by Josh Lanyon
No, that wasn’t fair. That wasn’t what she meant at all. Diana and Pierce seemed like credible witnesses. Even as teens, or preteens in Diana’s case, they sounded like smart and fairly responsible kids. So if they weren’t wrong, then Mrs. Truscott had to be mistaken.
That was hard to believe too. She did not seem like a woman prone to mistakes.
But someone was mistaken. And the mistake had happened in the critical juncture of the evening. The time most likely when Brian had been taken.
His phone was ringing again. Griff pulled it out, glanced in surprise at the number. Dusty Whalen was a good friend who worked as a private investigator in Janesville.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to take this,” he told Diana.
She nodded.
Griff pushed back his chair and went outside. Sure enough it was starting to sprinkle. The air smelled of wet pavement and diesel and Italian food. The nearby 7-Eleven sign glittered in the rain.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said.
“Hey,” Dusty said. “Do you know a lawyer by the name of Pierce Mather?”
“Yeah?” Griff said warily.
Dusty gave a funny laugh. “Yeah? Well, he just tried to hire me to dig up the dirt on you.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Is something wrong?” Diana asked when Griff got back to the table.
“Where’s your brother’s office located?”
Diana looked hopeful and then uncertain. “Has something happened?”
“Yes. And I’d like to speak to him face-to-face.” Griff couldn’t smile reassuringly, couldn’t pretend he felt anything but furious. And maybe hurt. But if he was feeling hurt, it just went to show how stupid he was. Last night had been about sex, pure and simple. It wasn’t the start of a beautiful friendship. It wasn’t the start of anything.
Diana, still watching him, said uneasily, “He might not be there. Thursdays he’s in and out. He does a lot of pro bono work for elderly or shut-in clients. People who can’t get to the office for whatever reasons.”
“I’m sure he’s a prince. I’ll wait for him.”
“You don’t think you could tell me?”
“No. I don’t. I need to talk to him. I’m going to talk to him, so either you—”
He didn’t have to complete the sentence. She recited the address, finishing with a tentative, “Griff, Pierce can be a bit insensitive, but he really does try to do the right things for the right reasons.”
“He’s your brother, I get that. But from what I’ve seen of Pierce, he believes the end justifies the means.” Griff punched the last number of the address into his phone’s MapQuest.
“That isn’t fair,” Diana was saying as Griff found his wallet and pulled out a couple of bills, laying them on the table. “Whatever you think Pierce has done—” She broke off as Griff met her eyes. “Oh, Griff,” she said helplessly.
* * *
It took about ten minutes to drive to Pierce’s office. Griff did not remember one second of the drive. He couldn’t seem to get past the fact that Pierce wanted someone to “dig up the dirt on him.” Hiring a PI was bad enough, that was already a betrayal. Hiring someone with an express directive to find “the dirt”? That was what Griff couldn’t get over.
It would have hurt coming from a complete stranger—that assumption there was dirt to find. Coming from someone he had started to—against his better judgment—like? It was too painful to examine. He focused only on what he would say to Pierce. And he planned to say plenty.
He assumed that Diana would have called to give her brother a head’s up, but when he barged through the elegant windowed door with its panes of frosted glass, the front office receptionist—a trim older woman in a brown tweed suit—greeted him with a pleasant smile.
“Is Pierce in?”
Her smile became guarded. “Did you have an appointment?” she asked in the knowing tone of the person in charge of appointments.
“I do now.” Griff passed her perfectly organized desk on his way to Pierce’s office.
She jumped up, protesting like the classic good TV secretary, “Sir! I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go in there!”
Griff ignored her and pushed open the door. The secretary, who was faster on her feet than she looked, crammed in ahead of him.
“Mr. Mather, this gentleman forced his way in!”
Pierce, on the phone—possibly to another PI, this time one not personally acquainted with Griff and more willing to snoop into his private life—looked momentarily taken aback. He regrouped fast, looking from Griff to his secretary and covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “It’s all right, Ms. Gordon.”
“Are you sure?” Ms. Gordon threw a worried glance at Griff. He gave her a tight smile. The last thing he needed was her calling the cops.
Pierce nodded. “I’m sure.” As the door closed behind Ms. Gordon, he told Griff, “Take a seat.”
“I need to talk to you,” Griff said.
“I noticed.” Pierce’s hand was still clamped over the mouthpiece. “But I’m on the phone with Jarrett at the moment.”
Griff grabbed the back of the leather wingchair and dragged it out a foot. He sat down. It was irritating and anticlimactic to have to sit there waiting politely for Pierce to finish his conversation. Doubly aggravating that the phone call was to Jarrett.
“I understand,” Pierce said patiently into the phone, as though there had been no interruption. “But it’s important that we follow—” He stopped. He picked up a fountain pen and drummed it nervously on the desk blotter.
Who the heck used fountain pens anymore?
The rain prickled against the bank of windows behind Pierce’s desk, dotting the glass.
“I realize that,” Pierce said into what was apparently the next pause for breath.
Griff forgot how mad he was and began to pay closer attention. He realized that Pierce was worried. Worried enough that Griff sitting fuming right in front of him was a secondary consideration.
“Jarrett. Sir, please don’t—” Pierce broke off again, biting his lip.
As pissed off as Griff was, he found the lip gnawing sort of disarming. Pierce’s eyes met his, their gazes locked. Griff scowled.
“But surely there’s no hurry?” Pierce said. His voice was controlled, calm. You’d never guess, listening to him, that he was upset. That might be useful to know for future clashes.
Silence but for the beat of rain on the window and the agitated tap, tap, tap of Pierce’s pen. As though he was telegraphing for help.
“Well, there’s not a lot of point in having a legal advisor if you’re not going to listen to me.” Somehow Pierce managed to sound amused even as he closed his eyes as though in prayer.
Another silence. “All right. I’ll see you in a bit.” He put the receiver in the cradle and stared at it. He turned to face Griff. “There’s been a development.”
“There sure has.” Griff grabbed the arms of the chair but managed not to launch himself forward. “Did you actually try and hire a PI to poke into my private life?”
“Yes.” It was crisp and uncompromising.
Griff’s anger skyrocketed. “How d—”
“Am I supposed to apologize for looking after the interests of my clients?”
“How does hiring someone to investigate me, to dig up dirt on me, add up to looking after the interests of your clients?”
“I didn’t tell him to manufacture the dirt. If it’s there—”
“If what’s there? What do you think there is to find?”
“You don’t add up,” Pierce yelled, surging to his feet. The sudden slip of his usual tight control was startling. “You’re hiding something and I want to know what it is.”
Griff, also on his feet now, yelled back, “What doesn’t add up?
I’ve been completely transparent with you.”
“Give me a fucking break,” Pierce said. “Your middle name is Neptune?”
“I can’t help my middle name!”
“You got interested in the Arlingtons because of The Great Gatsby? Your birthday just happens to fall on the same date as Brian’s kidnapping? Do you think we’re all stupid? Do you think I’m stupid?”
“I do now!”
Pierce’s glare dimmed. All at once he was ice cold again. “I don’t know what you were up to. I don’t know what you hoped to get out of all this, but it’s water under the bridge now.” He raked a hand through his hair, which promptly fell back over his forehead. “In fact, it’s a goddamned tsunami under the bridge.”
“What are you talking about?”
Pierce smiled unpleasantly. “Someone beat you to the punch, Mr. Gatsby.”
“What punch? What are you talking about?”
“Brian has returned.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Pierce was still smiling that smile that raised the hair on the back of Griff’s neck. “Brian has been found. Or so a young man by the name of Leland Alvin claims. And this time Jarrett seems determined to believe him.”
Griff opened his mouth but no words came to him.
“You were too slow,” Pierce said. “You missed your shot. Whatever that shot was going to be. Reincarnation? Amnesia? Cloning?”
Pierce was furious, so furious that he was lashing out at any moving target. That much Griff registered. And Griff didn’t blame him. This was a turn of events guaranteed to turn a control freak like Pierce into a gibbering madman.
“That can’t be,” Griff said. “Brian has to be dead. Nothing else makes sense.”
“Jarrett says this Alvin character has irrefutable proof.”
“His DNA? Because that’s the only irrefutable proof I can think of.”
Pierce stared at him as though Griff was only now coming into focus. He said slowly, “You believe Brian’s dead.”
“Yes.”
Pierce’s expression grew skeptical again. “What are you up to?” he asked softly.
Griff remembered why he’d shown up at Pierce’s office in the first place. He remembered the night before—and the way Pierce had brushed him off that morning. He remembered why he didn’t get involved with guys like Pierce.
“Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out,” Griff said. He turned and walked out of the office.
* * *
Mrs. Truscott was crying.
She sat in the wooden chair in front of the brick fireplace in the kitchen sobbing quietly into her hands. Molly Keane stood over her, patting her back soothingly. Molly looked up as Griff quietly opened the door. She nodded for Griff to go through, and he did, though the sounds of Mrs. Truscott’s breakdown followed him down the hall.
Voices drifted from the drawing room. It sounded like everyone in the house was in there and talking at once. It did not sound like any gathering in Winden House he had heard before. The air seemed to buzz with energy and excitement. The very expressions on the portraits in the long hall seemed lighter, relieved. Nicole Arlington beamed at him as he walked past.
Someone laughed. The voice was young, male, unfamiliar.
Griff’s heart began to pound in that old mix of anxiety and anticipation. He felt like he was walking through some fantastic dreamscape. Everything was the same but different. None of this could be happening, and yet there was no alternative except to continue with the dream.
Brian was home. It was a miracle. But Griff was not someone who believed in miracles, so this just felt surreal. Granted, it wasn’t the first time something at Winden House had struck him as surreal.
Michaela’s dogs began to bark as he reached the entrance of the drawing room. He paused on the threshold, scanning the faces staring back at him. The family was all present and accounted for. Marcus, Muriel, Michaela, Ring. They all wore strange, almost rapt expressions.
Just as on the first night, Jarrett turned and beamed in welcome. “Come in, my boy. Come in, Griffin. It’s only right that you should be here too.” He clapped a friendly hand on Griff’s shoulder, and Griff could feel excitement and tension humming through the old man like an exposed wire. “Brian, this is the young journalist I was telling you about. Griff, this is my grandson. This is Brian Arlington.”
Brian was seated on the sofa between Muriel and Michaela. Muriel was actually holding his hand. He raised his head, met Griff’s gaze, and smiled a wide and guileless smile.
It was not like looking into a mirror, exactly, but all at once Griff understood why everyone but Jarrett had believed Griff was trading on his resemblance to Matthew. Brian too was tall and slender and very blond. He had the striking combination of black brows and the blue, blue eyes that all the Arlingtons possessed. Though he was boyishly handsome, he looked maybe a little older, or at least a little harder, than his twenty-four years warranted. He didn’t look like someone who had had an easy life.
“This is...amazing,” Griff said. It felt too strange to say Brian’s name. “It’s such an unexpected. Pleasure, I mean. An unexpected pleasure.” He was surprised to find he was genuinely rattled. He offered his hand.
Brian half rose to shake hands briefly.
Marcus burst out laughing. “An unexpected. You could say that.” His voice was too loud. All their voices were too loud. But for once nobody seemed to be drinking.
Brian sank back on the sofa. He scrutinized Griff. “Thanks. No hard feelings?”
“Why would there be?”
“There goes your book.” Brian shrugged in commiseration.
“I didn’t...” Griff turned automatically to Jarrett. They had already got as far as discussing his book? He hadn’t thought about the ramifications of Brian’s return in regard to his work. Hadn’t thought about his position in this at all.
Jarrett met his gaze, appearing uncharacteristically nonplussed. “Why, I suppose, that is, er, plenty of time to talk it over.” His smile didn’t quite stretch from Brian to Griff. “No need to worry over that just now. This is a celebration.”
Muriel said, “Yes. We certainly don’t want that book written now!” Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, she looked almost pretty.
Michaela said, “I don’t see why Brian coming home means there can’t be a book.”
Ring, standing behind the sofa, touched her shoulder, but she ignored him. “It gives the story a happy ending. Christ knows we could use some of that.” She even smiled at Griff. Like Muriel, this was the first time she had looked relaxed, let alone happy.
Griff had a flash of Mrs. Truscott sobbing in the kitchen. Those heartbreaking noises. Happiness, yes, and relief. The relief in this house was palpable.
The Arlingtons all began to talk at once. Everyone but Brian, who continued to smile at Griff in that odd, assessing way.
Jarrett coughed, cleared his throat. “I’m not sure that’s quite fair to Griff.” He threw Griff another of those uncomfortable, apologetic looks.
“I agree.” That was Chloe. Griff took a closer look at her face and realized she was about the only person in the room who wasn’t aglow with happiness. “It’s not fair.”
“I don’t want any book written about me,” Brian said with finality. He smiled at Griff. “Sorry, but that’s the way I feel about it.”
Griff opened his mouth, but before he could make his case, the dogs, which had been snuffling and sniffing his feet, began to bark hysterically once more, plumy tails and fringed bodies shaking, like agitated throw pillows.
“I see the party’s already started.” Pierce’s voice sliced cleanly through the racket.
He must have raced out of his office two minutes after Griff and never once let up on the accelerator. He was smiling, but there was about
as much genuine warmth in his smile for Brian as Brian’s smile currently held for Griff.
“Pierce, my dear boy!” Jarrett’s warmth sounded forced. “I’ve been explaining to Brian...” He didn’t finish exactly what he had been explaining, but Griff wished he had been there to hear it.
Brian, apparently forewarned, rose all the way to his feet this time and offered his hand. “Pierce Mather. I won’t say you haven’t changed, but I’d recognize you anywhere.”
“So you’re Brian?” Pierce shook hands. “This is quite a surprise.”
Chloe drawled, “He gets that a lot.”
“A pleasant one, I hope,” Brian said.
Pierce grinned. “That remains to be seen.” Somehow he managed to look supremely civilized and yet unmistakably dangerous. This was the Pierce who was used to getting up in front of judges and juries and making mincemeat of his opponents. He said pleasantly, “Any reason you chose to come straight to the family and not to me?”
The buzz of conversation cut off as though someone had yanked a cord. Even the dogs shut up.
“Pierce,” Jarrett said.
“It’s okay, Ja-Grandfather.” Brian offered another of those big, blank smiles. “Your reputation precedes you, Pierce. I didn’t want to waste time talking to lawyers. No offense. I know who I am and I wanted to see my family.”
“Any reason it took you twenty years to get around to wanting to see your family?” Pierce was smiling too. Griff had never seen anyone manage to be so courteous and so rude at the same time. It was kind of impressive.
Muriel gave a gasp. Chloe snorted. No one else seemed to breathe.
Brian seemed to size Pierce up. He smiled gravely. “Yes, but that’s something I’m not willing to talk about yet. Certainly not with you.”
“It’s not quite that simple.” Pierce sounded almost kind.
“Yes, indeed it is,” Jarrett broke in. It was the first time Griff had seen him genuinely angry. “Pierce, I’ve already made my feelings known to you. I know you have our best interests at heart, but I’ve told you we have irrefutable proof that this is Brian.”