by Kent, Rina
What the fuck is he trying to spit out? I do my best to be patient, but I realize I’m drumming my fingers on the table the same time Marcus does.
His spine snaps straight, and he downs the rest of his drink. “Forget it.”
“No, man, don’t—” I grab his shoulder and squeeze. “Just say what you gotta say.”
Marcus shrugs off my hand, but after another pull at his cigarette, his dark eyes dart over to me and fix.
“The first time he asked…” He licks his lips. “He caught me on a good day. Or a bad one, I guess. Made it sound easy. So I did it, but it all went to shit. And then…” He shrugs, and lifts the hand holding his cigarette to stroke his jaw. Smoke obscures his face for a moment before he sits back as if to get out of that toxic cloud.
“I keep going back and forth — hating it, loving it, hating it. What if I stop hating it?”
“What did he ask you to do?”
Marcus’s jaw bunches, and his throat moves as he swallows. But before he can answer, his phone rings.
I hold out my hand, telling him to ignore it, but when he looks at me, I already know he wouldn’t dare to.
He pulls out his phone, and his shoulders sag as soon as he sees who it is.
“Marcus.”
He lifts his gaze, and a rueful smile raises one side of his mouth. “What you gonna do, right? It’s family.”
My skin crawls at the bitterness in his words, but he pulls away when I grab him to keep him from leaving. He weaves his way out of the pub, lifting his phone to his ear as soon as he pushes on the door to go out.
Drumming out a relentless staccato on the wood, I finish the rest of my beer and order us another round. Hopefully, Marcus will feel more talkative after another.
What kind of dodgy shit could his father possibly be into? Money laundering? Drugs? Arms?
Christ, the list is endless, now that I think about it. And it’s starting to make sense; why his father is always out, the random violence when he comes back. I don’t doubt for a minute that you need to have a mean streak to make it big in the criminal underworld.
A hand falls on my shoulder, and I twitch as I’m hauled out of idle speculation.
Marcus sits, and taps his phone against his thigh for a few seconds before putting it away. He opens his mouth, but I don’t let him speak.
“I’ll call my dad tonight,” I say. “If I can get hold of him, then—”
The bartender brings us our beers, and I wait for him to be out of earshot before I continue. “We’ve got like six months before the end of term. You can stay with me.”
Marcus swings his head to look at me, frowning hard. “I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can,” I say through a laugh. “I told you, my dad probably wouldn’t even notice. But I’d rather ask, then he doesn’t think I’m suddenly drinking twice the amount of beer as usual.”
Marcus’s lips lift into a phantom smile. “He won’t mind?”
“Fuck no!” I lift my beer bottle and tap it against his. “And long as you don’t hog the X-Box, then I don’t give a fuck either.”
Marcus lets out a laugh, but it sounds stiff and uncomfortable.
I clap a hand on his back, and lean in. “Now, wanna hear what I got up to in detention?”
Indi
You could have used my brain as the marshmallow bit for a Smore. I have a book open in front of me, but apparently it’s all in pig Latin. No surprise here — I keep daydreaming about what Briar did to me in detention. Every time that happens, it’s like I’m right back there. And trying to study while this fucking horny?
Impossible.
I’d been considering taking a long bath for almost fifteen minutes already when the house phone rings.
I turn a page in my textbook and do my best to read the words instead of replaying the sensation of Briar’s thumb on my clit.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
I twist on my bed and scowl at the wooden paneling, but that doesn’t stop Marigold from coming inside.
Her mouth is pursed, and her eyes sweep across the room as if she’s purposefully trying to find something wrong with this scenario so she can ground me for another month.
“There’s a phone call for you,” she says when her inspection is complete.
“Who?”
Her eyes narrow a little. “The insurance company.”
I frown and scramble off the bed, trailing her to the phone in the hallway. She stands so close to me when I take the call that I can smell stale cigarette smoke mingling with lavender perfume wafting from her. I turn my back and cringe around the phone, feeling like I’m in a prison trying to have phone sex with my beau.
“Hello?”
“May I please speak with Indigo Virgo?”
“Her speaking.” I take a quick peek over my shoulder and give my grandmother a glare that she ignores.
“Ms. Virgo, this is Mr. Fallow from the claims department. It regards your insurance claim on the property on 12 Northenden Drive, Lakeview?”
“Yes?” A thick wave of uneasiness washes over me. This is the first time since I called them about my rental car that I’ve heard back from the insurance company.
“Our claims investigator has submitted his report on the household contents section of your claim. Am I correct in believing that you were denied entry to the premises after the fire?”
“Yes.”
Denied entry is putting it mildly. The whole place had been taped up as a crime scene, and it didn’t matter how much I yelled, howled, or sobbed at them, they wouldn’t let me go inside. After I’d come down off the tranquilizers enough to give my statement to the police, I had to stay with my friend until social services handed me over to Marigold, my closest surviving kin and guardian.
“Our investigator inventoried the remaining undamaged items. Fortunately, several of the high-value items specified on your policy were retrieved undamaged.”
“Oh. Good.”
I guess this guy does this every day, because you’d think he’d sound happier about the fact that he didn’t have to pay out so much money.
God, why couldn’t Marigold have handled this shit? My mind’s already slipping away to much, much more pleasant things.
Detention, for example.
“…item we can confirm missing.”
“Sorry?” I say, reluctantly dragging myself back to the present.
“There is one high-value item we can confirm as missing.”
Instantly, my mind flashes to the necklace safe in its hiding spot upstairs.
I open my mouth to tell them I have it, but the claims guy doesn’t give me a chance to speak.
“Since the value of this item is over five-hundred-thousand, we are now changing the type of claim from fire damage to theft.”
Theft? Shit.
“Oh, no, you don’t—”
“Our investigator contacted the Lakeview police department today. They have confirmed that they will reopen the case as a murder investigation. You may need to come through to the station to answer some questions, but they will be in contact with you directly to confirm the date and time.”
Holy fuck.
If I tell him I have the necklace, they’ll close the case again. But the insurance company obviously doesn’t want to pay out half-a-mill if they can get the police to actually do their jobs and track down the thief.
The thief is me, but that’s no one’s business but mine.
“Do you think, I mean, the police said there wasn’t enough evidence…”
Mr. Fallow lets out a low laugh. “Ms. Virgo, our investigator is one of the best in the country.”
Obviously — insurance companies have a monetary obligation to unearth as many fraudulent claims as possible.
“So, what are you saying?”
“His report details several key pieces of evidence the police missed on their first sweep. Including, but not limited to the fact that the upstairs safe had been broken into.”
Cigarette smoke envelops me an instant later, and I spin to face Marigold, gesturing her back with a grimace and a flick of my hand. But then I see the dread anticipation in her eyes, and I remember how she’d been sitting on the floor of my mom’s old room, chain-smoking and emptying out a tissue box.
She’s a hag of a bitch, but it’s obvious she loved her daughter as much as I loved my mom.
My face melts, and I hold up my hand, mouthing, “hang on,” before leaning against the wall.
“The motive behind this was most definitely theft, Ms. Virgo. Taking into account the fact that it was the only item missing, we must assume that the suspect knew exactly what they were looking for, and already had plans to sell the item.”
I shift, nibbling the inside of my lip.
On a scale of one-year community service to a life sentence, how much shit will I get into for lying to an insurance company?
But if no one ever finds out… and if this little fib means the insurance company will keep pushing the police to find the person responsible for murdering my mother…
“Just tell me what you need from me,” I say, forcing my voice out steady and strong.
“This will delay the claim payout, unfortunately.”
“I don’t care. I want to know who did this. I’m sure you do too.”
Mr. Fallow’s voice drops a little, but it doesn’t soften a hair. “Of course, Ms. Virgo. I will be in touch. And again, condolences for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
I put the phone down, let out a long breath, and turn to Marigold.
The hand holding her golden cigarette holder is trembling. “Tell me,” she rasps.
“They’re reopening the case.” For some reason, telling Marigold is putting tears in my fucking eyes. I blink hard and fast, and try to sound glib. “One of mom’s necklaces is gone, so they think this was a theft, not just…”
Marigold starts nodding, her mouth pursing tight. Then her face crumples up and she lets out a loud sob.
I don’t even know I’m moving, but the next moment I’m in her arms, and we’re gripping each other so tight I can barely breathe. She’s all skin and trembling bones — so frail I can’t believe she’s still standing.
I don’t doubt for a second that I’m doing the right thing. We both need closure, and this is the only way.
After all, the investigator didn’t exactly say what was missing. Who says I even know what my mother had in that safe? I’m a fucking kid.
I smile into Marigold’s shoulder as I sniff and drag a hand over my nose.
Finally something in this fucked-up world is going my way.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Briar
“Evening, Son.”
I choke on my own spit as I’m walking into Briar Manor. When I look up, my father’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, a wine glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Suddenly, I’m very glad I didn’t join Marcus for that last round of shots. It’s only nine, but I’m a bit unsteady on my feet.
“Dad,” is all I can manage.
“Been keeping well?” he asks, although his gaze is on the dark woods outside the kitchen windows. He’s wearing a business suit, hair immaculately combed, freshly shaved.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah.”
“That’s good.” He finally turns, and does a double take. “I suppose you didn’t receive my message?”
I shake my head. I was distantly aware that my phone vibrated earlier in the evening, but I was deep in discussion with Marcus and hadn’t bothered to check.
Dad shrugs. “I won’t be here long. Just came to pick up one of my pieces to show a prospective client.”
I can’t even imagine how much my father makes his insurance company sweat. That’s one of the main reasons he comes home these days — to select a piece of jewelry usually well over the million range, and fly it with him to some far-flung part of the country to brag.
His success rate at scoring new clients is easily close to ninety percent.
“Where to this time?”
“Los Angeles. Actress.” He smiles at me then, and for a very brief moment, I’m sickened.
His wife, Natalie hasn’t even been dead five years and he’s already scouting around for fresh pussy.
But then I realize his smile isn’t roguish, it’s almost apologetic, and the bitterness inside me subsides. I drop my gaze.
He’s not cheating on my mother — he loved her as much as I did. We walked around like ghosts for close to a year after the accident. Not speaking to each other. Barely eating. If it weren’t for our staff back then, we’d probably both have died in a dusty old house, leaving nothing but skeletons and grief behind.
In the past, I used to wonder if he was one of those guys that lead multiple lives. The ones that have like two or three families. Different wives, different kids, different jobs. All would include heavy traveling, of course. Sales, consulting, that kind of thing.
Here, at the Briar’s, he’s a gemologist. Earns a pretty penny designing lux jewelry. His specialty is designs utilizing precious and semi-precious stones as their centerpieces instead of diamonds. Says they’re boring as heck, especially since they’re hardly as rare as the people buying them think they are. He even designed a necklace for one of the state senators last year.
Wouldn’t think someone like my father would have any influence over this town, but gold and jewels are revered like gods in this place. My father’s many, many connections make him a big enough deal that sending a few pretty stones someone’s way is enough to get them to look the other way.
His phone rings, and he answers it with a sedate, “Edward Briar.”
His full name is Prince Edward Briar, but my father hates the family name of Prince as much as I do.
As much as grandfather did.
And yet, every generation, the firstborn gets those unwelcome letters thrust upon him, without a say in the matter.
I can change it, of course.
But then I wouldn’t see a cent of any of my trust fund, or my inheritance.
“The meeting is at eleven,” Eddie says. “I will let you know as soon as I do.” Then the call is over, and his phone is back in his pocket.
Another prospective client, or one of his other kids?
“How long you in town for?” I head over to the fridge to grab myself a bottle of water.
“Until Sunday.”
“Wow.” I give him an appraising stare. “Almost long enough for us to have a conversation.”
I immediately regret the comment, but I refuse to apologize. Dad lets out a world-weary sigh, and then all I hear are his dress shoes taking the stairs.
Well done on keeping your temper, Briar. What does it matter anyway? Not like there’s anything he would actually enjoy talking to me about.
I snort at myself and chug down half the bottle of water.
I don’t have the mental reserve to speak to my father that night. When I wake up, the promise I made Marcus keeps repeating through my head.
I make myself a cup of coffee, hesitate, and then pour a second cup, adding cream and one sugar. Upstairs, I walk to the end of the hall and rap my knuckles on the bedroom door.
“Come.”
Soon as I’m inside his bedroom, I do a quick scan for my father. I find him on the balcony, sitting in an ornate fretwork chair reading the morning newspaper.
“Morning,” I say, putting down our coffee cups on the round table that goes with the outdoor set. His balcony is the second largest — the second-level entertainment area takes first spot — and there’s more than enough space for both of us to stretch out our legs.
The sun’s still coming up in the east, outlining the distant pines in yellow and gold.
“Sorry about last night,” I say, doing my best to make my voice sound as sincere as possible. “Was in a mood.”
“Perfectly understandable, boy your age. Hormones must be ragin
g.”
Instead of replying, I take a sip of my coffee and glance at my dad from the corner of my eye while he reads his newspaper.
Mom used to say we look like twins born two decades apart. I guess she’s kinda right — I take mostly after him.
“I, uh, I have a favor to ask.”
After I’d decided I’d speak to Dad about Marcus, Indi slipped into my mind like she’d been impatiently waiting her turn since last night.
I need to convince her about Dylan’s party. And I know no better way of buying someone’s affection than with jewelry.
“What is it?”
“Can I borrow something from your collection? On loan, of course.”
My father snaps closed his newspaper and peers at me with narrowed eyes. Then a sparkle touches his eyes. “Of course. Do you have anything specific in mind?”
I twitch my mouth into a lopsided smile. “I was kinda hoping you could help with that.”
“That’s why I get paid the big bucks.”
He brings his coffee cup with, so I bring mine too. He stores his collection inside a vault in his study. I know the combination of his study, but don’t have a fucking clue about the vault. Plus, I know he needs a key to open it too, one he wears on a chain around his neck, one I’ve never seen him without.
I don’t bother trying to watch him open the vault — there’s no way I can see anything interesting — so I run my eyes over his study instead.
A place for everything, and not a hair out of fucking place. This place is so tidy, it makes my teeth ache.
“Come on,” Edward calls out, and I trail him into the vault. It’s slightly smaller than a walk-in closet, but it sparkles like the inside of a lit-up diamond. I narrow my eyes a little and squint around, but everything looks as glittery as the last. Stones in every conceivable shape and color vie for my attention.
There should be an epileptic warning on the vault door.
“What complexion does the young lady have?”
My eyes fly to Edward and I frown warily at him.