by Josh Lanyon
“But?”
Jarrett looked genuinely regretful. “But I will stop you from publishing that book. I will do it by fair and legal means, but I will do it. I will do whatever it takes to protect my grandson.” His gaze was ice blue and unwavering. “If you go to war with me, you will come out of this with nothing.”
Griff stood. “Okay. Well, then we both know where we stand.”
Jarrett rose too. “Put aside your disappointment and anger for a moment. If you’re sensible, practical, you could come out of this with enough to live on for a year or two while you choose another project. Or write a novel. All young writers want to write novels, don’t they? Don’t let pride determine your future. Take the advice of an old man, don’t let ego get in the way of a smart decision.”
Griff was silent. He felt that he was in the right, but was he being foolish? Prideful? If he tried to face down the Arlingtons, he could come out of this with nothing. Maybe worse than nothing. Maybe he would be persona non grata to all of publishing if the Arlingtons pushed hard enough.
Watching him, Jarrett said, “In fact, don’t decide anything now. Take the day. Take the night. Sleep on it. Then give us your answer before you leave tomorrow. Let’s work it out as friends. We were friends just a little while ago, weren’t we?”
Griff opened his mouth, but it was very difficult to say what he felt in the face of that persuasive charm. Somewhere along the line he had let himself start liking Jarrett.
Jarrett picked up the camera box. “Either way, this is yours.”
“I can’t—”
“No. Listen to me, Griffin. This is not a bribe. These are two separate matters. The camera is yours.”
The box was in his hands and he was being shown out of the study, Jarrett’s hand resting on his shoulder with every appearance of affection. “Come to think of it, we’re having a small party tonight to welcome Brian home. Just family and a few close friends. Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t know about that.” Actually, he did know about that. He thought it was a horrible idea. For a lot of reasons.
“I think it’s an excellent idea. Pierce will be there.”
Griff threw Jarrett a quick look, but Jarrett was smiling mischievously, seemingly unaware that the situation had changed between Griff and Pierce.
“Come,” Jarrett coaxed. “Talk with Brian. Hear his side of the situation. If nothing else, it will give you a chance to say goodbye to everyone.”
Goodbye. Of everything Jarrett had said so far, that single word was the one that really hurt.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brian—Leland Alvin, rather—was seated on the marble bench in the tunnel of trees. He rose as Griff walked toward him, offering a sunny smile.
“New camera?”
“Is there something you want to say to me?” Griff was still too angry to fake friendliness.
“A lot of things. Let’s walk down to the cottage together. I want to make sure my mother’s journal doesn’t leave the estate with you.”
Griff gave him a look of disbelief. But that last had to be Muriel talking. She had always been possessive about Gemma’s journal. She could relax, though, because whatever she feared was in there wasn’t, as far as Griff could tell. “Suit yourself.”
He expected Alvin to launch into accusations about Griff snooping into his past, but they walked a few steps in silence before Alvin said, “Are you going to write the book?”
“Why does the idea of this book make you so nervous?”
Alvin met his eyes and once again Griff had that eerie sense of looking into a distorted mirror. Alvin said, “I’m a private person. Is that so hard to understand? I don’t want my private life dragged out into the open for people to ooh and ah over.”
“That’s going to happen anyway. Every newspaper in the country is going to be covering this story. Reporters with a lot more experience and resources than me are going to be asking questions. You’re news, whether you like it or not.”
Alvin didn’t like it. That was clear from his expression. “Jarrett will have something to say about that.”
“I’m sure he will, but even Jarrett doesn’t tell the New York Times what to print.”
Alvin brooded over this for a minute or two before shrugging it off. “I’ll put my money on the old man. So? Are you still writing the book?”
“I’m taking twenty-four hours to weigh my options.”
“If you don’t take that deal, you’re stupid. Jarrett will pay whatever you like.” Alvin added, “Within reason. Don’t get greedy.”
“I’m not greedy. And it’s not just about money.”
“Then I don’t know what it is about.”
Griff stopped walking and faced him. “Really? Because I thought that was the gist of your story. You didn’t let anyone know you were alive because you were uncomfortable with the idea of inheriting all this.” He waved impatiently at the surrounding parkland.
“I’m talking about you. If you’re publishing a book, you want to make money. Right?”
Griff started walking again. Alvin caught up and kept pace with him.
“So don’t be stupid. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Right? The Arlingtons are powerful people. You don’t want to make enemies.”
“Like I said, I’ll think about it.”
“You’re a bad loser, Hadley.” Alvin was smiling. Confident once more.
Griff said, “You’re not Brian. And we both know it.”
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say. Griff couldn’t help it. He was beginning to hate Alvin with a passion that surprised even him.
Maybe that showed because Alvin’s eyes narrowed. He said, “You don’t care if I’m Brian or not. That’s the truth. You wanted this for yourself.”
“You’re crazy!”
Alvin shook his head. “I knew the second I laid eyes on you what you were really after.”
“You’re out of your mind.” Griff spoke with contempt, but he was aware of a niggle of doubt. He had acknowledged to himself that he was too invested, identifying too strongly with this story. So much so that a couple of times it had even gone through his mind—
No.
His heart jumped and he felt that instant wave of cold, sick dread. It was like being confronted with a heavy and forbidding iron door, something absolutely immovable—understanding that somehow you had to get through that door—while at the same time knowing with certainty that something even more terrible waited on the other side. He had been stuck outside that door since arriving at the Arlington estate, and he was starting to feel more and more desperate.
Alvin was still talking, and Griff forced himself to pay attention. “But here’s the truth. I am Brian. Nothing can change that.” He looked at Griff, waiting for him to respond.
Griff didn’t answer. Couldn’t really.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the cottage, Griff expected Alvin to barge in, but he waited on the doorstep until Griff got the journal and handed it over. It was not easy. He had come to feel close to Gemma, to feel protective of her, and handing over her most painful, private thoughts to someone like Alvin felt like a betrayal.
Alvin took the journal without a glance. “There’s an expiration date on that deal Jarrett made you. Don’t fuck around, Hadley, or you’ll end up with nothing. Anyway—” he pointed to his own forehead, “—looks to me like your investigation already hit a wall.” He grinned.
“Is that what Dirk told you? Nah. Rough party,” Griff said. “Speaking of which, I’ll see you tonight.”
He shut the door in Alvin’s startled face.
* * *
He packed before he dressed for the party.
It was his last night and he was hoping he would spend it wi
th Pierce. They hadn’t discussed it. Pierce might not even realize Griff was leaving the next day. Either way Griff would be on the road at the crack of dawn. He still had no idea what answer he would give Jarrett.
In fact, all afternoon he struggled with an uncharacteristic but almost overwhelming sense of depression. Twice it got so bad he almost phoned Pierce. He honestly couldn’t think of anyone else to call, which worried him all the more.
He felt caught and confused, and the worst part was he wasn’t sure why. The smart thing, the sensible thing, would be to accept Jarrett’s offer. He had put in enough of his own time and financial resources on this project that it was reasonable to try and recoup his costs. Jarrett wanted to ease his conscience—maybe it was even more than that, maybe he had come to feel some affection for Griff—and why not let Jarrett do that?
Why not just this once make life easy for himself?
Instantly he could hear his mother’s voice warning about being beholden, about selling his soul, about the dangers of accepting anything from anyone, especially rich people, but lately the echo of her dire words sounded more like a rant than wisdom. Why was it only now he was recognizing how much fear had lain behind her anger?
Fear of what?
It was a good thing he was leaving this place. He hadn’t been himself since he’d arrived. Before he had come to Winden House everything had been safe and certain. Now he was confused and worried. So confused he wasn’t even completely sure what he was confused about. Jarrett Arlington was willing to give him a hundred thousand dollars and never bat an eye—and Griff felt like his heart was breaking.
That was about as confused as it got.
And that was before it struck him that he would probably never see Pierce again after tonight. That realization was so painful that he instantly put it aside. There would be plenty of time on the fifteen-hour drive back to Wisconsin to figure out how he had managed to get so attached to someone he spent half the time arguing with.
He spotted his battered copy of The Great Gatsby at the bottom of his suitcase. He hadn’t even had time to take it out yet. Tears stung his eyes.
That was so ridiculous, he laughed, hastily wiping at his wet lashes. Was he having some kind of breakdown? Because he really had not been at all himself this past week.
Stranger on the Shore was dead. But Jarrett was right, there were other stories out there. It was one book out of all the books Griff would one day write. Feeling like it was the end of the world because he couldn’t write this particular story didn’t even make sense. When had this story taken over his life? He wasn’t even sure. Somehow it seemed as if for years he had been trying to get...here. But he’d only learned about Brian Arlington’s kidnapping a few months ago.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing his fingers to his temples. His head was thumping again, though not as bad as when he’d first woken in that barn in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he was having a brain bleed. Maybe he should have gone to see a doctor after all.
Once again he found himself wanting to call Pierce. And tell him what? I think I’m losing my mind?
He lowered his hands, rose from the bed, and went into the bathroom to shower and change for Brian’s Welcome Home party.
* * *
It was dark when he started through the tunnel of rhododendrons. A little way up the path, his cell phone rang.
Pierce, sounding like he was speaking in an under voice, said, “Jarrett told me you were coming to this thing tonight.”
“I am. I’m walking up now.”
“That’s a relief.” There was a pause. “I’ll see you in a few.” Pierce disconnected.
Griff walked slowly on. Leaves stirred, whispering, though there was no breeze. The arbor seemed uncannily alive. Pale petals drifted down like snow, and wings beat the air as birds swooped from one bower to the next. At the base of the trees, frogs’ voices croaked in cheerful disharmony, the changing timbres like the huffing and puffing of different-sized bellows. High overhead the golden moon peeped shyly through the interlace of leaves and branches, now and then its filmy rays catching one of the lurking bronze or marble figures, and a stag or a woman would seem to materialize in the gloom, softly gleaming, almost luminous, before fading once more into the shadows.
Griff continued walking, thinking that it must have been much like this the night Brian had been taken. Of course it was spring now, and much chillier than it would have been in June. But it must have felt like this that evening, with the Chinese lanterns and the black and white figures moving against the trees, a magical and mysterious night. A night when anything could happen.
Anything good or anything evil. Magic being an unpredictable commodity.
He thought he caught the distant notes of “Stranger on the Shore,” and realized that they must be playing music up at the house.
A scrape of sound at the end of the tunnel caught Griff’s attention. He looked up, his eyes straining the dark. A long shadow figure was coming swiftly toward him.
The hair rose on the back of his neck. He glanced around for a tree limb or one of the spiked solar lights he could use to defend himself, and then felt like an idiot when Pierce called, “I thought I’d walk down and meet you.”
What had he been thinking? That Brian was going to hire Dirk to kill him?
“I thought you were a ghost,” he called back. His alarm seemed funny now.
Four seconds later they were in each other’s arms.
Lovely to kiss in the wavering moonlight. Pierce’s mouth was hot and he’d had a drink. Griff was getting to like the taste of Black Velvet on Pierce’s tongue, and he liked the feel of Pierce’s hard arms around him. He kissed Pierce back with equal hunger, running his hand through the sleek softness of Pierce’s hair. It seemed like he could never quite get enough of Pierce.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Pierce said, when their lips reluctantly parted.
“Same.” It felt right standing here in the circle of Pierce’s arms. Too right to move away, really, and Griff wondered what Pierce would say if he suggested they go back to the cottage.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to show up,” Pierce said. “Jarrett told me he tried to buy you off. Obviously he didn’t phrase it like that.”
“It’s funny hearing you phrase it like that.”
“I know how you think now.”
Griff laughed briefly. “Yeah, but I may take him up on it.”
He could feel Pierce trying to read his face in the hazy light. He rested his forehead on the solid ridge of Pierce’s shoulder and said, “I don’t know what to do.”
Pierce stroked his back, his hand a warm weight through Griff’s blazer. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
Griff shook his head. “Everything was so clear at first. Not anymore. I had a talk with Alvin today. He swears he is Brian.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No. But I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore. Or why I’m doing it.”
Pierce didn’t say anything, just continued to stroke Griff’s back in that almost absent, soothing way.
Griff raised his head. “Can I come back to your place tonight? It’s my last night.”
“Of course.” Pierce’s expression altered. He said in a different tone, “Your last night?”
“Yeah. Either way it’s my last night. I’ve got to leave tomorrow to be back at work on Tuesday.”
Pierce was so still he didn’t seem to be breathing. Then he said, “True.” He drew back from Griff, though his hands still rested on Griff’s shoulders. “Then let’s go up to the house. You can give Jarrett your answer and then we can get out of there. I don’t want to waste tonight welcoming Leland Alvin into the family.”
They didn’t talk on the trip back to the house. Pierce seemed lost in thought and Griff had plenty o
n his mind already. They held hands in a loose, casual clasp as they walked.
Leaving the tunnel of trees, Griff studied the moonlit checkerboard of the sunken garden. In the green-blue distance two of the statues looked like they were playing volleyball with a glowing gazing ball.
Pierce said, “We can cut through the library.”
Griff smiled, nodding. Of course Pierce would not deign to enter and exit through the kitchen. He followed Pierce along the unlit side of the house. Pierce opened a pair of French doors that led into a small reading room. Griff had a quick impression of petit point chairs and a low bookshelf topped with a forest of silver-framed photos of the Arlington children. A crystal vase with freshly cut roses sat on the drop-down leaf of an old-fashioned secretary.
“This was Nicole’s sitting room.”
Freshly cut roses in a room no longer in use seemed to Griff to perfectly exemplify everything good and bad about the Arlingtons.
Pierce led the way through the moonlit room to a side door. He opened the door and a yellow rectangle of light from the library fell across the carpet.
Griff followed Pierce through the doorway, which turned out to belong to the small door beside the fireplace that Griff had noticed the first day he worked in the library.
The library blazed with light. It smelled of furniture polish and old books and fresh flowers. Yet it smelled wrong. Off.
Pierce stopped short. Griff nearly walked into him.
Pierce didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“What is it?” Griff glanced at him and then followed the line of Pierce’s silent stare.
At first all he saw was the broken clock. The smashed cage, the crushed blue and red feathers. His gaze traveled.
Brian—Leland Alvin—lay sprawled in front of the fireplace. He was lying facedown, but it was unmistakably him. The back of his blond head was matted and dark with gore. A few inches away from the hand he had raised in protection was a blood-smeared poker.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Pierce sucked in a sharp breath and started forward.