by Sarah Andre
“I know you secretly want me to take this burden off you,” Walter said in a more compassionate tone, “but you manage the employees.”
“I know. I can do this.” I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. Of all of them, Bernice needed a salary and health benefits. And she’d told Hannah many times that working, even during the times she felt rotten, beat sitting around her house, thinking about her illness. Who would hire her now? The stomach sensation turned into noisy churning.
“I warned you against loading the staff with personal friends.”
Hannah nodded miserably. Bernice was more than a “personal friend.” She was the woman who’d swooped in to care for Hannah’s mother and her all those months. Who’d comforted Hannah when her world had crumbled. Bernice had been the catalyst in directing her into conservation and restoration in the first place, even buying a cheap painting from a flea market and showing Hannah the basics.
“It’s past time,” Walter said.
Throat thickening with unshed tears, Hannah nodded and stood. To hide her devastation, she pretended to glance at her watch as she left his office. The actual time gave her a start. She’d agreed to meet Gretch at Bakers Square for an early dinner before the eviction meeting. There was no way she could go. She needed to find somewhere to live.
Devon descended the main staircase, spying Todd and Frannie putting coats on by the front door. His sister smiled up at him. “Oh good, you’re right on time.”
He halted on the last step. “For what?”
“For Uno’s?” Todd said. “Remember you said you’d eat dinner with us?”
“Yeah.” Vaguely. “About that—”
“Aw, Dev.” Frannie slapped her hands on her hips. “You did this at breakfast!”
“I’d love to…but I have to meet the developer across town, and traffic will be a…bear.” He avoided looking at the boy’s crestfallen face.
“But this is your last night in Chicago.”
“Frannie.” He held up his palms. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” Although he was entirely to blame for this misunderstanding, the number of people needing his presence during the same hours this evening was wearing thin. “My company’s going down the drain. I just don’t have the time. I’m sorry.”
She twisted her lips into a fake smile and ruffled her son’s hair. “Well, go say good-bye to your uncle, sweetie. I’ll meet you in the car.”
Todd loped over, and Devon clapped him on the shoulder, not knowing how to say good-bye to a virtual stranger without hypocrisy or awkwardness. If only the boy had reminded him out on the patio, maybe they could’ve gone to an early dinner. “Take care, Todd.”
“I’m going to be just like you,” his nephew blurted in a low voice, and then flushed so painfully Devon winced. He squeezed the kid’s bony shoulder, and then Todd left them behind.
“Frannie, seriously. I am sorry.”
She snorted. “Forget about getting to know your nephew, forget about having one last dinner with your sister… It’s all about money and power, isn’t it?” She waved at the front door Todd had left open. “Business over family. You know what’s funny, Dev? You left us for dead, and as hard as that was for me, I understood. You ran off so you wouldn’t end up like Father. But guess what? That’s exactly who you’ve turned into.” She spun on her heel and marched stiffly toward the door.
Turned into his father? “Do me a favor, Frannie. Next time, use your fists.”
She didn’t even bother to turn around. “What next time?”
His lips had formed a reply when his cell rang. Eric. He caught his sister’s I-told-you-so sneer before the door slammed. Never let it be said his sister didn’t have strength. That mammoth door was as heavy as a vault. He hit the Talk icon. “Go.”
“What’s up with you?”
“Just the regular family shitshow. It’s amazing how they can still push your buttons.” Devon pinched the bridge of his nose. He really needed to find some aspirin.
“Got your text about Tucker and Westcott.”
“Still working on Tucker.” He shifted the phone and walked slowly over to the door, tugging it open. The taillights of his sister’s SUV faded up the tree-lined drive as he headed for his rental car. For the first time in his life, he felt old. Tired. Defeated. He was a real shit to have let his nephew down. “What about you?”
“Just got the ex-NSA guy’s findings on that chick you asked about—Honey Hartlett. I haven’t read it yet.”
Devon’s breathing stilled. “Break it down for me.” He turned the key in the ignition, waiting impatiently for Eric to pick out the meat.
“Holy shit, Dev. She was born Holly Howell. Her Honey Hartlett life is so tightly woven, Kevin said it’s foolproof for anyone making discreet inquiries.”
Devon switched to his Bluetooth earpiece and sped up the drive.
“It took him all day to pick apart one thread,” Eric said. The sound of pages turning filtered through the earpiece. “The fake ‘Honey’ was born in Houston; went to all the right private schools, Oxford for art history. Her wealth is inherited through her oil baron father, deceased four years ago.”
Devon hung a left and gunned it. He was already late to this meeting too. “And Holly?”
“Let’s see… Both are thirty years old, by the way. She didn’t lie about that. Born and raised in Fairfax, Virginia, as quite the little beauty queen. And I mean since the age of five. She won a bunch of titles, including Miss Virginia, runner-up Miss USA…went to William and Mary on a beauty pageant scholarship, where she majored in fashion merchandising and minored in art history.”
Scholarship? “What’s the source of her family’s wealth?”
“Father owns a local auto dealership.”
Devon almost missed the stop sign. “She’s not an heiress?”
“Not according to this. Upper middle-class for sure, but nothing that parallels your family.”
“Previous marriages?”
“None, although her Honey name is linked with a few wealthy men. Mostly European, nothing long-term.”
Devon rapped his fingers on the wheel, adrenalin pumping through him. “Other aliases?”
“He’s uncovered three so far,” Eric said.
“Has anyone she’s linked with ended up dead?”
Eric sighed. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
“Drop everything. I need to get to the bottom of who she is and what her plans are for my family.” He’d come to terms with his mother’s murderer never paying for the crime or cover-up. Whatever Honey had up her sleeve for Harrison was goddamn karma. But Frannie and Rick being rendered penniless was a game changer. The least he could do was save their inheritance.
“Maybe your dad bought us as a wedding gift. He’s gonna turn around and toss her this company like a dog bone.”
Devon grinned as he stopped for a light. “She strikes me as an authority on nail polish colors, not strategic marketing analyses—”
“I’m just relaying the facts. Now what?”
“Email me Kevin’s findings. You and I are gonna go on like the business is still ours. Because it is—Westcott didn’t sell his shares.”
“Are you going to confront Honey-Holly?”
Devon paused. He’d relish the confrontation but had to get out of this hellhole, fly home, and fix things with Nicole tonight, and Westcott tomorrow. “Supporting O’Callaghan is more important,” he said.
“You’re the boss.” After they hung up, Devon drove on, clenching and unclenching the wheel. He may not have time to confront Honey, but he had to tell his father. Frannie and Rick would stay in the will and continue on with their lives.
He pulled over to make the call. This conversation would take all his focus. Rick answered. “Put Harrison on the phone,” Devon ordered.
“You’d get a lot farther if you’d call him Dad.”
“Farther like you have? Have you found an apartment or a job?” He sucked a breath in the stunned silence. “I apologize. Just go get Dad,�
� he said in a monotone. The word was alien and awful, and he had the urge to spit. A minute later, Harrison’s curt voice straightened his spine—a visceral reaction since childhood. Devon shook his head in disgust. “I’ve been investigating your fiancée,” he blurted. Smooth, Dev.
“Then you’ve wasted your time. You think I’m so smitten I didn’t have her checked out?”
Perfect setup. He smiled cruelly in the flashing glow of the hazard lights. “And you found out she’s an oil baron’s daughter from Houston?”
“Of course. We even checked the father out.”
Devon leaned forward for the kill, as if he were in the same room as Harrison. “Maybe there is an oil baron with a daughter named Honey, but she isn’t your fiancée. Her fake background is nailed down tight, unless you do some creative digging.” He proceeded to spill out the facts, and then offered to forward the emailed proof that had dinged in his cell phone seconds after speaking with Eric.
When he finished, he found himself oddly out of breath. He inhaled through his mouth in the silence. Then more silence. His father had to be humiliated beyond belief. The old man had always thought of himself as virile. Receiving a clean background check on über-wealthy Honey meant she really loved him. Now the woman he’d rejected his children for was just another user. And that all this information came from the son he hated?
“Hello?” Devon finally said.
The phone line clicked. He stared open-mouthed at a streetlamp. His goddamn father had hung up on him. Of all the fu—
He grasped the earbud when he heard a distinct second click.
Chapter 12
“I canceled dinner because I’m too busy, not because I’m afraid.” Hannah stood beside Gretch outside the RP Community Center, shivering in the cool evening after such a warm day.
“You’re scratching your palms, so try again.”
“I don’t have the energy to protest.” She glanced at the slutty black boots and silver glitter leggings visible beneath Gretch’s purple faux-fur coat. “And you’re not dressed for this.”
“It’s strategic, thank you very much. If we’re taking a stand, we make it difficult for them to ignore us.”
Hannah stomach tightened. An angry mob of neighbors within that building against a greedy corporation. So much raw negativity. And she was about to march in there with a very noticeable, very fearless friend. Why make a scene? Wasn’t it easier to just accept the inevitable? Hannah gave it a last-ditch effort. “I’d rather look through more apartment listings.”
“And I promise we’ll do that right after.” Gretch linked arms and hauled her forward.
The center was a dingy clapboard structure of reddish-brown wood, adjacent to an abandoned, rusty playground. In her neighborhood, it was known as the Drug Store, a place for meth-heads, dope deals, and gangs—a place Hannah had never set foot in. She looked around, wide-eyed, at the sea of people and cacophony of voices. The strong scent of disinfectant barely masked the underlying odors of pot, urine, and God-knew-what-else.
“I have peeps saving seats for us,” Gretch said as they passed a cluster of security guards inside the entrance.
“Peeps? You don’t know anyone in my neighborhood.” They pushed their way through the standing throng at the back of the noisy room. Metal folding chairs were lined up in tight rows with an aisle down the middle, like a mock church, and the place was overly warm and humid from bodies packed so closely together. Everywhere Hannah looked, familiar and unfamiliar faces turned toward one another nodding, talking, frowning. The knot in her stomach loosened in this atmosphere of reasonable concern. It would be all right. How sad that it took a neighborhood eviction to achieve this supportive community.
“There.” Gretch elbowed her and pointed toward the front. Before Hannah saw more than a hand waving in the air, she was yanked along behind her friend, who chanted “excuse us” through the crowd. In no time, they stood at the third row. Clothing draped two empty seats, and beside them sat Sean, frowning, and Bernice, in her umber paisley headscarf. Hannah’s mouth fell open.
Gretch turned to her with a wide grin. “Surprise.”
“Where’ve you two been?” Sean snapped. “We almost had to strip down to keep these seats.” He snatched two coats, a striped sweater, a Hogwarts scarf, and a thick book off the seats. “Some very rude people in your neighborhood, Hannah.”
“What are you doing here?” For the umpteenth time today, her dumbfounded brain clocked out.
Bernice’s pale, gaunt face was wreathed in smiles. “Gretchen told us what you and Milly are going through, and we’re here to add our voices.” She stretched out a hand and Hannah leaned in and gently squeezed it. Based on the second Matisse screw-up, Bernice had had a bad day health-wise. The fact that she’d hauled herself here to support Hannah brought tears to her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered to her mother’s best friend.
“Now, none of that.” Bernice waved her to the aisle seat. “Here, I made a poster.”
“Oh God.” Hannah glanced around. No one had protest signs, and no one seemed to have a posse. “That’s not necessary,” she said, pleading to Sean, because Bernice was bent over, grabbing something underneath her seat. “Please stop her.” Sean murmured something, and Bernice straightened without the poster.
Hannah studied Sean, her too-cool-for-school employee—brilliant at restoring ancient artifacts, wit like an X-ACTO knife, but rarely giving anyone a passing notice. He couldn’t possibly be here for support. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. He wasn’t “nice” in the traditional sense. “Do you live here too?”
“Hell no.” There was the old Sean, lip curled into a dismissive snort.
“We were going to surprise you at Bakers Square until you canceled,” Gretch muttered, pushing past her. “I’m not sure why Sean thought reading was involved.” She plopped down next to him. “Kind of nerdy, if you ask me.”
“You should try it sometime, princess.”
Shushing them, Hannah took the aisle seat. War and Peace lay on his lap. Jeez. “Well, thanks for coming.” Three of her employees, who didn’t need to spend their evening this way, were patiently waiting for the meeting to start, and here she was, searching for the closest fire exit. Buck up. You don’t have to talk or yell or protest. She squirmed out of her coat in the tight space.
Sean opened his book, ignoring them; Bernice turned in her seat to people-watch; and Gretch winked. “The guy already looks scared.”
Hannah tucked her coat underneath her and turned her attention to the front of the room. A thickset man in a rumpled gray suit sat on a metal chair on a dais, clutching a mic and scanning some papers. He’d have been indistinguishable except for the dichotomy of his imposing size and the amount of fear coming off him. Sweat glistened on his broad forehead, and the pages in his hand trembled. Every few seconds, he glanced around the room, where it was obvious by the increasingly agitated tones that the crowd’s mood was growing ugly.
Undeserved empathy flooded through Hannah. He was the enemy! But she couldn’t help putting herself in his place—on stage in front of an angry mob. She shuddered. The overly warm room was stifling and she huffed out a breath, fanning herself.
He cleared his throat and stood with the reluctance of a prisoner about to head to his execution. “Excuse me,” he said into the microphone, which squealed. A collective groan went up, along with a few muttered curses. “Sorry. May I have everyone’s attention?” At once the crowd fell silent, and he darted an uneasy look around. His chest rose and fell rapidly under the suit jacket. “I, uh, appreciate everyone coming out here tonight, and apologize for our late start. I’ve been wai—”
“Just get on with it!” a man shouted from the back. Murmurs rose.
He cleared his throat again, and the noise died back down. “Anyway.” With a frown, he straightened his shoulders and read from the papers. “Allow me to introduce myself, as I know you have concerns—”
“That’s right we have concerns,” a wom
an shrieked nearby. Hannah flinched. “And you better lawyer up, mister. This has class-action suit written all over it, no doubt about it!”
Shouts of agreement erupted. Over the noise, Sean chuckled, muttering, “No. It doesn’t.”
Did he know something about property law? Was that why Gretch brought him? Hannah searched her memory for his résumé details, but brain fatigue rolled in like fog. Her food intake had consisted of half an English muffin for breakfast, a lunch with Devon she’d barely choked down, and skipping dinner to tour one apartment. She was tired and dizzy and just wanted this to be over.
“Please.” The sweaty man held up a palm. “I’d appreciate it if you held all your questions and comments until we’ve had a chance to present our offer.”
Gretch glanced around. “We?”
“It’s the royal ‘we.’ You should recognize that,” Sean murmured then grunted at the elbow sinking into his side.
Hannah shushed them again. Were they dating, and her best friend hadn’t told her? She frowned at Gretch, who simply shrugged. Bernice was talking to an Indian woman on her other side. “…I shop there.” How could Walter want to fire her? This generous woman who’d given so much of herself to Hannah, who struck up conversations with total strangers and never complained about the pain and sickness—God knew she must hurt something awful. Yet here she was.
“Oh…” The man’s expression of relief seemed so sudden and out of character the room quieted, although the silence remained heavy with anger and suspicion. He spoke to someone at the back. “I was afraid you’d canceled…”
Behind Hannah, bodies shuffled and footsteps rang aggressively down the aisle. She was too tired to turn in her seat, but Gretch squeezed around and sighed her approval. “Mmmm, evict me, hottie,” she murmured. “After you’ve given me all I can take.”
“Gretch!”
He strode past their aisle, and Hannah wearily glanced up at the well-defined back in a fitted black sweater and charcoal slacks. His raven hair was a bit too long and newly finger-raked. “Oh, dear God,” she breathed, filled with that combustible mix of boiling hot and freezing cold from this morning.
