Here Comes Trouble

by Anna J. Stewart

  “Out, now,” Chadwick boomed. Sheila shrank back as Malcolm moved in, eyes narrowing as he started toward his father. “I don’t have time for you, boy.” Chadwick held out his hand.

  “You’ve got a situation out there, Dad,” Malcolm said, stopping because Sheila had grabbed his arm. “She’s trying to help you.”

  “There’s a situation in here,” Antony DeLuca said, the control in his voice chilling Sheila to her bones, but he turned curious eyes on her. “Miss Tremayne?”

  “There’s, um, a problem with one of the paintings. The one Senator Stark’s wife purchased?” She twisted her hands together as she jerked her gaze around to the other occupants of the room. “Mr. Brosnan believes it might be a fake.”

  “He’s still here?” Chadwick blasted, and then, as if realizing what he’d said, added, “That’s impossible.”

  “Just as someone breaking into this room was impossible?” DeLuca countered. “And what is this supposed to mean?” He walked over and whipped the white note card off the wall where Levia’s painting had been not twenty minutes before. “‘Thank you, ~N.’ What nonsense is this, Oliver? What are you trying to pull?”

  “I’m not pulling anything,” Chadwick said, staring down at the card as if it were a cobra poised to strike. “Nemesis. He’s back. He broke into my house in . . . But I thought . . . I mean I knew he’d targeted me, but—”

  “Nemesis,” Dubrov scoffed. “He went to ground months ago. I think this is you.”

  “No, no, please, we can’t jump to conclusions,” Sheila said as she pulled out her phone. “We have to call the police and report the theft.” She pulled out her phone.

  “No.” Chadwick swung on her and for the first time she saw him struggle for calm. “No, I don’t want the police involved.”

  “I think you’re forgetting something,” Malcolm said as he pushed Sheila’s hand to her side as they’d planned. “They’ve been here all evening.”

  Chadwick swore as someone knocked on the door. “I’m sorry,” Sheila said when Chadwick forbade her from opening it. “I don’t have a choice. Oh, Evan.” Sheila pressed a hand to her chest and let out a relieved breath as the district attorney stepped inside. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “You always throw the most interesting parties, Sheila.” Given the intensity in his pinpoint blue eyes, he wasn’t in a joking mood. “Mr. Oliver, would you care to fill me in? Ah, Mr. DeLuca, I wasn’t aware you were in town. Mr. Dubrov.” He nodded at the anemic-looking man to Chadwick’s left. “And you, sir? I don’t think we’ve met?”

  “Benjamin Aiken,” came the squeaky voice.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Now that we have names to faces . . .”

  “Evan, we think N—”

  “Sheila,” Chadwick snapped, earning a glare of disapproval from Malcolm and Evan as well as Antony DeLuca.

  “Continue, please?” Evan encouraged.

  “Um.” Playing her part, she tugged the card out of Chadwick’s hand and offered it to Evan. “There were three paintings in here up until a few minutes ago. I don’t have their details, but after the power came back on, this was in their place.”

  Evan flicked the card against his fingers, the gleam in his eye making Sheila very glad he didn’t have any clue she was part of Nemesis. “I should have known. So much for moving on. I’ll need details on what was stolen. I’ll send someone in to take the report. Who’s the owner on record? You, Mr. Oliver? Or one of you gentlemen?”

  “We were in negotiations,” Aiken said. “But we are no longer. My people will be in touch.” He gave Chadwick a short nod.

  “As will mine,” Dubrov said. “In the meantime, we will be happy to remain and give a statement.” He adjusted his jacket with a slight flinch.

  “Great, thanks,” Evan said as he stepped in front of Chadwick to stop him from leaving. “On my way in Priscilla Stark mentioned something about her painting being a fake. Let’s talk about that.”

  ***

  “Dad!” Sheila shoved open the door to her parents’ house only to have the emptiness echo at her. The typical excitement that accompanied the conclusion of a Nemesis job hadn’t had a chance to materialize, not when all any of them could think about was that her father had all but disappeared. “Dad, are you here?”

  “Sheila, I’m sure he’s fine.” Malcolm closed the door behind them.

  “Then where was he?” No one had heard from her father in the six hours since the robbery, during which time the police questioned every attendee, cordoned off the gallery as a crime scene, and called in an art expert from the FBI to re-examine all the paintings. But the missing paintings? Chadwick wasn’t talking. Which was why he’d been escorted to the precinct for further questioning, paparazzi bulbs flashing as he was taken out of the gallery by uniformed officers.

  “My father knew how important tonight was, Malcolm. He wouldn’t have just run out on us.” She flipped on the light in the kitchen. Empty.

  “Not without good reason, I know.” Malcolm stroked a hand down her arm. “He’s a grown man, Sheila. I’m sure he’s fine—”

  “Malcolm, I know you have father issues, but you don’t know mine. This isn’t like him.” The second the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back. “I’m sorry.”

  “No reason to be sorry for telling the truth.” But she heard it in his voice. She’d hurt him. “Try calling him again.”

  “I’ve tried ten times.” This time when she dialed, she heard a phone ring. Outside. Her mother’s garden. “For the love of—” She flung open the patio doors and found her father sitting at the metal table, drink in hand, staring up at the sky. “Dad, what happened tonight? Where have you been?”

  “Sheila? Malcolm?” Nathan’s voice blasted through the house seconds before the front door slammed. “Is he here? Dad?”

  “I’m here,” Jackson said. “Lower your voices, please.”

  “Lower our—” Sheila balked, walking around to stare down at her father, who looked as if he’d just come in from a game of golf. Tie askew, suit jacket unbuttoned, the silver in his hair seemed more pronounced, as did the sadness around his eyes. “Dad, tonight was almost a disaster.”

  “It wasn’t. I saw the news.” Jackson lifted his glass in a toast. “Well done.”

  “Thanks?” Malcolm said.

  “You shut up,” Sheila barked. “Dad, do you have any idea the jeopardy you put us in tonight?”

  “That was as close to a total fuckup as we’ve ever had,” Nathan said as he strode out into the garden.

  “You don’t have Morgan’s finesse of the language, Nathan, so please refrain. Chadwick’s taken care of? Suitably disgraced enough for you?” Jackson asked Malcolm.

  “More than,” Malcolm said. “He’s called a lawyer.” Veronica was keeping him apprised of the situation via text from where she was glued to the television in her hotel room as events continued to unfold.

  “And the real paintings are in place?” Jackson asked Nathan.

  “I put them in his vault this afternoon along with the documentation from the files Sheila found.” Nathan said. “Dad, why are you so calm? What’s going on with you?”

  “Levia’s painting?” Jackson acted as if he didn’t hear any of them.

  “Safer than it’s been for decades,” Nathan confirmed.

  “Dad, please.” Sheila bent down and rested her hands on his knees. “You’re scaring me.”

  “Malcolm, your father owes DeLuca, Dubrov, and Aiken nearly two million in gambling debts,” Jackson said, taking Sheila’s arm and pulling her up with him. “The paintings were supposed to be a down payment. As far as they know, he tried to cheat them and as much as he deserves what they’d do to him, I don’t think your grandmother wants to bury her son. There’s a briefcase by the door with the cash you’ll need and their hotel information. I know you’re good for i
t. Pay me back when you can.”

  “Sir?” Malcolm turned questioning eyes to Sheila and Nathan. “I don’t—”

  “You rid yourself once and for all of your father, do you hear me, Malcolm? He’s toxic. You do what you have to to protect your family.”

  Malcolm blinked, nodded. “Of course. How—”

  “I told you before. It’s a family trait.”

  “Am I the only one feeling invisible at the moment?” Nathan asked Sheila, who stared as her father and Malcolm spoke in some terrifying code.

  “You got a good start with the press release. I’m proud of you, Malcolm. As proud as I am of any of my children.”

  Now Malcolm fell silent.

  “At any point in this conversation are you going to tell us where you disappeared to tonight, Dad?” Sheila asked as she wedged herself between them, felt Malcolm’s hands grasp her arms.

  “Repaying a debt,” Jackson said, looking at her with such an expression of regret that she was scared for him. “Or at least I thought so. I’m sorry it had to be done tonight, but I didn’t have a choice. I’m heading out of town first thing in the morning. I’ll see you all at the gala Sunday evening.”

  “No.” Nathan moved to block Jackson’s path as Sheila blinked in disbelief. What was going on? “No, you’ve been keeping something from us for weeks and we deserve to know what. We can help, Dad. Whatever it is.” The plea in her brother’s voice echoed her own.

  “That’s just it,” Jackson said as he stepped around his son. “I’m not sure you can.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I didn’t think I’d say this given your father’s completely ruined, but”—Sheila pushed open her apartment door—“worst. Night. Ever.” She kicked off her shoes and headed into the kitchen for a bottle of wine. “You want?” she asked Malcolm.

  “Yeah, sure. Hey there, Sherlock.” He scooped up the cat. “How was your evening? We stole three paintings and paid off my father’s gambling debts to the mob. Can you top that?”

  “You have your father’s markers, don’t you?” Sheila reminded him, still bitter that Malcolm hadn’t let her come with him to see DeLuca and his buddies. “Are you going to frame them?”

  “It’s a thought.” He plopped Sherlock on the counter on top of the mail and rounded the island, plucking the glasses from her hands and setting them aside. “Let’s say you and I go upstairs.” He nibbled at that spot below her ear, his teeth and tongue sending shivers where she most enjoyed them. “Drink some wine.” He kissed her. Then again, deeper. “And then sleep in until noon.” Another kiss.

  “Mmmmm.” She may as well have been made of butter the way she melted into him. “Sounds delicious. Can we add a shower to that, maybe? I’d love to wash off the— Hey, no, no, no.” She shoved Malcolm aside as she dived at Sherlock, who was gnawing on the corner of the overnight envelope. “You take him.” She pushed the cat into Malcolm’s hands, restacked her mail, catching sight of the big blocky “URGENT” written on the outside. “Gimmie the wine.” She waggled her fingers and drank deeply. As deeply as she planned to, well. She grinned. “Why don’t you go on up?” She pulled his tie free, flipped open a few buttons on his crisp white shirt. “I’ll meet you in the shower.”

  “Watch me fly.”

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she ripped open the strip and pulled out the stack of papers and photographs. Black and white. Of Malcolm, one outside Lantano Memorial a few days ago, another in San Francisco going in and then coming out of a medical clinic looking much thinner, more gaunt than he did now. The wine churned in her stomach. Her fingers went cold. She set photos down and scanned the included document, an advance copy of a news article that was set to run—she glanced at the calendar—tomorrow. No. Today.

  She braced herself on the edge of the barstool as she read the story through once. Then again. The third time her hands were shaking, her entire body flashing between hot and cold as her lungs couldn’t remember how to work.

  “Hey, you coming up?” Malcolm called down from the top of the stairs.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, crumpling the paper in her hands.

  “Sheila? Hey, the water’s—” He started down, slowly at first but as she didn’t respond, he moved faster. “What is it? Bad news? You’re shaking like a leaf. Sheila . . .”

  “Why don’t you want me to move with you to San Francisco?” She picked up the photos, eyes dry as could be, throat tight and rough as sandpaper. “I know we didn’t discuss it, but when I mentioned it in passing, you looked terrified. At the time I convinced myself you panicked. Or it was too much, too soon.” She couldn’t stop. Not now that she’d gotten going. “Maybe the idea of being together for any significant length of time just scared the crap out of you. I can understand that. It scares me, but that isn’t the reason, is it, Malcolm? So tell me, why can’t I go with you? Better yet.” She took a slow, calming breath and stood, feeling as if the world were crumbling beneath her feet. She shoved the pictures against his chest. “Tell me why you won’t stay.”

  Malcolm took the pictures, but didn’t look at them. “Sheila—”

  “Tell me!”

  He glanced down, but she slapped them out of his hands and they scattered across the floor.

  “You don’t need pictures to tell me the truth.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She stared at him, wishing those amber eyes didn’t haunt her every waking and sleeping moment. Wanting him to want her more than he wanted to push her away. Why did she have to love him so much it hurt? “You’re sick.” Her voice caught. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” He flinched and pressed his lips tight.

  “What is it? What do you have?”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t—” She huffed out a breath. “Doesn’t matter?” Every cell in her body twisted and screamed out in pain. “Nothing matters more. And it matters to me. It matters that you didn’t tell me, that you didn’t care enough about me, about us, to tell me . . . Jesus.” She shoved her hands in her hair, turned away, unable to stand still. “When did you find out?”

  “For certain? The other evening at the center. The doctor called.” His detached tone infuriated her more.

  The light dawned. Pieces fell into place, fragmenting the last few weeks into an entirely new portrait. “The call you’d been waiting for.” She nodded, fighting for control, fighting the anger and the disappointment. The hurt. “But you suspected before then.”

  “I had them run some tests before I left San Francisco, yes. Sheila, you have to . . .”

  “What? Understand? Oh, do not tell me you were not going to say I have to understand. Because I don’t. I can’t. You’ve lied to me, Malcolm. From the second you stepped foot in Lantano Valley, every word you’ve ever said to me has been tainted with this lie.”

  “I didn’t tell you. That’s not the same thing.”

  “Wanna bet?” She moved in, pinned him with her eyes. “Did I lie to you about Nemesis? Not telling you the second you found me outside your father’s office. Was that a lie, Malcolm?”

  He hesitated, then dipped his chin a fraction of an inch. Lowered his gaze.

  “See? Lies. Now tell me the truth. What do you have?”

  He took a deep breath, still not looking at her. “Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. It’s a recurrence, Sheila. It’s the second time. It’s not going to be pretty.”

  “No shit. You think I don’t know cancer’s a fucking menace?”

  “I know you know that,” he said, but the plea for understanding emerging on his face fueled her anger. “For God’s sake, Sheila, you of all people know that. I don’t want that to be your life. I don’t want that to be our time together. I want what we’ve had the last few weeks—”

  “You mean the night sweats? The antibiotics? The dizzy spells and exhaustion? Oh
my . . .” She stopped pacing and froze in place, wrapping her arms hard around her torso. “Spicy food? I am such an idiot.”

  “No, Sheila, I don’t want—”

  “Right now I don’t give a damn what you want. You didn’t trust me, Malcolm.” And that, above all, hurt the most. “You’ve never seen me, have you? You thought your having cancer was going to scare me away. That I was too weak to see you through it? Support you? Care for you?”

  “Of course I don’t think all that. I don’t want it for you.” Now she saw it, the determination in his eyes to walk away from her and not look back in some misguided attempt to protect her. “I will not live whatever time I have being pitied and coddled. I don’t want that for me and I sure as hell don’t want it for you. You deserve a rich, full, wonderful life with family and adventure. I can’t give you that, Sheila. Not now anyway, maybe not ever. You watched Colin die tied to machines and chemicals. You built your life around those months and then you did it again with Brandon. I won’t let you lose yourself again.”

  “So you thought if you left I’d stop loving you? Caring about you? Wondering every day for the rest of my life what I did wrong to drive you away? Why I wasn’t enough to make you stay?” She blinked, understanding seeping in. She laughed. Harsh, hard. Angry. “You’re scared.”

  “You’re damned right I’m scared.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and she saw him make fists and pound them against his legs. “Even if I come through this bout, there’s no telling if there will be a third or a fourth. I don’t want to see you grieve for me when I’m here to see it.”

  “No, you’d rather I grieve alone while you fight alone. You are such an i—”

  “What is it with the women in this town thinking I’m an idiot? I love you, Sheila. I’m doing this to protect you. Why can’t you see that?”

  “And why can’t you see that I don’t need your protection? That I deserved to make that choice for myself. I didn’t choose for my brother to die, Malcolm. I didn’t choose to walk in and find a nine-year-old boy dead in his room, but I sure as hell deserve a say when it comes to walking away from the man I love because he’s sick.”