by Ivy Layne
I shook my head as I remembered the swelling in Daisy’s cheek. That was on me. I wasn’t the one who’d hit her, but she should have been safe at The Inn.
“Tenn will have the purchasing staff call all of our major vendors, letting them know to double-check any unusual changes. But narrowing it down seems impossible. West arrested cockroach guy and it still didn't get us anywhere.”
“Lately, all we have are dead ends,” Griffen agreed. “West still doesn't have anything on the nutcase who tried to run me off the road and broke into the Manor. Same story—somebody paid him to do it, but he doesn't know who it was. I believe him, but that doesn't fucking help us.”
“I'm not even sure I can narrow down the suspects,” I said. “Dad had so many enemies one walked right into Heartstone Manor and shot him in the head. I'm not sure they see much of a difference between him and the Sawyer family in general. Do you think—” I stopped, not sure I wanted to put my thoughts into words.
“What?” Griffen prompted.
“Any chance Vanessa has anything to do with it?”
Griffen let out a long sigh and stacked his now-empty plates, pushing the tray to the corner of his desk. “I don't want to think she does. She's not my favorite person, but hiring someone to kill me seems a little extreme. Still, I don't think I can exclude her. Same for Ophelia and Bryce. I don’t see them committing murder, but the issues going on at The Inn? That's just the kind of petty bullshit I could see Bryce thinking up. Or maybe I just still hate him from when we were teenagers.”
“He hasn't gotten much better, from what I can see.”
“The investigator at Sinclair Security keeps hitting dead ends, too,” Griffen said, shoving his hair off his forehead in frustration.
“They put their best guy on it, and he couldn't find anything that didn't point straight to Ford as Dad’s killer. And he dug deep. Then I had them put their best forensic accountant on tracing the missing artwork. She's been more successful. She's found some sales, some records of where the money went. But she hasn’t uncovered the whole picture. Whatever Dad was up to, it wasn't straightforward.”
“Nothing with Dad ever was,” I said.
“True. He was always up to something.” Griffen picked up Hope’s list. “Okay, some of this is going to be a little harder without Hope, but let's dig into some ongoing business. Cole Haywood will be here at four. We should try to make some headway before then.”
That name rang in my ears as I pulled out my own laptop and moved to the chair Hope had occupied beside Griffen.
Cole Haywood was our brother Ford's defense attorney. He'd been pushing for Ford to plead guilty to our father’s murder and take the deal the prosecutor was offering. Cole didn't care that Ford was innocent, that if he took that deal he'd spend years in prison for a crime he hadn't committed.
All Cole cared about was winning.
No, that wasn't fair. Cole had reminded us repeatedly that pleading innocent and being found guilty could mean the death penalty. It was possible the Sawyer name would protect Ford from a murder conviction. It was just as possible it would make him more of a target. According to Cole, the prosecutor was a pit bull and a crusader.
She was the last person who'd be swayed by wealth and power. Griffen had pushed Cole to put her off, to give us more time to find some evidence to exonerate Ford. And we'd looked. Sinclair Security's investigator had looked. Griffen had looked. West had looked. Cole had been searching for evidence since the beginning. No one had found a thing.
If Cole was coming here, I could only assume we were out of time.
The afternoon passed far too quickly. Before I knew it, Griffen's phone rang with an alert from the front gate. Cole Haywood was here. I didn't know him well. Prentice had worked with him some, I think.
They'd known each other through business, though I wasn't quite sure how. Cole was a criminal defense attorney. As far as I knew Prentice had never been prosecuted for anything, but I wouldn't have put it past him to hide something like that from the rest of us.
Cole paused in the doorway, taking in Griffen and me sitting side by side, the papers and laptops spread across the desk. “I won’t take much of your time,” he said, his voice heavy. Tired.
I’d first met Cole years before when he’d been newly married. His wife had been gorgeous, not a surprise since he was a good-looking guy. Kind of like Bryce, Cole was almost too good-looking with his designer suit and chiseled jaw. At least, he had been back then. I hadn’t seen Cole smile since his wife had died in childbirth, taking their son with her.
His face had taken on hard lines, grief wearing grooves in the sides of his mouth and his forehead. He was leaner these days, the polish of social charm worn away by pain, leaving him with a dangerous edge.
He didn’t bother to sit, though he did close the office door behind him. The words I’d dreaded filled the room. “We’re out of time. The prosecutor is done delaying. Either Ford cuts a deal, or we go to trial.”
Griffen tapped his pen on the heel of his palm. “What's the deal?”
“It's not for you to approve,” Cole said, abrupt and annoyed. Griffen didn't seem to care. For all the reasons he had to hate Ford, Griffen didn't believe he'd killed our father.
“I understand that,” Griffen said, his patience strained. “I know you’re Ford's lawyer, not mine, but you're here so you might as well tell us. What's the deal?”
“She offered ten years with a chance of parole after five. She'll include time served, though that doesn't amount to much.”
“Ten years?” Griffen said, his voice low. Pained.
“It's first-degree murder, Griffen.”
“A murder Ford didn't commit,” I reminded him. “The prosecutor might not care, but you and I both know he didn't do it.”
Cole looked out the window, avoiding both of our gazes. He seemed to sag into the door frame behind him, his voice exhausted when he spoke.
“I told you, it doesn't matter what I know. What I believe. It only matters what I can prove. Ford doesn't have an alibi. Eyewitnesses put him near the Manor at the time of the murder. They found the goddamn murder weapon in his closet. I'd love to get your brother off, especially considering that I don't think he did it. I'm not a fucking magician. Your father is dead. Someone needs to pay for that. The prosecutor isn't going to wait for us to find another suspect when they already have one in jail.”
He straightened, holding his briefcase in front of him like a shield. “Look, I only stopped by out of professional courtesy. Ford already agreed to the deal. The wheels are in motion. There's nothing you can do except show up at the next visiting day.”
Cole strode from the room without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Chapter Thirteen
royal
There’s nothing you can do.
The words rang in my ears. Nothing. Ford was locked up, and he wasn’t getting out. Not for at least five years. Maybe longer. The injustice of it burned in my gut. Ford wasn’t perfect, but he hadn’t killed our father. I knew that without a doubt. If he had, he wouldn't have been stupid enough to hide the murder weapon in his own closet.
Five years in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed while whoever did it ran around free.
Five years.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d been sure we’d get him out of jail. Sure that at the last minute, someone—Sinclair Security, West, Griffen—would find the evidence we were looking for, and they’d have to let Ford go.
I’d never really believed we’d give up, never believed Ford would take the deal.
“Fuck.” I leaned over, bracing my elbows on my knees, sucking in one breath, then another.
The burning in my gut spread to my chest, my head. My vision blurred with tears of rage. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
This wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair.
/> A low sound, almost a growl, came from beside me. I raised my head to see Griffen motionless, staring down at the top of his desk, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles bunched below his ears.
Without warning, he flew from his seat and let out a primal scream, the sound filled with every ounce of his frustration and rage, filled with the helpless fury that had snowballed since the moment we’d learned of Ford’s arrest.
With another bellow of raw emotion, Griffen reached out an arm and swept everything from the desk, sending our laptops and papers crashing to the floor.
He spun around, arms raised, the anger surging through him, needing a target. I understood what he felt on a visceral level, knew the need to let out his fury, the pain of knowing that despite trying our best, our brother would still suffer.
The course of Ford's life had changed when our father had been killed. We’d tried to stop it. We’d failed. We'd failed our brother.
Before I knew it, Griffen was climbing onto the desk. Feet planted on the shiny surface, he lunged at the trophy buck hanging on the wall, grabbed both antlers, and tore it to the ground.
Something broke through my own rage, something clean and pure. The bare spot on the wall was a little bit of my father stripped from the room. It felt right.
I didn't care that technically this was Griffen's office. Griffen's house. It was mine too, and I wanted every reminder of my father gone. I dragged over one of the heavy leather chairs and stood on the arms, reaching up to rip that poor bear's head off the wall. It deserved better. I added it to the growing pile Griffen had started, watching as he tossed a stuffed mallard on top.
“Any attachment to these curtains?” I asked with a grunt as I tore them to the ground.
“I fucking hate them. The curtains, the trophies. That goddamn painting of Prentice. I want it all out.”
Together we stripped all signs of my father from Heartstone's office. Griffen swung the French doors wide, and we carted all of it to a clear spot in the grass behind the house, piling it high. I whirled at the sound of movement behind me to see Sterling standing there, her eyes wide with fascination.
“I'll be right back,” she breathed and took off at a run into the house.
I didn't know Sterling could move that fast. She was back only minutes later with what looked like yards of white satin shoved under her arm, a half-full bottle of vodka in one hand, a lighter in the other.
Sterling tossed the bundle of fabric on the top of the pile and upended the vodka bottle, watching with an exuberant grin as the vodka soaked into the pile. When it was empty, she tossed it in the grass behind us and flicked her lighter, setting it to the closest bit of white satin. Flames ate at the heavy fabric, greedy, growing by the second.
If we'd wanted to take it back, it was too late.
The three of us stood there side by side and watched it burn, these memories of our father and the mark he'd left on the house. On us.
Finn turned up, taking a spot beside me, his arms crossed over his chest, one dark eyebrow lifted. “Redecorating the office?”
“Taking out the trash,” I answered. Finn was as much a stranger to me as Griffen had been. He'd left home not long after Griffen, choosing the military over life with our father. His constant bitching about the household cooks was entertaining but other than that, I didn't know him very well. Now was as good a time to start as any.
“Anything you want to add?”
Finn stiffened as if arrested by the thought. I wondered what was going through his head when he turned and jogged back into the house as Sterling had. He was back seconds later, half-shoving and half-dragging the throne-like leather chair that had sat behind Prentice's desk as far back as I could remember. Griffen grunted in approval, moving to grab the other side of the chair. Together they hefted it to the top of the pile, dodging sparks as it settled.
“I hate that chair,” Finn murmured from beside me.
“Me too,” Sterling agreed. “The way he'd sit there and stare down at me, telling me what a disappointment I was. How I'd never amount to anything. I always figured—why bother trying? Nothing I did was ever good enough. Not for the mighty Prentice Sawyer.”
“You know it wasn't just you, right?” I asked.
Sterling looked over at me. “But he let you and Tenn run The Inn.”
I shook my head. “Only because he thought we'd fail and he could sell it off. He told us so many times we were going to fuck it up and the whole town would know what losers we were. Then we didn't fuck it up, and he took all the credit.”
“Sounds like Dad,” Finn said. “When I joined the Army, he told me never to come back.” Finn glanced over at Griffen. “I didn't come back often, but I did come back. You could have if you wanted to.”
Griffen's teeth clenched. The fire absorbed his gaze for a long moment before he answered. “I didn't want to at first. Later—it just seemed impossible.” He was silent again, staring at the flames.
In a low voice I could barely hear, he said, “I imagined what he'd say, how he'd take all the things I'd accomplished, everything I'd made of myself, and break it down until I ended up feeling two inches tall. I should have come back. For the rest of you, if not for me. I'm glad I never had to see Prentice again, but I'm sorry for leaving my family.”
“We should have looked for you,” I said. It hurt to make the words real, to take that heavy guilt and make it concrete.
Griffen hadn't wanted to, but he'd come home. He could have ignored the will, could have stayed in the life he'd built in Atlanta with the Sinclairs helping to run Sinclair Security.
Griffen hadn't owed us anything, but he'd given us all a chance. He was giving me a shot at the job I'd always wanted, and he'd helped Sterling more than anyone had in years. He was making Heartstone Manor a home again. He deserved the truth. We all did.
“We should have tracked you down,” I said. “We should have stopped him from kicking you out in the first place.”
“Ford should have stopped it.” A crystal tear rolled down Sterling’s cheek. “He regretted it,” she said, her voice thick. “I know he did. He tried to make up for it with the rest of us, but he should have stopped it. After he divorced Vanessa, he should have found you, should have apologized and brought you back. I think he couldn't bring himself to face what he'd done. And now—” She choked out a sob. “He's not coming home, is he?”
I reached out and pulled her into my arms, holding her close as I hadn't in too many years. “He is. He's coming home. Just not right away.”
“What's going on?”
Chapter Fourteen
royal
I glanced over my shoulder to see Parker framed by the French doors of the office, looking ready for a garden party in her pink linen dress. Her brow furrowed as she stared at us, ranged around the bonfire as if we were going to pull out marshmallows to roast.
That was an idea. I wondered if there were any marshmallows tucked away in the kitchens.
Parker's husband loomed behind her, looking over her shoulder, his lip curled in disgust, then in alarm as he spotted the edge of a picture frame being devoured by the flames.
“What the hell are you idiots doing? Don't you know how valuable some of that stuff is?”
Finn shot out an arm, blocking him before he could reach in and pull out the burning painting of our father. “We're not the idiots here, you moron. That painting’s on fire. If it was worth anything before, it sure as hell isn't now.”
“The lot of you are insane. I can't wait until I can get out of this place and go back home.” He stormed into the house, slamming the French doors behind him so hard they rattled.
I couldn't help but notice that he'd said, I can't wait until I can get out of this place.
Not we.
I.
He hadn't said he wanted to take Parker home with him.
P
arker had always been a good girl. She did what Prentice told her, never attracted attention. She was beautiful, the perfect image of her mother, Darcy, the only one of Prentice's wives who'd ever mothered any of us.
Parker had gone to college in New England. She'd met Tyler Kingsley in her junior year and married him the following summer. Once she was his wife, she'd never really come home again. Not until Prentice died.
I didn't know her well these days, but I'd always loved her. I wished I could say the same for her douchebag of a husband. From what I could tell, he was an asshole through and through.
Parker must have been used to his attitude because she ignored his tantrum, taking a place beside Finn. “When did you decide to redecorate?” she asked mildly, in a tone more suited to the garden party she was dressed for than a bonfire in the backyard.
“Just today,” Sterling answered in the same tone. “Anything you want to add?”
Parker contemplated the flames. “Is that the skirt of your debutante gown I see?”
“It is,” Sterling said, her lips curving into a wide smile. I couldn't remember if I'd ever seen her smile like that before, as if a weight had lifted from her heart. “I hated wearing that dress. Hated the creepy guy Dad set me up with, and all the manners, and rules, and people giving me the side-eye because they said my mom was trash and so was I. I like the dress much better now that it's on fire.”
“You looked beautiful for your debut, but I agree. It looks better on fire.” Another moment of silence before Parker said, “Excuse me,” and headed back inside.
I figured that would be the last we'd see of her until Sterling murmured, “I wonder what she wants to burn?”
I was distracted from Sterling's question by the sight of Hawk Bristol—our head of security and head groundskeeper—storming around the corner of the house. “Griffen, what the fuck? We don't have enough security problems without you setting a huge fire in the middle of the lawn?”
Griffen shrugged a shoulder. “We've had plenty of rain and the fire isn't close to the woods or the house. You can grab a hose if it makes you feel better, but I think the rest of us just want to watch this fucker burn.”