Enemy Dearest

by Winter Renshaw

  We should wait before we spring this on my parents … give them time to warm up to the fact that we’re officially together again. But I’m certain once they spend more time with him, they’ll adore him as much as I do. And of course, there’s no need to rush the wedding. We can take our time, enjoy the butterflies and date nights and insatiableness that comes with the early parts of relationships.

  Sitting up, he cups my cheek, laces his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck, and crushes my lips with a claiming kiss.

  “I’m yours,” I tell him. “Always. Ring or no ring.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Rose girl.”

  I inhale him one last time tonight, bracing myself for the drive home—when a metallic clamoring steals our moment.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  August slides his phone off his nightstand, taps on an app, and pulls up a grid of camera images. Zooming in on the one in the middle, his lips press flat.

  “My uncle’s here,” he says, monotoned. “And from the looks of it, he’s hammered. I need to go deal with him. I’ll take you out the side door.”

  I begin to protest. If we’re getting married and this is his family, why the need to sneak me out? But before I utter a word, August slips his hand in mine, as if he picks up on my reluctance.

  “He’s not your problem, Rose girl,” he says. His uncle’s voice trails from down the hall, though I can’t make out a single angry slurred word. “And you shouldn’t have to meet him like this.” His lips are warm against my forehead a second later, and he leads me across the hallway, down the stairs, and out a door I’ve never seen before. “Goodnight, Sher.”

  I rise on my toes to kiss him goodnight.

  I need a nickname for him too, something more fitting than Enemy Dearest.

  Because he never should have been my enemy—and he never will be again.

  Chapter Forty-One

  August

  * * *

  “Your dad home?” Uncle Rod slams kitchen cabinet after cabinet.

  “No,” I say, keeping a careful distance. “He’s gone until tomorrow. What are you looking for?”

  He takes a seat at the island, slaps a short stack of paperwork onto the counter, and exhales. Stale liquor invades the air between us.

  A drunk and angry Rod Monreaux is never a good thing.

  “I knew he’d do this,” he says, his words slurring into one another as he ransacks the drunk drawer. “I knew he’d try to fuck me over with this handover deal. Your father’s word is shit, August. Pure fucking shit. And a man’s only as good as his word, which means your father’s a sorry excuse for a man. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. He doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “The handover deal.” His words blend again, though I can still make them out. “He was going to pay me with this grain operating outfit out of Milford. Worth seven figures. And at the last minute, he sold it out—and for less than half of what he said it was worth. The fucking bastard. I’m going to kill him. That was going to be my retirement income.”

  I’d say he’s a Monreaux, and we’re all pretty set for life, but I’ve seen what Uncle Rod does with his money. High-roller tables during his bi-weekly trips to Vegas. Escorts on the regular. Fast cars. I’m sure he was counting on that deal for income.

  “I’m sure he had a good reason.”

  “His reason can kiss my ass,” Rod says, spitting his words literally and figuratively. “He’s a liar. A dirty fucking liar. Always has been, always will be.”

  I uncap my water, nodding. You don’t become a multimillionaire business mogul overnight by being an Honest Abe and doing everything by the book.

  “If you only knew half of what your dad’s done to people over the years,” he waxes on. “Just constantly screwing people over. It’s game to him, to see what he can get away with, who he can pay off. And we’re all pawns. He’s sick, August. He’s sick in the head. And I hope to God you don’t turn out like him.”

  “Same.”

  “You know that girlfriend of his? Cynthia? Back in the day? The one they found strangled in the quarry?”

  “Cynthia … Rose?”

  He thumbs the side of his nose. “Yeah, that one.”

  “What about her?”

  “Your dad’s the one who did it.” Uncle Rod shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “He set up his best friend too. Tried to make him take the fall. Used his truck and everything. It was all over some chick, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your dad liked this girl—uh, Mary Beth, I think? But Mary Beth liked Rich Rose. Would have nothing to do with Vincent no matter what he tried. So Vincent started dating Rich’s kid sister. Started out as a way to get under Rich’s skin a little. Or maybe he thought Rich would dump Mary Beth and then Vince could have her. Anyway, nothing was going your dad’s way and Rich still wouldn’t end it with Mary Beth, so your dad killed Rich’s sister and framed Rich for it. Wanted to teach him a lesson.”

  I shove my plate aside.

  I’ve lost my appetite.

  “Same thing with your mom.” He points at me. “He wanted to teach her a lesson too.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “She was going to leave him. And she was going to get half the estate because the dumb ass didn’t sign a prenup,” he says. “Your mom was a smart woman. And she was tired of your father’s games. She’d served him divorce papers the day before she went out for that run … but the reporters didn’t cover that little detail, did they? Nope. Your father made damn certain of that.”

  “So he tried to pin her death on Rich?”

  “Yes, because he was pissed he didn’t pull it off the first time. And he was still bitter. Rich and Mary Beth were married by then. It killed him that she went for some ‘poor nobody’ when she could’ve been the queen of this fucking castle.”

  Sheridan’s mom.

  “Anyway, he’s had it out for her ever since,” he continues. “Every couple of years, he gets the poor bastard fired from whatever job he’s holding down at the time.”

  I bury my face in my hands, breathing hard through my fingers.

  Now it makes sense.

  Now I know why my dad was so keen to bless our relationship and act like it was a good thing, a peace pipe of sorts. It’s nothing more than a revenge fantasy for him … which means being together puts her in danger.

  Uncle Rod says a lot of crazy shit sometimes—but he’s also one of the most in-the-know guys this city has seen. For the longest time, he was my father’s number one, his right-hand man. He did a lot of Dad’s bidding until things cooled off between them.

  “Do you have proof of this?” I ask.

  He scoffs. “You think I’m an idiot, August? I’ve got proof of everything. I’ve got so much fucking proof your father would shit his pants if he knew.”

  Until I deal with my father, I’m going to have to keep Sheridan safe, which means keeping her as far away from me, this house, and my father as possible.

  “I’m going to need to see those files,” I tell him. “Immediately.”

  “Be my fucking guest.” He shoves the bar stool aside and ambles down the hallway toward my father’s study. A second later, he’s browsing his priceless collection of antique books until he plucks a random one off the shelf and cracks it open. A small silver key lands on the polished wood with a clink. “This key opens the top left drawer of his desk.”

  “What is this?”

  “It’s his blackmail drawer,” he says, as if it’s the kind of thing everyone has in their home office. “Every time he has someone do his dirty work he records it. And if he’s got any dirt on them, he keeps it in there. Like an insurance policy type thing. In case they try to double cross him, he knows exactly how to make their life a living hell.”

  “How’s this going to prove that he killed Cynthia and Mom?”

  “Because this town is full of people who know
the truth,” he presses his finger into the top of my father’s mahogany desk top. “And they’re all in there.”

  I swipe the key off the floor and pop the lock. Sure enough, the drawer is full of color-coded files labeled with vaguely familiar names, filled with papers and thumb drives and Polaroid images.

  By the time I glance away from this shit show, my uncle is halfway to the door.

  “Tell your father I’ll deal with him accordingly,” he says before disappearing down the hall. “You tell me the minute he’s back in town and not a second later, you understand?”

  Pulling out my phone, I snap image after image of everything. And for the hours that follow, I read every last document, make duplicates of every last thumb drive, and pore over every photo filed away. At some point, I pass out head first on his desk. But then I pick up where I left off.

  It’s seven AM before I climb out of this dark fucking rabbit hole of a mess my father has made. My eyes burn and my neck is kinked, but I’ve got a list of names and an idea of where to start.

  All this time, I blamed Rich Rose for killing my mother and sister, for obliterating everything this family could’ve been—but it was my father the whole time.

  He ruined us.

  And now, I’m going to ruin him.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  August

  * * *

  “Rough night?” Sheridan meets me at the gate the next afternoon.

  I rub my eyes, which are probably red as fuck. And I don’t remember the last time I ate or drank a glass of water for that matter. My hair could use a comb and my five o’clock shadow is coming in by the second.

  I look like shit.

  I feel like shit.

  “Yeah, didn’t sleep much,” I shove my paper cut-covered hands into my pockets.

  “It’s kind of cold out here …” She eyes the house behind me and rocks on her feet. “We going to head in or we going to just stand around and hope we don’t turn into human icicles?”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say. “Not tonight.”

  “Oo .. kay?” Her brows lift. “You told me to come here today at three o’clock. Did I miss something?”

  “There’s some stuff I have to deal with.” I’m so exhausted, I don’t know if the words coming out of my mouth make sense or if they’re gibberish. It’s like being drunk without touching a drop of liquor. “I really need to focus on this right now.”

  “Focus on what, August? I’m confused …”

  “Family stuff.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I just think we need to cool off for a second,” I say. “Lay low.”

  Her pretty mouth forms an ‘O’ and she takes a step back. “Yesterday you asked me to marry you, and today you’re saying we should cool off? What’s going on?”

  I can’t tell her what I know. I can’t risk her running off to her parents and telling them before I have a chance to talk to any of the people in that drawer. I need to get to them first, assure them it’s safe for them to start talking, and put together a plan to get my father behind bars where he belongs.

  It’s a delicate, intricate process—and I can’t risk a single misstep. My father has sharks for lawyers, and they can sniff out red flags and loopholes like chum.

  “Please, Sher. Trust me. I can’t get into this right now, but I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can.”

  “Is it a deeply personal and complicated matter?” She lifts a hand to her hip, using the line her father used on her when she tried to confront him about the supposed affair.

  If I say yes, I’m fucked because she’ll think I’m cheating.

  If I say no, I’m lying.

  “It’s a private family matter,” I say.

  “Are you in trouble?”

  If my father finds out what I’m doing, yes. I’ll be a dead man.

  “No,” I say. “Not if I keep my mouth shut.”

  “You can tell me anything, August. Why can’t you tell me this?”

  “Believe me, I want to. And I will. Just not now.”

  Glancing at the black pavement at our feet, her lower lip trembles. But she doesn’t cry. She sucks in an icy December breath and lets her hands fall to her sides.

  “I can’t believe I fell for this,” she says. “You’re no different than any other guy who thinks he knows what he wants until it gets serious, and then he freaks out and needs space.”

  “I can see how it might look that way.”

  “Did you, or did you not just tell me I couldn’t come inside and that we need to cool off, i.e., spend less time together.” She cocks her head to the side. “Wait, are you high right now? Are you on something?”

  She sniffs, eyes wide and mouth half agape, as if she’s waiting for me to tell her this is all some sick and twisted joke.

  She doesn’t want to believe this, but to be fair, neither do it.

  I never thought we’d come this far, just to have to turn back around—but it’s only temporary.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Her tone changes, flat and broken at the same time. “God, I’m stupid. I really am. To believe you meant all those things? To fall for your stupid act?”

  She pretends to smack herself on the side of the head, and then she turns away as thick tears fall in rivulets down her cheeks.

  I have to steel myself. This is for her safety. For our future.

  It’s the way it has to be—but only for now.

  “I know how this sounds.” I move toward her, reaching for her arm but she yanks it away with one violent, angry pull. “I’m a man of my word, Sheridan. I’m not going anywhere. But I need to take care of something first. I love you, and I have every intention of marrying you someday. But that’ll never happen if I don’t take care of this first.”

  “You’re a sick bastard, August. I hope you know that.” She returns to her car, slams the door, and reverses out of the gate.

  She’s mad now, but all of this is for her—to clear her family name, to keep her safe, and to ensure I can spend the rest of my life never having to worry if she’s in danger.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Sheridan

  * * *

  “How the hell does a guy go from asking to marry you one night to telling you he needs space the very next day?” Adriana paces across her room.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” I page through one of her millions of magazines. “Maybe I’ll go back to campus for the rest of break. Some of my friends are still there. No point in hanging around here.”

  “There’s got to be something else going on. I just don’t buy the cold feet thing. If it were anyone else, yeah. One hundred percent. But not him. Guy’s obsessed with you. To the nth degree. No way he’d try to lock you down and suddenly change his mind.”

  “Do you think there’s someone else? An ex-girlfriend maybe?”

  “All the people I talked to that know him say he doesn’t date—unless maybe he met someone at school this fall? But when he came into work that day before Thanksgiving and wrote that note … that doesn’t sound like a guy with a girlfriend back at school, you know?”

  I lean back against her headboard. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I slink a shoulder up to my ear. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if we’re broken up? It was all so strange. I’d never seen him like that before … kind of frantic and messy, with this far-off look on his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept or showered since the last time I saw him.”

  “Maybe he’s having a nervous breakdown.”

  “Over what?”

  She shrugs. “He said it was a private family matter. Monreauxs do messed-up shit all the time. Maybe he feels like he has to clean up someone’s mess before he brings you into it?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. Who knows?”

  “I don’t think you should go back to campus.”

  “Why not?”


  “Because right now you’re assuming the worst—and remember when you did that with your dad? And how upset you were? You make rash decisions when you’re upset, Sher. You always do. All I’m saying is maybe he’s not lying to you, maybe he’s trying to protect you, and maybe you shouldn’t run back to campus in case he needs you?” She throws her hands in the air. “Just my two cents.”

  She’s right.

  Sliding out my phone, I send him a quick text now that I have his number again.

  ME—I’m really unsettled by our conversation earlier. Are we still together, August? Or was that you breaking up with me? Should I stay or go back to school?

  He doesn’t text me back until 1 AM that night.

  ENEMY DEAREST—I didn’t break up with you.

  Sitting up in bed, I tap out a laser-quick response, only before I’m finished, he sends a second message.

  ENEMY DEAREST—Trust me and wait for me. That’s all I ask.

  ENEMY DEAREST—I love you.

  I toss my phone aside, stare at the wall, and remind myself he’s never let me down before. And Adriana was right—I do sometimes assume the worst.

  Now that he’s back in my life, the thought of losing him all over again is terrifying.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  August

  * * *

  I haven’t seen Sheridan in two weeks, and I’m fucking dying. But it’s all about to be over. My obsession with justice, relentless determination, and weeks’ worth of interviews and working with the local police means all of this is about to be over. Even if most of them live comfortably in my father’s back pocket, their day in the sun is about to come to an end. They won’t be able to argue the mountain of evidence I’ve collected. The proof of corruption. Either they get on the right side, or they’ll be just as fucked as him in the end.

  It’s a deep, dark web. A nightmare to untangle.

  But when it’s over, it’ll all have been worth it.