Enemy Dearest

by Winter Renshaw

  I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing she’s safe, forever out of harm’s way.

  I told my father I’d lost interest in her, hoping his radar would cool and whatever scheme he was cooking in the back of his twisted little head would fizzle out. And he bought it. He hasn’t asked about her once. But if he were ever to see us together, it’d be game on. He’d put whatever plan he had in motion before she lived to see her next birthday, I’m certain.

  “You ready?” Detective Zimmerman asks.

  Another police officer inspects my wires. We’re three blocks from the house, parked in an unmarked van. A minute from now, I’ll head home and confront my father, tell him I know all about the evidence and what he’s really done, and hopefully he’ll talk enough to incriminate himself.

  We head to the house, and they park behind a wall of hedges. At the gate, I punch the code, and let myself in. Hands in my pockets, I keep a casual stride, and once inside, I find my father in his study, sipping his nightly Scotch and shouting at someone on his work phone.

  I rap three times on the open door. He shoots me a look and points to his phone.

  “It’s important,” I mouth.

  “Gil, listen, I’ll have to call you back,” Dad says, ending the call. “What? What do you need?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about a few things,” I say. “Disturbing things that have recently come to light.”

  He folds his hands on his desk, and I take the seat across from him.

  The concerned expression on his face morphs into amusement, eyes sparkling and full grin on display.

  “All right, son. Tell me, what rumors have you heard this week?”

  “I wish I could say they were rumors. Unfortunately I’ve been able to confirm every last one of them.”

  “What are you talking about? Quit being so vague. Cut to the chase.” He waves me on.

  “Your top drawer,” I say. “Your blackmail drawer. I’ve seen everything inside. I’ve taken pictures. I’ve copied the thumb drives. I’ve spoken to the people whose names are on those folders.”

  Color drains from his face, though he keeps his posture rigid.

  “I actually spoke with Harold Munson, the retired chief of police who ran the department back when Cynthia Rose was murdered. And again when Mom was killed,” I say. “He’s actually battling Stage IV pancreatic cancer. Not much time left. Also, dying men tend to want a clean conscience before they go. They also want to make sure their family is provided for. I took care of that last part for him—all he had to do was give me a confession.” I pick at my nail. “And damn. Let’s just say it was worth every penny.”

  My father leans back in his creaky wooden chair, examining me from a different angle.

  Or maybe he’s thinking about Monreaux Corporation, what’s going to become of it when he’s rotting in a jail cell. I’m not sure what’ll happen to it. If it’ll get liquidated to pay off all the lawsuits that’ll be thrown his way in the near future. But I don’t care.

  I don’t need his dirty money.

  It can’t buy any of the things I’m interested in—love, happiness, true contentment, peace of mind.

  Those things are priceless.

  Mary Beth made the right choice marrying for love and not money.

  “Do you have anything to say or would you like me to keep going?” I ask.

  “You need to be very careful, August,” he says.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Clearly you know what I’m capable of. You’ve seen the evidence. Tread lightly. You’re my son, but at the end of the day, a man’s got to look out for number one.”

  “Don’t you ever feel bad? About all the lives you’ve destroyed? The lives you’ve taken?”

  “Bad things only happen to bad people, August.” He clucks his tongue.

  I always knew my father was different, but now I know exactly what he is: a narcissistic megalomaniac with a God complex.

  “So help me, August, if you take me down, I’m taking you down with me,” he says. “Stay out of my way, and you’ll have the world eating from the palm of your hand. The choice is yours.”

  “How could you do that to your own wife and daughter?” Any minute the police will be busting through here. This could be the last chance I get to ask the question that’s been keeping me up at night these last couple of weeks.

  “Your mother was planning to leave me,” he says with a shrug. “I strongly advised her not to, told her it wouldn’t be safe. She didn’t listen. If you’ve an ounce of intelligence in that thick skull of yours, you’ll do the same.”

  “So you’ll kill me too?”

  “I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “All right.” I head to the hall. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

  A second later, the main entrance doors swing open, slamming against the walls, and foyer fills with uniformed officers. I point them toward the study, and I stand back, blending into the dark fixtures and furnishings as I watch them place him in cuffs.

  He shoots me a smug glare on his way out, and he walks with the confidence of someone with a whole team of lawyers on speed dial. But even the best of the best won’t be able to get him out of this.

  We have a fucking mountain of evidence on him.

  As soon as they’re gone, I call Uncle Rod and share the good news. Then I shoot a text to Soren, letting him know Dad got arrested so he hears it from me before he sees it on TV. I don’t give Gannon the same courtesy—he’ll find out soon enough from one of his minions at the corporation. Nor do I let Cassandra know. For starters, I don’t know where she is. And second, she’s not my concern.

  I help myself to my father’s closet, punching in the code to his safe, which he told me once several years ago when he was drunk. Astoundingly, it still works. The door beeps and pops open. I sort through the watches, jewelry, and cash, until I find my mother’s diamond engagement ring, and I tuck it in my pocket.

  Someday, when the time is right, I’ll have the stone reset into a new design for Sheridan.

  I lock the safe and head downstairs, swiping my keys off the counter before heading to my car. Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the Roses’ driveway, making my way up the front walk, my heart in my throat.

  Sheridan’s car is here.

  Her parents’ car too.

  I ring the doorbell, clear my throat, and wait.

  A second later, a tall, thin man stands behind the storm door.

  He steps onto the porch. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, hi. I’m August Monreaux,” I say. “And I am deeply in love with your daughter.”

  “Rich? Who’s out there?” A woman’s voice calls from inside. A moment later, she steps out from behind him.

  “August Monreaux, ma’am. It’s nice to finally meet you.” I extend my hand.

  “He came to tell us he’s in love with Sheridan,” he says to her. I don’t know them enough to read their expressions or interpret the glances they exchange.

  “I’d also like you to know, that my father is currently under arrest for the murders of Cynthia Rose and Elisabeth Monreaux,” I add.

  Mary Beth braces herself against her husband, her jaw slack.

  Rich stands, unblinking, unmoving.

  “On behalf of the Monreaux name, I’d like to apologize for any hardships that have been put upon your family as a result of my father’s acts. We’re in the process of setting up a victim compensation account, and I’d be happy to direct you to our attorney for further information.”

  “Mama?” Sheridan’s angelic voice trails from behind them as she steps out, barefoot, cheeks flushed and hair wild like she just got up from a nap. Fucking adorable, as always. “August … what’s going on?”

  “It’s cold out here,” Mary Beth says. “Why don’t we all go inside and talk a little more?”

  Sheridan’s big blue gaze widens, as if she didn’t expect the gesture.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like a few minutes alone with Sheridan,�
� I say.

  Her father hesitates, studying me before offering a single nod. “All right.”

  I follow her to her room, shutting the door behind us.

  “August, what’s going on? These last two weeks—” she says, until I quiet her mouth with mine.

  And then I tell her everything.

  Every last damned detail.

  I tell her about my father’s obsession with her mother, the steps he took to frame her father for Cynthia’s murder. I tell her about my mother’s “accident,” and every life he’s ruined, destroyed, and annihilated since.

  “He would’ve used you as a pawn,” I say. “When he told me he’d forgiven your father, he was lying. There was nothing to forgive because your father was innocent. He was just hellbent on getting back at him from all those years ago.”

  “Do you think he would’ve … hurt me?”

  “He would’ve done something. Hard to say exactly what that would’ve been. But I wasn’t going to chance it. That’s why I had to keep you away. I told him I dumped you. I didn’t want to risk us being seen together. It was the only way.”

  I kiss her forehead.

  “It’s over for him,” I say when I’m done. Pulling her against me, I add, “He’ll never be able to hurt anyone ever again.”

  Pressing her cheek against my chest, she closes her eyes and breathes me in.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” I say.

  Gazing up, her shiny eyes smile. “I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “I want to take you out tonight. On a real date.” I wrap my arms around her waist.

  “I love you,” she says with an exhausted hum in her tone.

  “I love you the most, Rose girl.”

  Epilogue

  Sheridan

  * * *

  Five Years Later

  * * *

  There’s a cool breeze in Charleston today, which is a blessing because at eight months pregnant, the whole world feels like a sauna some days.

  I fix a glass of iced blackberry tea and head for the front porch, getting comfortable on the wooden swing August built for us. Any minute now, my husband will be pulling up with my parents, who flew in to stay with us for a few weeks to help situate the nursery.

  We just moved into this house a month ago. Found it on a whim. We’d been living in a charming two-bedroom historic townhouse downtown when we happened to take a drive one Sunday afternoon in the suburbs and spotted a realtor hammering a sign into the yard.

  We pulled over and asked if we could take a quick tour. The place was empty—the owners having just moved for a job. But as soon as we set foot inside, I knew.

  It was home.

  I pictured everything so clearly: the two of us making breakfast in the kitchen, the garden we’d plant in the back yard, where we’d put August’s favorite chair in the study. The four bedrooms upstairs were perfect too. Not too big, not to small. There was even a small nursery suite off the master.

  And the outside was to die for. Brick and stucco accents with wrought iron railings. Three stories. Piazzas on every level. Slate roof. There was even an outbuilding that was once a carriage house once upon a time—the perfect place for August to set up an office.

  We made an offer that day, closed a month later, and we’ve been settling in ever since.

  I sip my tea, close my eyes, and let the wind toy with my hair as our baby moves in my stretched belly.

  I wish I could’ve captured the look on August’s face when we found out we were having a boy. He had it in his head that he was going to have all girls. And for months he said he hoped it was a girl. I think a part of him is afraid to re-live his own childhood, a house full of boys who could never seem to get along. But I like to remind him that our family will be different. It’ll be whatever we make it to be. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be loving. Filled with memories and traditions. And maybe a few fights because that sort of thing is only natural …

  I rub my tummy, gently pressing against what I assume is his little foot. Or a fist. Hard to know.

  Smiling, I whisper, “I can’t wait to meet you, AJ.”

  When August told me his mother used to call him AJ but that his father refused after she died, I insisted this would be the sweetest way to honor her.

  What I wouldn’t give to meet the woman who gave my husband life. I know she’d be immensely proud of the man he’s become.

  The last several years have been a magical blur. After I finished my nursing degree, I followed August to Portland, where he took a coveted job at a tech startup with one of his college friends. I finished my BSN out there, while he worked crazy hours to get his side project off the ground—an innovative app and software suite called Jogger Safe. When he branched off on his own, he had the freedom to work from anywhere in the world.

  We spent a year traveling the country trying to figure out where we wanted to place our roots. A week in Savannah. A long weekend in Austin. A holiday in Chicago. We finally settled on Charleston after falling in love with its historic charm, agreeable winters, and sweet Southern drawls. It was the perfect place to settle in and kick off the rest of our life together. And while we thought about placing roots in our hometown, we decided it was better to leave the past alone and start fresh.

  Besides, I don’t think August would ever want to see his family home again. It only makes him think of his father, who rots away in a prison cell forty miles from there, and Gannon, who ran off with Cassandra after the trial—until they blazed through Gannon’s bank account and she left him high and dry for some other rich asshole.

  AJ kicks again, and my lips curl into a slow smile.

  I haven’t met him yet, but something tells me he’s going to be intense like his daddy. All Monreaux men are intense in their own ways, I’ve come to learn. I told August he needs to think of it as a super power; that he needs to rein it in, control it, and use it to his advantage.

  A car horn honks, and I glance up to find August’s SUV inching into the driveway. A second later, my parents climb out of the passenger seats. It takes me a second to get out of the swing, but I head down the front steps and meet them halfway.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Mom wraps her arms around me.

  She looks good. The pink has returned to her cheeks and her eyes are brighter than ever. Ever since they won that settlement, their financial worries have ceased and they’re no longer stressing, waiting for the bottom to drop out again. With Vincent behind bars, my father has been at his current job for five years—a record for him.

  Life is truly good.

  “Come in, come in. I can’t wait to show you guys around,” I tell them.

  Dad gives me a side hug and helps me up the steps, and Mama gets the door. August follows with their luggage, wheeling it to the guest room upstairs.

  Someday I hope to have little ones in every single bedroom. I told August I want a whole house of Monreauxs, and he laughed, but I meant it. I want to have all the babies with him. I want all of the laughter, all of the memories, all of the good and the bad, too.

  My parents settle in and meet us in the hallway for a tour.

  “So it was built in 1817.” I claps my hands like a proper tour guide. “By General Leopold Renoir, for his wife and five children.”

  I point out the terra cotta chimney pots, original ornamental plaster details, and two hundred year old marble mantels.

  “Back then, the men and women had separate drawing rooms,” I say when we get to the first level. “And this house has two kitchens, a main kitchen and a prep space—because back then that’s where the house staff prepared the meals and washed the dishes.”

  My mother oohs and aahs over every intricate detail, her gaze poring over every corner of every room as if she might miss something. Meanwhile, my father makes a beeline for a window overlooking our back yard. It’s small. Maybe a third of an acre worth of space, but it’s enough for a swing set. A pergola.
Room for children to run around.

  “You’re going to need a vegetable garden,” Dad says to August.

  August smiles and nods. I don’t think he’s ever watered a plant in his life, but he humors my father nonetheless.

  “This is a beautiful home, sweetheart.” Mom rests her head on my shoulder. “And so filled with love already.”

  “It truly is.”

  “I’m so happy for you. And August, too,” she says. “That you found each other, that you’ve created this life.”

  I once told August that our fate was written long before we were even born.

  I stand by what I said.

  I just know now that I had it all wrong.

  Fate wasn’t trying to keep us apart; it was trying to bring us together.

  * * *

  THE END

  * * *

  Reader Dearest (see what I did there?)—

  I hope you enjoyed your time with August and Sheridan! Just a quick note to let you know I’m currently working on Soren Monreaux’s story! Let me just say, there’s plenty more family drama … ;-) Be sure you subscribe to my newsletter so you’re the first to know when it releases! Plus you’ll be the first to see the cover/title/blurb and all the teasers.

  And while you’re hanging out online, if you enjoyed ENEMY DEAREST I’d love, love, love if you took the time to leave a review!

  Love + books—

  Winter

  SAMPLE - Trillion

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Trey

  * * *

  “So my cousin was at this party with Westcott a couple of years ago, and she claims he snorted pure Peruvian cocaine off a stripper using a ten thousand-dollar bill, and then, get this—he lit the bill on fire,” a woman’s nasally voice trails from the eighth-floor break room.

  Never heard that one before …

  I stop outside the door and listen. I’m on my way to a conference call, but I can spare a few minutes for some cheap entertainment, especially on a monotonous Tuesday. Most people hate Mondays. I hate Tuesdays. Mondays are full of hope and ambition for the week. Wednesday’s halfway to Friday, Thursday closer still. But Tuesdays? They’re boring, tedious. Generally unexciting.