Now she was back on her feet, with money in the bank, working in a job she did well. If she lost all that again, and through a series of circumstances that had nothing to do with her . . . she couldn’t bear it. She didn’t want to bear this burden of integrity for Melinda, and she was afraid, afraid she’d end up in prison—or worse.
Yet . . . Mrs. Manly was surrounded by isolation, pain, and betrayal. She had nothing. She had no one.
“Once you enter the password, a blank screen appears. Then there’s a request for a code. My husband set up that code.” Bitterness dripped from Mrs. Manly’s voice. “What do you suppose it is?”
Slowly, Hannah shook her head.
“Mysons. No spaces. Cap M. Type it in.” The bitterness spread to Mrs. Manly’s smile. “The code was supposed to release the money to Nathan’s account in Switzerland. But Torres went to work, and changed the program. Once you type in the code, the funds will be dispersed to the families who invested their savings in the firm and employees who were loyal to the end.” She patted Hannah’s arm. “There’s nothing for you, I’m afraid. I can’t change the program. I don’t know how. Your only reward is knowing you’re doing the right thing.”
“I don’t want a reward. I want peace.”
“What about justice?”
“I do want justice—as long as someone else does the heavy lifting.” Hannah was only half joking.
Mrs. Manly’s cackle made her sound like the Wicked Witch of the West. “We all make our decisions. Would you really want to live with yourself if you let thousands of people be robbed by one deceitful man?”
“No, I suppose not.” But Hannah didn’t want to die for them, either. “Is all the money there? Did he use none of it?”
“He got away with nothing,” Mrs. Manly said with satisfaction.
“So the bulk of the fortune is there, and has been collecting interest for fifteen years.” The idea boggled Hannah’s mind—but not as much as another revelation that occurred, took root, and grew. “Nathan Manly . . . where is he?”
Mrs. Manly no longer cackled or smirked. She sneered with all the contempt of an American aristocrat for a plebeian. “He’s dead somewhere, a ghost planning his vengeance—on whoever was fool enough to kill him.”
ELEVEN
Carrick strolled through the crowd outside Mango, the hottest club in New York City, and as he moved toward the bouncer, he heard the comments sweep through the people behind the ropes.
A voice, hard and impatient. “Who is he?”
Breathless. “He looks like Brad Pitt.”
Disdainful. “No, Brad Pitt is too old. He looks like that guy who made a million dollars in one day on the stock market.”
A restless snort. “No, it’s German Maddox, the actor who’s going to play the new Batman villain.”
Carrick deliberately didn’t look at the female; he didn’t want to know if she was young or old, fat or thin, pretty or a dog. But he was pleased.
“That’s Carrick Manly.” Carrick always planted someone to put out his real name.
“Who’s he?” It was the same female who’d mistaken him for an actor.
Carrick frowned.
“He’s that rich playboy whose father ran away with the family fortune,” his plant said.
“So where’s this guy get his money?” The strange female was considerably less impressed.
“Nobody knows,” his plant informed her, “but he’s always welcome in places like this.”
Right on cue, the bouncer waved Carrick inside.
Music screamed. Lights flashed. Metal palm trees stood in clumps around the tables. It was supposed to be decorated like a desert island. Instead it looked like a beach on acid. He recognized half a dozen young actresses, celebrating their youth and sex and fame with as much energy as their diets and their drugs would allow them. The actors were here, too, and the politicians’ kids, and people who were famous for having a family fortune or creating scandal.
And he was one of them. His family fortune was gone, and the scandal was his father’s, but when most men would have given up and started from scratch, he’d set his goal on remaining one of the elite, and nothing proved his success like being welcomed to Mango.
Today had been a bitch of a day. Tonight, he needed to be at Mango.
He started to work his way toward a table, one where three girls watched him with interest. They were probably nineteen. They were undoubtedly high. And if he didn’t get to them, someone else would.
He was almost there when someone caught his shoulder.
He turned in annoyance.
The man had his head shaved, wore dark glasses, and was dressed in a business suit. He was nothing special, yet some preservative instinct told Carrick he was a force to be reckoned with. “Who are you?”
Shaved-Head Guy spoke in his ear. “Osgood would like to see you.”
Shit. Nobody knew who Osgood was. Nobody knew what he looked like. No one ever saw him, or if they did, they didn’t admit to it. Until this minute, Carrick hadn’t known whether to believe the rumors that Osgood existed, much less owned the club. Osgood had a fearsome reputation—one that kept the police quiet about the “irregularities” of the bar.
And now . . . Osgood wanted to see Carrick. A crappy end to a shit-ass day. “What does he want?” Carrick asked.
“I’m not privy to Osgood’s business.” The guy turned and walked away without glancing back to see if Carrick followed.
He did.
They walked toward the restrooms, then veered suddenly toward the blank dark wall. The guy did something, Carrick didn’t see what, and a door opened. They entered a dim corridor, one that looked like something out of a prison movie, and walked toward the end, toward a narrow metal door with no handle. Again the guy performed his magic, and the door creaked open.
The guy gestured Carrick inside.
Carrick didn’t want to go. He had the ugly feeling he knew why he’d been summoned, and this could not be good.
“Don’t linger in the hall, Mr. Manly. Come in,” a warm, plumy male voice called.
The guard slammed his knee in the middle of Carrick’s back. Slammed it so hard Carrick stumbled forward into the room, fell onto his hands and knees, and collapsed with a wheeze. A rib had cracked, and his left kidney was bruised.
Shaved-Head Guy stepped in behind him and shut the door.
The walls were painted gray. There wasn’t a picture or a window in sight. It smelled funny, like sweat socks. And Osgood sat behind a desk, a reading lamp pointed outward. It was an arrangement that left him in the dark, but Carrick had the impression of a slight build and middle age, sort of like the guy who made rye bread for the New York City delis. Not impressive at all.
Then Carrick tried to stand.
Shaved-Head Guy kicked him behind the knee and he went down again.
Osgood didn’t have to be impressive. He had his hired muscle to be impressive for him.
“Now, Mr. Manly, there is the problem of your unpaid bar bill.” Osgood rustled some papers.
“I can pay the bar tab.” Carrick suspected he’d sprained his wrist. He also suspected unless he got this bill taken care of, his wrist would be the least of his problems.
“It’s over twenty thousand dollars.”
“What?” Carrick got one foot under him and started to stand. “There’s no way I’ve downed twenty thousand dollars’ worth of booze.”
Osgood flicked his finger, and Shaved-Head Guy kicked Carrick sideways into the wall.
As Carrick crumpled to the floor, Osgood said, “There are the rentals for the personal performance room over the bar, and for the performers. There are the cigars and the smack.”
“Still not twenty thousand,” Carrick gasped and flinched, but Shaved-Head Guy didn’t move.
“Did I forget to mention I also own Rachard’s in Soho, and Bitter ’s in Greenwich?”
God. Carrick had been spreading his business around, figuring if he didn’t owe too much any on
e place, he’d be okay. It had always worked before. How was he supposed to know Osgood owned them all? “I can pay.”
“Really?” Osgood asked.
“I have my ways.” Carrick sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Osgood how thin his finances were running.
“Your bank account is empty. Your apartment isn’t your own. Your friends won’t lend you another dime.” Osgood laughed as if indulgently amused. “You’re in such bad financial shape, you don’t dare walk into Saks for fear they’ll repossess your shoes.”
“How do you know what’s in my bank account?” Pure rage brought Carrick onto his feet in a flash. “You damn well better not be snooping around—”
Shaved-Head Guy racked Carrick so bad, lights exploded behind his eyes. He screamed like a girl and collapsed, writhing and holding himself.
Through the thrum of blood in his ears, he heard Osgood say, “You don’t learn very quickly, do you, Mr. Manly? You don’t stand in my presence. Not when you owe me money with no way to repay me. You crawl.”
When Carrick got his breath back, he said, “I don’t crawl.”
“We’ll see,” Osgood sounded amused.
Silence fell, broken only by Carrick’s own harsh gasping.
First he debated trying to stand again. Then he wondered if he should show more defiance.
Then, as the silence lengthened, as Osgood sat without a sound, as Shaved-Head stood motionless, Carrick’s imagination began to brew.
First he remembered how easily Shaved-Head had brought him down.
Then he considered the gossip about Osgood—that he was a pedophile, a rapist, a sadist, that he was responsible for a cemetery’s worth of the mutilated bodies found in New York Harbor.
Finally Carrick recalled that no one knew where he was . . . and no one really cared. He was afraid to ask, but he was afraid not to ask. At last, he painfully cleared his throat and whispered, “What do you want?”
In a warm, encouraging, satisfied voice, Osgood said, “It seems you believe that your mother knows where your father ’s fortune is hidden. . . .”
TWELVE
Hannah ran away from the house, up the cliff walk, down the cliff walk, her shoes hitting the concrete at a steady rate. The cold wind blew in gusts off the ocean, the waves crashed against the cliffs, the salt air lured her onward. She kept an eye on the swiftly moving clouds, knowing only too well that she didn’t want to be caught two miles from the house when the projected autumn storm blew in.
But she didn’t want to go back, either. The last-minute arrangements for the Halloween party, the pressure of knowing Mrs. Manly’s secret, the scrutiny of Balfour House itself made each run more important than the last. She’d begun to slim down; her jogging pants were loose around the waist, and not merely because the elastic was old. Warmed by the exercise, she stopped at the first-mile marker, slipped off her hoodie, and tied it around her waist. She scanned the landscape; she was alone, except for one tourist sitting on the highest point on the property, a pair of binoculars in his hands. The Maine coastline was rich in wildlife, attracting birders from all over the world. This guy was hardy, sitting out here with a knit hat pulled low over his ears and a huge down coat wrapped around his body, watching the seagulls wheel and dip on the breeze. She waved, never thinking he’d notice anything so insignificant as a human being.
He startled her by waving back.
Maybe he wasn’t as big a geek as she had imagined.
She started off again, fixing her sights on the top of the next hill—when her earpiece beeped. No one ever called her while she was on her run, so this couldn’t be good.
She slowed her pace, pulled her cell out of her pocket and looked at the ID, expecting to see Balfour House. But no, although the number tripped a vague memory in her brain. She touched her earpiece. “Hello?”
“Hannah? Is this a good time?” The deep voice sounded vaguely familiar, too, warm and soft, like a tender hand sliding down her spine.
Then she pegged it. “Trent. Trent Sansoucy.”
“You remembered. I’m flattered.”
He must have called the house and gotten her cell number. But why?
His voice changed, became concerned. “Are you sick? You sound like you’re having a heart attack.”
She laughed and sped up again. “I’m exercising.”
“You’re gasping.”
“I’m on a run. Gasping is a good thing. What can I do for you?”
“Susan Stevens is available now, and I’d like to make an appointment for her to come in and do her magic.” He was all business, his East Coast-accented voice sounding a little more Boston than before. “I’d like to get her in there before the party.”
“Me, too. How soon can we have her?”
“Tomorrow, if you like.”
“Tomorrow is perfect. Both Mrs. Manly and I are uneasy with the situation as it is.”
He went on the alert—she could tell by his voice. “Why? Have you seen anything? Heard anything?”
“Um . . . no.” She was not going to tell him she thought the house was watching her. He’d probably decide she was crazy, because, well . . . it was crazy. But despite her lectures to herself, that itchy, creeping feeling of being watched had never faded.
He must have heard her hesitation, and said sternly, “You should inform me of whatever you suspect.”
So she told him the easy part, the factual part. “I suspect that with the government accusing Mrs. Manly of hiding information about Nathan Manly and his fortune, there is the possibility that someone might want to pressure Mrs. Manly into revealing what she knows, and they might do it violently.” She didn’t add that Carrick Manly was her top suspect. Most people hadn’t glimpsed that slimy side of Carrick, and even she didn’t think he would actually resort to bloodshed.
The trouble was, when she’d met him, she had never suspected he would want Hannah to spy on his mother, either, and be willing to blackmail her to get his way.
“I’m concerned about that, too. I had hoped that hadn’t occurred to you.”
“I’m glad that you didn’t dismiss my fears.” She labored up another hill. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m being paranoid.”
“Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”
She chuckled, as he meant her to.
“Truthfully, when it comes to danger, women tend to ignore their instincts when they shouldn’t.” Trent sounded so warmly concerned, she got that hand-down-her-spine feeling again. “Is there anything specific that bothers you?”
What the hell? She might as well tell him. He’d probably heard dumber things. “The house is old and it creaks in the wind, so I hear footsteps that aren’t there. It’s more than the money. It’s the whole Nathan Manly hasn’t been seen since he disappeared thing.” No matter how hard Hannah tried, she hadn’t been able to forget Mrs. Manly’s conviction that someone had killed Nathan, and that he was planning his vengeance. “I guess you could say I’m afraid of ghosts.”
“You’re afraid of Nathan Manly’s ghost? I thought he was still alive somewhere.”
“That’s what they say, but nobody knows for sure, do they?” Hannah had said too much, and she reined herself in, going back to the facts. “I’m more afraid of intruders, especially since I’d be the one defending Mrs. Manly.”
“Surely the servants would step in. The butler?”
“Nelson? No.”
Trent was silent for a long moment. “Then you’re right to feel uneasy. So I’ll send Susan at ten tomorrow?”
“Ten would be good.” She could make sure Mrs. Manly got dressed, ate her breakfast and took her meds, before Susan showed up.
“We’ll get the security set up as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” Hannah liked that he didn’t make her feel stupid.
“So . . . how far do you run?”
How far do I run? She repeated the question silently to herself. Trent wasn’t getting off the phone. He was making con
versation.
She relaxed and smiled. Was Mrs. Manly right? Their last conversation had been flirtatious. Had he enjoyed it? “I run two to four miles a day, depending on the weather and how much time I have.”
“The weather doesn’t look too good today.” She heard the breeze whistle across his mouthpiece; apparently he was outside, too.
“Good point.” She looked out at the clouds, tall, purple, and menacing on the horizon. She turned and headed back. Three miles, up and down slopes, through the grove, and along the cliff, to the house. In her distress about Mrs. Manly’s account, she hadn’t been paying attention. She’d come too far. She was going to get drenched.
“Why did you run so far?”
“Sometimes I need to get away.”
“She’s a difficult woman. Mrs. Manly, I mean. My father always said so.”
Hannah bristled at his assumption that Mrs. Manly was the one who drove her from Balfour House. “She’s had far too many disappointments in her life”—her husband, her son—“and far too much responsibility on her shoulders. It’s given her a hard shell, but on the inside, she’s a good woman.”
“It’s good of you to defend her.” He flailed around like a guy who knew he’d put his foot wrong, but didn’t know why or how. “Does she remind you of your mother?”
“God, no. My mother was . . .” Hannah laughed aloud. “If you looked up joie de vivre in the dictionary, there was a picture of my mother. Life wasn’t good to her, either, but she never let it get her down.”
“She sounds great.” He still sounded cautious.
Hannah supposed she had stomped on him a little too firmly, so she kept chatting. “She insisted we travel, have fun, enjoy ourselves when we could. We went to the Renaissance festival every year, and she always bought me a present—a scarf, or a ring, or a face carved into a knot of wood. Mom spoke French fluently, loved the French culture, worshipped French cooking. So we ate out once a week at a little café that specialized in French country cooking. We always split a dessert afterward—mousse au chocolat, or an éclair, or crèpes à la Normande. Vacations were usually a car trip to a bed-and-breakfast in Pennsylvania or somewhere close, but one year, when I was fourteen, one of her doctors won a trip to Provence, and he said he didn’t have time to go, so he gave it to her.”
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