by J. C. Reed
Page 8
“What are you saying?” I asked, shocked. “You think it wasn’t an accident?”
“No, Brooke, it wasn’t. ” He glanced back to me with so much anger I flinched. “A boat doesn’t blow up. He would’ve noticed a fire and called for help. Maybe whoever did this shot him first before setting fire to get rid of any evidence. It was arson, I’m sure of that. ”
I didn’t know what was more frightening: that I had never seen him so upset, or the fact there wasn’t a single thing I could do to help him. I regarded Jett’s angry face, afraid of his next move. Afraid of what this could mean for us.
Seconds passed, which turned into minutes, and Jett didn’t budge from the spot.
“Fuck!” Jett mumbled.
“I wish there was something I could do,” I whispered.
“There isn’t. ” His tone softened, and for a moment the anger in his voice disappeared, only to come back directed at himself. “I should have known. ”
I shook my head in confusion, unable to follow his changes in mood. “Known what?”
His eyes glazed over, lost in thoughts. He walked back to the couch and sat down. Another minute passed, and no reply came.
“What makes you think he was killed, Jett?” I asked cautiously. “Your brother would have said something. The police would be all over it. ”
“Do you remember the five people on the list?” he asked.
I nodded, thinking back to the little black book we had found in Alessandro’s basement. Jett had mentioned five names, and one of them was Robert Mayfield.
“I think that was a hit list,” Jett continued in a tone that made shiver.
I sat down next to him on the couch, watching him in silence, as his words slowly sank in.
“There’s no way the five names were the only club members. It’s impossible. My father said—” Jett’s voice faltered with emotion “—he said there were seventy-eight members before he left. Maybe the other four decided to opt out as well. ”
“You think he was killed because he wanted out?” I asked needlessly. I hadn’t seen this perspective before and it certainly didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense to me, but I couldn’t rule it out. A club like that probably thrived on wealthy members and their dedication for life. Maybe someone had taken the “silence to the grave” oath a little too literally. Possible. I thought back to Jett’s words.
I don’t think your way is the way they’re working. They’re not as peaceful.
Even I had known at that point that no one was let in easily, and definitely not out with a mere handshake.
“My father said it was a mistake to join the club,” Jett said. “They probably wanted to get rid of him. If I had mentioned the book and the list, I could have prevented his death. I know he would have listened to me. ” His voice sounded choked. “I would have been able to save his life. ”
“No, Jett. ” I shook my head, my heart hurting because Jett blamed himself.
“Don’t think like that,” I whispered and shook my head again, my hand clutching at his arm to force him to listen to me. His eyes bored into me and for the first time his anger wasn’t directed at himself, but at me.
“But it’s the truth. The fucking truth, Brooke. Why won’t you accept that I made a mistake?”
Chapter 7
LIFE HAS A way of throwing everything around. Sometimes I couldn’t stop the feeling that we were all trapped inside a cup called life, and like dice shaken around and thrown out. Ready to be tested and played. Ready to risk and face the unthinkable. Ready to lose and get hurt. And it didn’t matter how high the social status was or how much money a person had, it could affect everyone, anytime and anywhere. We were all at the mercy of the shaking cup called life.
Watching the various emotions crossing Jett’s features, I realized how much I loved him and that I’d do anything for him. However, whatever I did or said, there was no recipe for taking away the pain. Nothing to ease his mind or guilt. Nothing to rid his conscience of the demons haunting him. As much as I loved him, love was not enough to release him from the guilt he’d probably carry with him for the rest of his life. It was as if guilt had become his companion and I had become his shadow—one trying to heal him and the other causing as much havoc as possible. And I knew all about guilt and the dirty tricks it played so it could haunt you forever.
The moment Jett found out about his father’s death, I felt him distancing himself from me. We packed up quickly and drove back to his apartment in freezing silence. The moment he unlocked the door, I felt like an intruder in his world.
“Gotta go to work,” Jett mumbled, and disappeared again, leaving me alone in the perfection of his place.
“Okay,” I said weakly, but he was gone already.
Work had to be an excuse to bury himself in his grief—or why else would he leave without giving me a kiss goodbye? That night he didn’t come home. And the following night, he was there with me and yet not there. Listened to me, and yet none of my words reached him through the shield he had built around himself. I knew this would happen. I almost expected it. What I didn’t expect was for him to shut me out of his world. To not let me get close, refusing to talk, refusing to listen. He had become emotionally distant and at times unavailable, but the worst was that I could feel him changing.
It was as if guilt had created an invisible barrier that began to separate us, harming our relationship, his playful nature replaced by something that scared the hell out of me. Like sickness, leaving a bitter aftertaste in its wake.
With each day, the walls grew higher, distancing him from me. And no matter how hard I pounded and shook at the gates, they seemed to be stronger than I, my love for him, or anything that used to matter to him.
Maybe I hadn’t known him as well as I thought I did. The silence and determined continuation of his rituals consisting of nothing but work and sleeping was his way of coping. However, the way he was shutting me out—physically and emotionally—made me feel as though he was shutting me out in his heart, too.
I preferred tears. They were good. They would purify, cleanse, and help him heal. I preferred anger because it would draw out the poison of guilt. But they never came. I wanted an outburst; I wanted something to show me that he wasn’t too broken to heal, the way my mother had been after my father’s death: motionless, her body living and breathing, but her soul dead within the physical carcass of herself. That was a lot worse than the anger I wanted Jett to let loose so he could eventually move on.
With Robert Mayfield dead, my thoughts kept circling back to the break-in, the black book, and Alessandro Lucazzone. I could feel the connection, and it scared me. Maybe someone had panicked, and our discoveries were the reason why Jett’s father was murdered in the first place. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that if Jett and I had never begun to date, we would never have broken through the wall and found the black book that was so important people were ready to kill for it.
“That’s why secrets should stay buried forever,” I muttered to myself as I slipped into a demure black dress for Robert Mayfield’s funeral.
If Jett heard me, he didn’t reply.
I drew in a shaky breath and closed my eyes to get rid of the stinging sensation as a new thought entered my mind.
How terrible would it be if not Jett but I were to blame for his father’s death?
Chapter 8
THE SKY RESEMBLED a looming dark pit carrying the heavy promise of rain. A strong gust of wind tugged at my black dress, its cold caress keeping me strangely grounded and reminding me that amidst all the graves we were alive, continuing to swim in the river called life while the rest would be soon forgotten, whether we wanted it or not.
I glanced at Jett who was standing in front of Robert Mayfield’s grave, his eyes focused on a spot on the horizon only he could see. The people around us listened to the reverend’s empty words in silence. A few were crying, their souls tormented by the loss of someone the
y believed to have known. Most of them barely blinked, locked in a state of memories and self-reflection, their minds full of promises to re-evaluate their own life and make it better. I knew because I had been one of them after my sister and father died. I could see it in the mourners’ guilty expressions and the determination in their eyes. I also knew from experience that whatever promises they made to themselves would rarely last. In the end, the stupid things we did didn’t matter anyway; what mattered was appreciating the people in our life, spending enough time with them.
Material belongings always waste away, while memories never fade.
I blinked away the tears gathering at the corner of my eyes and peered around me. I’d never seen so many people at one funeral. Then again, I had never been rich or famous, while Jett’s father had been both.
The drive to the funeral service was short and silent. By the time we reached the penthouse Jett’s father had inhabited during his stays in New York, hundreds of people had already gathered and more were flooding in by the minute, all hurrying to offer Jett their condolences.
I listened to countless speeches, all praising Robert Mayfield as a good man who had brought many great changes to those who had entered his life. I listened to recalled fond memories while my gaze brushed the pictures on the walls and mantelpiece. Most were hidden behind countless flower bouquets and goodbye letters, but a few stood out—mostly of Robert Mayfield and women. One or two showed him with two young boys I assumed were Jett and Jonathan, and it made me wonder how many of the funeral visitors actually knew the kind of man Robert Mayfield had been hiding behind the façade of normality and perfection.
Biting my lip hard, I peered at Jett’s stony expression and the hardness in his eyes, and I recalled the way he had known his father. As a hard man. As a terrible role model who neither acknowledged his mistakes nor apologized. But no one seemed to want to mention any of that.
“Will you stay here? I have to see some people,” Jett said, jerking me out of my thoughts.
“Sure. I’ll go check out the buffet. ” I pointed in the direction of the open-plan kitchen area, which I had spied upon entering. The large assortment of finger food would have done a wedding reception justice. “Want anything?”
Jett shook his head. “I’m okay. ” He shot me a tender smile, and then he was gone.
I walked over to the buffet and grabbed a plate, then got in line, unable to decide whether to get the oysters or the salmon rolls. Everything looked delicious, and the baby inside me knew it.
“You’re Brooke, right?” A voice behind me startled me. I turned sharply to regard a tall guy with dark hair and blue eyes. The first thing I noticed about him was the tailored black designer suit; the second was the confidence in his eyes. His lips were curved into just a hint of a friendly smile—not too much and not too little, given the circumstances.
“Yes. ” I nodded. “And you are?”
“I’m Jonathan, Jett’s brother. Call me Nate. Everyone does. ” He shook my hand. “Jett’s told me everything about you. ”
