by Sarah Andre
Soon, they were close enough for everyone to hear. The underlying panic was still plain in Devon’s voice. “It’s imperative I leave at once. I can be available by phone. I can return in a few days.”
The detective halted near Hannah and stared at Devon intently.
“Don’t let him leave Chicago, Sergeant,” Harrison growled. “You’ll never see him again.”
“You’d love for me to stay—a hostile takeover would be so much easier if I’m tied up with the police. Hell, maybe that’s your strategy. Kill her and frame me.”
Harrison surged forward, swinging wildly. The sergeant plowed between them, arms spread. Out of nowhere, a handful of officers sped past her toward the threesome, soles slapping the marble, leather holsters creaking. The scuffle was over as fast as it started. Oddly, the detective remained as still as a panther, absorbing every detail of the interaction.
“You bastard,” Harrison spat. “If you’re so desperate to leave, it’ll be my sole purpose on Earth to make sure you stay. Sergeant, I’m pressing charges for whatever it is he stole.”
The sergeant glanced at the detective, clearly seeking help. Time seemed to hover as they somehow communicated without speaking. The sergeant turned to Devon. “I’m sorry, son. I’ll need you to come to the station.”
Alarm flashed across Devon’s face. “I didn’t take anything.”
“You’re not under arrest. I’ll finish questioning you off-property.”
“I want him arrested,” Harrison ordered, hands still fisted.
“That decision is not up to you,” the detective said quietly.
Harrison swung around and glared at the man like this would be his last day on the job. Standing so close to the detective, Hannah’s skin seemed to shrink in the effort to turn invisible.
As Devon was led out the door, his gaze latched on to her. Instantly, his mouth softened and he double blinked. Back in the day, it used to be his special Morse code to reassure her of his utter indifference in the face of serious trouble. Not once had she ever believed the bravado. She squeezed her clammy fingers together as he walked out the door, posture ramrod straight, head held high.
Chapter 19
An hour later, Devon fingered the carved obscenity on the wood table for the hundredth time. On the way to the Winnetka PD, he’d considered calling a lawyer, just to expedite this waste of time, but Sergeant Wilson had assured him he was free to go, once he answered the same routine questions he’d have been asked back at the mansion. Halting the process while they waited for a lawyer would be more time wasted, so Devon cooperated and kept his replies to a bare minimum. Anything to get the hell on a plane.
The door opened, and he snapped to attention as the sergeant re-entered, holding a file. “Why am I still here? I answered your questions.”
“You still haven’t told us what you were doing at two in the morning that pertained to returning an item.”
Devon clamped down on the urge to blurt out his nephew’s name and be done with this shit. During the ride downtown, he’d called Francine to get her permission to revoke his promise, but she hadn’t answered. Had he been facing jail time, all bets would have been off, but despite his need to get to Manhattan, hanging out at the PD answering the same questions over and over didn’t qualify as enough of a reason to rat out her secret. He’d never forgive himself. “It has nothing to do with Honey’s death or my father or his possessions. It was a personal reason. I’m not discussing it further.”
“How well did you know Ms. Hartlett?”
Seriously? You guys didn’t understand me the other twelve times? “I met her for the first time Thursday evening,” he answered tonelessly.
“Was there any animosity between you?”
Was instant distrust animosity? Was finding out she was a fraud after his siblings’ inheritance animosity? “No, sir.”
“There were two maids—”
“They misunderstood.”
The sergeant paused. “Your father was about to marry her next week and disinherit the lot of you.”
Devon raised a brow. Guess the police had been digging while he’d sat here with his thumb up his ass. “My father disinherited me when I was eighteen, Sergeant. As for my brother and sister, I have to think their resentment was directed more at my father than Honey.”
“What about your nephew?”
His muscles went rigid. “What about him?” he snapped.
“What was his relationship with Miss Hartlett?”
He raised his hands and let them thunk back on the table. “I haven’t seen my family in twelve years. I can’t answer these questions.” Christ, if they were throwing Todd in the mix, he’d have no choice but to give up Frannie’s secret to establish his nephew’s alibi. He rubbed the tension in his jaw. “Why would an eleven-year-old have anything to do with this?”
The door reopened. A cop young enough to be in high school headed straight for Sergeant Wilson and handed over a single sheet of paper. “Definitely homicide, sir—perp’s skin was found under her fingernails,” he whispered, but Devon heard it as if it’d been shouted.
Shit. Ricky’s damn scratch! Although Harrison had never taken off his overcoat after Joseph told him the news. Devon watched the sergeant for any facial cues, but got nothing.
After reading the sheet for what seemed like an eternity, the sergeant nodded and stuck it in the file. He turned to Devon. “Are you willing to give us a DNA sample?”
He’d seen enough police procedural shows. “You’ll need a warrant.”
Sergeant Wilson nodded slowly. “Yes, which is why I said ‘willing.’ Since you want to head out of town, it would work in your favor to let us swab your cheek before you leave the station.”
It wasn’t worth arguing further. He hadn’t killed Honey and hadn’t given up Francine’s secret. Devon screeched the metal chair away from the table and stood stiffly. Once he gave the requisite swab and found the nearest urinal, he headed out into the afternoon and ordered an Uber.
As the car headed to the mansion, Devon finally pulled up his voicemail. The first was from Nicole, recorded shortly after he’d hung up on her this morning. “It’s over, pal. Ring’s in the mail.”
Devon pressed End and stared out the window. Lake Michigan glinted flat and gray far into the horizon. When he’d walked away from Hannah, it felt as though slivers of glass were lodged in his throat. The entire Greyhound ride, his chest had hurt like a boulder sat on it. That boulder had taken so long to disappear. So fucking long. He waited for the excruciating pressure to come again.
Nothing happened. Probably because he was older now, more in control. And also because Nicole hadn’t reacted like Hannah. A detonating nuclear warhead wouldn’t cause Nicole to mimic Hannah’s devastation.
He knew his fiancée—uh, ex. Groveling or do-overs had the opposite effect. He had to strategize how to negotiate their make up before he called her. She’d listen to facts and reason, not emotional pleas and familial excuses. But frankly, the facts sucked. There was a high probability he’d lose his company, and likely his trust fund. He’d just supplied a DNA sample to rule him out as a murder suspect, and had somehow become ensnared in the epicenter of a combustible family drama.
He studied the gray sky. Her seven words replayed in his head, almost lyrically. No anger. No drama. No resonance in her voice like she was crying… That was so Nicole. The monotone could’ve been the weather report in the Big Apple: Sunny and breezy, high of seventy. Pal.
Maybe he was in shock, like how a car accident victim got up and wandered around the scene while blood gushed from his head. It had to be shock. He literally felt nothing except curiosity. Hanging up on her didn’t warrant breaking off the engagement. It guaranteed a hellish backlash the next time they spoke, but canceling the wedding was too dramatic. And Nicole didn’t do drama. Had Tucker convinced her the brilliant future she dreamed of could never be attained with a disinherited son, clawing his company from Wickham Corporation’s clutches?
He reluctantly raised the phone and punched the next message, from Eric. “The meeting was a no-go. Westcott saw me across the dining room and left immediately. I even followed him to the parking lot. All he said was, ‘If the CEO can’t be bothered to get his ass in here, that’s all I need to know about your company.’ I don’t know what we’re gonna do from here, Dev. Call me.”
Devon cut the call and tossed the phone on the seat beside him. He leaned against the headrest, weary resignation washing over him. Choosing Frannie and Todd’s future had killed his own. The glorious life he’d worked like a demented man to achieve lay in ruins at his feet. On Monday, he’d lose his company to his father.
No. He wasn’t going down this easily. He may have seriously messed up any arbitration strategy with his father this morning, but the pressing need to return to Manhattan was gone. If he stayed here, there was a glimmer of a chance he could get his father to listen to him. To find out the motivation behind the takeover. Devon straightened in his seat, inspiration pushing out the defeatist attitude. Time to jump back into the fray.
As he scrolled for Westcott’s number, he told the driver, “I’ve changed my mind. Take me to the Drake Hotel.” He didn’t need to stop for his overnight bag. The hotel would supply toiletries, and he was wearing the only set of clothes besides the suit he’d worn on Thursday night. It was high time to buy something that didn’t make him look as wrinkled as Rick.
He’d give Harrison some space. Tomorrow he’d have a better chance at rational conversation and get to the bottom of this. Rogers Park clearly had something to do with this sudden attack. But then again, the cryptic word Bryant still nudged something deep in his memory.
“Nicole called off the wedding,” Devon said into the mouthpiece, rattling the ice in his whisky for emphasis. “Won’t answer my calls or texts.”
Eric grunted. In the prolonged silence, Devon shifted on the hotel bed so his back was up against the headboard. He waited for the outrage, the platitudes, even a blistering insult about his ex-fiancée… Nothing. “That’s it?” he asked in disbelief.
“We’re going to have to do some heavy brown-nosing to keep Tucker onboard.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“What?”
Eric sounded genuinely confused, which ratcheted up Devon’s irritation. He gestured with his drink as if his cousin were in the room. “Shouldn’t a buddy say something comforting right about now?”
“I would if I thought you were upset.”
Tension pulsed through him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Aw, never mind.” Eric sighed impatiently. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“No. Say whatever it is, goddamn it!”
In the prolonged pause, Devon wiped the condensation off the glass with his thumb; his jaw clenching and unclenching.
“I’ve said it all before,” Eric finally answered. “I saw it coming, and I don’t think it’s the end of the world, except for how it’ll impact our company. And I’d bet a Benjamin you think so too.”
Devon let the silence lengthen while he nursed the sting of the words. He hated it when his cousin saw past his bullshit to the shallow man inside. He slammed back the last of the whisky, savoring the burn in his throat. He thunked the glass down on the nightstand, hard.
“Are you saying I’m wrong?” Eric asked. “Do I need to alert the Chicago authorities a heartbroken man is locked in his hotel room about to harm himself in some way?”
Devon didn’t answer. He wouldn’t compound his superficiality with lies. He wasn’t heartbroken. The honest-to-God truth? For some reason, he felt lighter and freer than he had in a long, long time. It didn’t make sense.
Nicole embodied everything he wanted for his future. She was success-driven and results-oriented, and she didn’t stand for drama or emotions. You knew where you stood with her. Until now. Somehow in the last two days, he’d turned into a hothead who’d descended right into the middle of this circus. He never behaved this way in Manhattan, and without the benefit of the doubt, she’d wrapped a tourniquet around their love. But he wasn’t this Chicago person, and he wasn’t one to give up when options were still on the table. “Once I solve this thing with Harrison and get back home, I’ll dog her until she listens to reason.”
“That’s so fucking cold I have no words.”
Devon stiffened. “How so?”
“First, it’s called apologizing, not listening to reason.”
He ignored the condescending tone. “Not with Nicole. But if you’re going to get hung up on semantics… I’ll apologize. Grovel.”
“You’re only groveling to keep Daddy in Ashby Enterprises. I don’t think you ever wanted to marry her. You’re so fucked up on how you deal with women, dude. You treat them like they’re business deals. Seriously, you should be on one of those talk shows where the audience gets to boo and throw things at you.”
“Says the man who rarely goes out on a second date.”
Eric snorted. “I ain’t ashamed of that stat. I just haven’t found the woman who’ll keep me intrigued—”
Hannah popped into Devon’s mind. Instinctively he tried to substitute Nicole—she was the one he wanted—but Hannah remained. Specifically the ah-ha look on her face when he’d glanced out the office window this morning. As if she’d finally understood something…or recognized something. And even though whatever it was couldn’t be good, there’d been no derision. Devon snapped back to attention at his cousin’s raised voice.
“—or can get through an evening without endlessly yakking about herself, or taking selfies, or Tweeting every fucking thought. Just once I’d like to meet someone who’s halfway interested in me.”
“We shadowboxed around every subject about you. You’ve never been able to communicate, Devon.”
He expelled a long breath and debated grabbing another whisky out of the minibar. “Talk to me about Westcott, besides your cryptic ‘no-go’ text.”
“There’s nothing more to say. He’s a write-off.”
“I left him a message at three this morning letting him know I couldn’t make it. I tried to call him twice after I left the police station. I’ll keep trying. I know I can sway him.”
“Doubtful, Dev. You should’ve seen his face.”
He knocked his head against the headboard several times, hoping to shake loose a foolproof idea. Nothing. “I have to try. How else can we hold the majority of shares?”
“Go ahead. Anything to keep the company.” Eric let out a harsh sigh. “Things are so fucked up.”
“What did you find out about Rogers Park?”
“Nothing to explain why your father would steal your company to get his hands on it. Sounds to me like this really is paternal revenge.”
Devon shook his head, frustration flooding through him. “Doesn’t wash.”
His cousin sighed. “I knew you’d say that. I already told Kevin to keep digging. I’ll check email again when we’re off.”
“Take a break.” Devon tried to lighten his tone. “Any hot plans?”
“Still at the office.”
“On a Saturday night?”
“This from the man drinking alone in his hotel room.” They shared a bitter laugh and hung up.
Devon immediately dialed Westcott, not expecting an answer and not getting one.
He disconnected the call, tossed the phone on the bed, and scrubbed his face. He was finally moving through the numbness. Disgust and self-loathing threatened to drown him in a black rage. He’d chosen family over business, and look where it’d gotten him. Hell, each decision at every turn was catastrophically wrong—starting with c
oming to the damn birthday party in the first place.
He gazed around the quiet, luxurious room, then down at his watch. Just after nine. The night stretched endless and bleak before him. He swung his legs off the bed. Damn if he’d sit here drinking minibar whisky and playing the “if only” game. He needed to fix this shitstorm.
Chapter 20
“What about this one?” Hannah swiped her cell phone screen and showed her great-aunt another picture. “Two bedrooms, one bath, a living room, and kitchenette. Exactly what we have now. It’s perfectly adequate, and the neighbors seemed quiet.”
“Those walls are dreary.”
“We can paint them.”
“Humph. Next.”
Mentally rolling her eyes, Hannah read off the next description and swiped to the corresponding pictures. Her aunt stopped petting Boots to squint at the screen for a long moment. The oxygen tank hissed steadily at her side. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Next.”
“But it’s five minutes away. You could still go to North Shore Baptist Church and lunch with the girls at Svea’s.”
Aunt Milly shook her head. “Next.”
Hannah slumped in defeat. “These were the only two I toured.” After the morning from hell, she’d banged these out and gone to the office to fix the Matisse. It was after nine o’clock, and the only part of the day she’d enjoyed had been luxuriating in the bath half an hour ago.
Aunt Milly patted her hand. “We’ll find a place.” She adjusted her nasal tubing and peered at the tank. “Is this thing on? I feel breathless.”
“It’s working fine.” Hannah didn’t look up from the cell phone. “I think we’re both just nervous about moving.” She clicked out of her photo files and the apartment-finder app and checked her email, skimming through listings Gretch had searched. The first two were in sketchier neighborhoods than this one. The next five were more than they could afford.
As much as her aunt’s stubbornness drove her crazy, a secret part of Hannah agreed with her. These places were a lateral move, and she couldn’t bear the thought of living on the fringes of safety anymore: the late-night sirens, the gunshots in the distance—infrequent, but still.
