulls a document from a folder he’s brought with him, and hands it to me. On the signature line, it’s signed Julian D. Wilder. The signature is similar to mine, but with one caveat. I haven’t signed my name like that in twenty years. “That’s not my signature.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. I always sign my name using my full middle name.” My grandfather’s name. “I have for years.”
“Twenty-one years to be exact,” Gleason says. “A State Street bank account was the last official document we could find with this signature on it.”
They got a warrant to go through my bank records. Unless the bank gave them up without a fight, and without letting me know. Unlikely. “That’s about right.”
“Any idea about who might have forged your name to grant Ms. Duval the loan?”
I examine the loan paperwork again. Only one person comes to mind. That fucker forged my name on a loan to get her back to Charleston, after I worked so hard to get her away from here. He knew he was running for president, and that I’d be the one taking over Sayle. He knew I’d examine every piece of paperwork, look in every dark corner to find evidence that he killed my mother and Sera. He wanted Gabrielle here, dangling in front of me, so he could keep me in line. Jesus Christ. I take a couple of minutes with the document, buying myself some time to calm down. I’ve got to keep my cool in front of these guys.
“I’ve never seen this document, and I’ve looked through every piece of paper and every digital file having anything to do with Wilder Holdings. Except for the Sayle files. I’m still working on those. Have you checked with the bank?”
Alves nods. “The loan officer said the bank does a lot of business with your family. They don’t remember this specific transaction.”
“What about the notary who witnessed the signature?”
“There’s no record of that notary in South Carolina.”
Of course not. “My father ran all of Wilder Holdings before the campaign, including Godfrey. You might want to talk to him about the forged loan document.”
Alves side-eyes Gleason, who looks at me like I’m an asshole. There’s no way they can ask the president about his real estate portfolio. Too bad, I’d love to see it.
“When do you think Ms. Duval will be up to answering questions?”
“Ms. Duval would be up to answering questions right now.” I look up to find Gabrielle standing in the doorway, eyes blazing. Great. How much did she overhear? “Although, Ms. Duval would also like some answers.” She’s glares at me when she says it. That’s my answer. She overheard too damn much.
I try to keep an even tone for the agents, while trying to dissuade her from agreeing to an interview. These guys have done a lot of preliminary investigation and are cagey as hell. “Gabrielle, this isn’t a good time. You’re not up to an in-depth interview, yet.”
“I’m perfectly capable of answering the agents’ questions.”
I get up and go over to her. “Let’s have a word in private. Gentlemen, could you excuse us for a minute?” I take her elbow to lead her out into the hall.
“Get your hand off me. Now,” she hisses. “I’m not going anywhere. You hold the loan on The Gatehouse?” Her voice is trembling with rage. I doubt she’s thinking straight.
I stand between her and the agents, with my back to them. “You need a lawyer before you meet with these guys. It’s different than meeting with the Charleston police and fire marshal. They’ll chew you up and spit you out.”
“I don’t have a thing to hide. My friend is dead. My hotel is a pile of ashes. I want to help them find who did this. And I don’t give a damn about anything else. Get out of my way before I ask them to intervene.”
“At least go get something to cover yourself.” I rest my hand on her upper arm, and lean in. “That T-shirt is so thin I can practically see the color of your nipples through it.”
She shoves my hand off her. “Get away from me.”
“You’re making a huge mistake.”
“No. The mistake happened a long time ago.”
The door of my study clicks shuts as I step into the living room, where I wait while Gabrielle spends an hour, a fucking hour, locked inside with the feds.
The first call I make is to my lawyer who is of absolutely no help. “It’s foolish,” he says, “but she has every right to consent to an interview. Nothing you can do about it.” It takes everything I have not to fire his ass on the spot.
Next, I call Chase to see if he can find out anything useful about The Gatehouse loan. Then I snarl at Patrick when he arrives with the paperwork for me to sign, and kick an antique chair until it teeters on its last leg. It’s an eventful hour.
The more I dig, the more questions there are, and the fewer answers I have. The loan had not been specially arranged with the city. The fucking loan had been arranged by my father, and he forged my signature in front of a notary. More likely he had some ass-licker forge it. My father never gets his hands dir
ty. He’s always at least one step removed from the crime.
As soon as I hear the door to my study open, I step into the hall, just in time to see Gabrielle saying goodbye to Alves and Gleason. I watch as the lock on the front door catches. Now I have to deal with her. And from the look on her face, I’m sure she won’t waste a single second before busting my balls.
“All the things I thought I accomplished on my own. You were behind everything. Pratt Simmons, I already suspected. But Cornell? My internships? The Gatehouse? You were behind all of it. I didn’t accomplish a damn thing on my own. It was all a lie.”
“No! I paid for boarding school. But you earned those internships and the scholarships. All of it. I just made sure you had spending money so you could enjoy yourself a bit, instead of spending every minute working just to survive.”
“The Gatehouse? Did you arrange to have it sold to me for a dollar, and underwrite the loan?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I would have done everything in my power to stop you from coming back to Charleston. I had nothing to do with that.”
She lunges at me, slamming her fists against my chest, blow after blow, and I let her do it. I welcome the chance for her to hurt me. To let her feel like she has some power. I catch her when she collapses, before she hits the floor. When she doesn’t let me hold her, I yank her by the arm into my study and kick the door shut behind us.
She’s shaking when I sit her on the worn leather sofa. As much as I want to sit beside her, I pull up a chair across from her so we can face one another while we talk. But I don’t say a word until she speaks. “I want answers. I want every question I have answered, and you’re going to do it, or I’m going to the press and telling them every single thing. The whole story as I know it. Every damn word.”
I’m going to tell her everything. Now. Not because she might go to the press, but because watching her like this is like being eaten from the inside out. Like something’s chomping on my organs, gnawing on my nerves, devouring the remnants of my soul. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t watch her like this. Not for another second. But I’m going to stick the knife in her back one more time before I come clean. I have to.
“Go ahead. People will think you’re crazy,” I spit out. “No one will believe you. It sounds so far-fetched, something only an insane person would make up.”
She slides down into the sofa cushion, curling into a little ball. She’s trembling. I kneel beside her, folding my body over hers. “I’ll tell you,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you everything. But not here. Don’t say a word, just play along. Follow my lead.”
She turns her head and stares into my face, like she has no fucking idea if I’m for real. If I can be trusted. Or if she even heard me correctly. The tears are staining her cheeks. I use the back of my hand to wipe them away, then put my fingers to her lips to shush her.
“Gabrielle, get upstairs and go to sleep or take a shower.” I wink at her and nod, never letting go of her hands. “It’s been a long day and you need to rest. I don’t want to talk about this anymore tonight. Just go.”
I motion for her to wait and turn the music on in my study. I know she doesn’t have a cell phone on her, because there would be nowhere to put it. I take her hand and lead her into the secure room and close the door.
“It’s safe in here. We can talk freely without the risk of being overheard.”
“What is going on? Tell me. Why can’t we talk out there?” she pleads.
“I will. I’ll tell you everything. But sit down.” She stares at me, and for a minute I think she might bolt, but she slides into a chair and I sit beside her, pulling our chairs so our knees are almost touching. “Smith sweeps the premises regularly for any type of surveillance devices, but surveillance doesn’t always require a planted device. I don’t want anyone to overhear me telling you—everything.” I take a deep breath. “It’ll put you in too much danger.”
“You need to start talking,” she says softly. “Because I’m beginning to feel like you might be the one who’s crazy.”
“Do you know what Wildflower is?” I ask her.
“A social club.” She shrugs. “I’ve heard rumors that wife swapping goes on there.”
“It’s a sex club. A lot of things go on there.” Her eyes get a little wider, and I can’t even begin to imagine the disgust on her face when she hears the rest. And the pain. There’s going to be so much pain. I blow out at breath. “Sometime—right around the time I turned seventeen—I started going to the club after practice. Almost every day.”
“I remember you working there after school,” she says, twisting a section of hair around her fingers.
“My father insisted I go there to keep out of trouble. But there was nothing but trouble to be had there. At least for me.”
“What do you mean, trouble?” she asks carefully.
“I wasn’t doing much work while I was at the club.” I don’t even know how to say it. Just spit it out, JD. It’s not getting any prettier marinating. I force myself to look into her eyes. “I mostly stood around and watched while people fucked each other. Not the kind of sex teenagers know about, but kinky sex. It opened a whole new world of amazing for me.” She’s watching me intently. “I saw men do some filthy things to women, who loved it all. They would scream their pleasure, and it would echo in my cock. By the time I went home, I was so horny I could barely wait to find you. Sometimes I would need to come so bad, I’d get in the shower and get myself off before I even went to meet you.” I put my hand on hers and rub her palm with my thumb. Gabrielle’s still, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“At night, in the stable, I would teach you things I learned. I would get so worked up thinking about what I saw at the club, I’d do things to you that no fifteen-year-old girl should ever have done to her. That no fifteen-year-old girl should even know about.” She lowers her eyes. “Gabrielle,” I murmur. “Say something. Anything.”
She lifts her head. “I was just an outlet? A way to get off—to experiment?”
“No. That’s not at all what I’m saying.”
“Then what?” Her face is screwed up with sadness and hurt, begging me to tell her something that isn’t awful. But I only have awful to tell.
“I wouldn’t have known about the kink. We would have had sex like normal teenagers. Like normal fifteen and seventeen-year-olds. Instead I dragged you into the filth. You were an innocent.”
Her eyes meet mine. “I never saw it that way—filth. I never saw it like that. I loved you and I believed you loved me too. I knew we—we did things that not all teenagers did. But I never saw it as bad.” She looks at her hands. “Not until I saw you with Jane.”
“I loved you. It wasn’t just something you believed, like a fairy tale. It was real. That’s why what came later was so devastating.” I bring her hands to my lips and try to find some courage in the clean scent of her skin.
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. But you’re scaring me.”
“It was my father’s idea to let me hang out there and watch. Said it would make me a man. But that’s not what it was about.”
I brush the hair off her face. I’m killing time because—because I know how much this is going to hurt her. I draw a breath and let it find its way out. “He made sure I was all wound up, like some kind of goddamn wind-up toy made for his entertainment, and then he let me loose. On you.”
“I still don’t understand. Why would he do that?”
Because he’s a monster. “My mother had a video feed set up in the stable so she could keep an eye on the horses when they were ready to foal. It was disabled when the stable was cleaned out after she died. But my father reactivated the feed, and he watched us while—while—” I can’t form the words.
“While we had sex,” she whispers, in disbelief. “While we had sex.”
I nod, squeezing her fingers between mine.
“Oh. My. God. Oh my God.”
I slide my hand over her fac
e and close my eyes to stop the throbbing in my head. We sit quietly. All I hear are her labored breaths and the blood pounding in my ears.
“Oh my God,” she says again, gasping. “I’m having trouble breathing.”
“Slow down your breathing. Look at me. Mimic my breathing. Do exactly as I do.” She does, and after several minutes I start to feel her relax a little.
“And that’s why you were with Jane?” Her voice is trembling. “You fucked everyone and everything you could get your hands on? We were all just outlets for you—for your father to watch. I was just like the rest. I was a pawn in some sick game?”
“No! You were never an outlet for me. Never. My father started toying with me after he knew how much I cared about you. That I loved you. I didn’t know about any of it until much later. Until it was too late.”
“Who would do something like that? Maybe he was just lying when he said he taped us.” I can’t describe how bad I want to say, maybe. But I was done with the lies.
“There are things I suspected about him, and he knew I was always snooping around looking for answers.”
“The accident?” she asks softly.
I nod. “Then I visited Zack in that hellhole where DW had left him. It took me years to find him. DW left him there to rot. I went straight from Zack to my father’s study, and I let him have it. Threatened to expose him. He pulled a bunch of CDs from his drawer, stuck one into the television and turned on the monitor. It was us on the screen—we were—playing.” The word comes out so softly, I’m not sure she hears it until she covers her mouth with both hands to hold in a string of whimpers.
“He had dozens of recordings. Dozens and dozens. He watched us so often he was able to tell me the things—you liked.” I pull her hands away from her face and lace her fingers through mine. And squeeze. “He said that one day while I was away at school, he was going to take you into the stable and show you how hard a real man could make you come.”
“JD,” she sobs. I hear her, but the sounds are muffled, as though she’s crying in another room. I press on. I have to, because I don’t know that I’ll ever have the stomach for this conversation again.