by Sarah Andre
“I don’t think this is such a hot—”
“Come on, Hannah, don’t be a scaredy-cat.” She laughed, the sound distorting in the tight stairwell.
Hannah glanced furtively down the long hall she’d come from, one of many she’d have to negotiate in darkness to try to find her way back to Devon. And using the intermittent lightning to find her way through the maze was just as terrifying. She turned back with a sigh and descended the first step after Frannie and the dancing beam. They spiraled once, and the second-floor threshold disappeared; they were truly inside a descending tunnel now. Hannah’s mouth dried up, and she all but piggybacked the other woman. She concentrated on the narrow beam and her breathing and the fact that each footstep brought her closer to the kitchen. Even the roaring surf and thunder seemed far away in here—muted, buried. She squeezed her hands into fists.
Frannie stopped abruptly, and Hannah flashed on some scenario where she’d say, “We’re trapped,” or “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” A scream lodged in her throat.
“This is the servants’ door,” Frannie said. She waved the beam across a worn door blending into the wooden wall. “In my grandparents’ day, the help lived here. It’s the only entrance to their quarters.” Hannah managed a squeak of interest. “Once in a while, I go and sit in one of the empty bedrooms. I crave the silence.”
“Where does Joseph live?” Hannah asked, not caring a flying fig, but hearing her voice, even quivering, lent a speck of normalcy. Two friends wandering to the kitchen for tea. Yeah, that’s all this was.
“He and Mrs. Farlow live up the driveway a bit, past the garages.” They continued circling down, and Hannah breathed faster. The oxygen seemed thinner now. They should have reached the ground floor long ago. Frannie hummed under her breath, and Hannah choked on her hysteria until one final turn dumped them out into the enormous kitchen, shadowed in the flashlight’s beam, then lit like the Fourth of July by a split of lightning. The clear crack of thunder was the most comforting sound Hannah had heard in ages. Her chest loosened, and she sucked in several gulps of air.
“Have a seat over there.” Frannie pointed to barstools under the enormous marble-covered island. “Do you have a tea preference?”
“Whatever you’re having.” Her rock-steady tone surprised the hell out of her. Perspiration made her sweater cling to her back.
Frannie turned on the burner, and a burst of blue flame ignited beneath an old-fashioned aluminum kettle. She disappeared into the walk-in pantry, where her humming sounded discordant.
But at least they were in the kitchen. Hannah rubbed the goose bumps underneath her sweater. If only she’d found her cell phone, she could call or text Devon. He was probably looking for her now. And when he found her, he’d take her back to the Drake. Probably any minute.
Frannie placed a box of tea on the island, and Hannah consciously unclenched her shoulders and fists. “May I help with anything?”
“Nope. Water will be ready in a jiffy.” Francine claimed the next stool and stood the flashlight on its end, lighting the ceiling.
Hannah tried to smile. What was wrong with her? This would be a perfectly normal half-hour if the sun shone or the electricity worked. “When, uh…do you think the service will be over?”
“No clue. It’s an open house. By the way, I didn’t want to say anything before, but since we’ll probably be here when people start returning, your sweater is on inside-out.”
“Jeez…” Hannah blushed and fingered the wool blend. Should she whip it off right now? Nah. If the lights came back on, she’d go into the pantry.
“You do know my brother is engaged?”
Hannah stiffened at the accusing tone. Frannie must not know the engagement was off, but even so, it was none of her business. “Well…” She lapsed into silence.
“Well what? It’s a yes-or-no question.”
Hannah rubbed damp palms on her pants and glanced at the kettle. The blue flames licked around the sides of the pot, and the water hissed in pre-boil. “I think their plans have changed. You’ll have to ask him.”
Frannie’s eyes flared wildly, and for a second, she looked deranged. “He would’ve told me.”
There was no way Hannah was gossiping about this. “I think it’s very recent. He may not have seen you.”
“He was with me most of this morning.”
At her shrill tone, Hannah wanted to slap herself. This woman was on medication; she’d just relived her mother’s death; her husband had been publically caught having an affair. Hannah veered into her childhood instinct. When Mom had gone into those dark moods, anything she’d said would be taken wrong. The solution was not talking. She spread her hands. “I’m sure he’s looking for me right now. He’ll tell you soon.”
“So, you moved right in to fill the empty space.”
It was an accusation, not a question. Hannah frowned. Get her off this subject. “Is everything all right, Frannie?”
“He’ll go back to New York and leave you again. Leave me.”
Hannah waited for the stab in her heart to subside. Of course he would. What happened upstairs was just what she’d expected. Sex without a relationship. She inhaled unsteadily. “Probably.”
“You don’t seem too upset for someone who adores him like I do.”
“I’m just facing reality, Frannie.”
“You don’t know the first thing about facing reality.”
Hannah bit the inside of her cheek. Everything you say will egg her on. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
Frannie huffed out a breath and stared fixedly at a point over her shoulder, almost trancelike. Except for the torrential patter of rain and rattling windows, the silence between them was fraught with hostility.
At the end of an eternity, the kettle whistled. Frannie slid off her stool, and when her back was turned, Hannah wiped the perspiration from her lip. She’d be better off negotiating this house in the inky blackness than drinking a beverage she didn’t like with a woman who reminded her of Mom at her worst. Hannah straightened. She knew the way to the main stairs from here. As she opened her mouth to cancel her cup of tea, the hair pricked up the back of her neck. Although the storm raged loudly, Frannie was muttering to herself. The only words Hannah made out were “stupid slut.” The kettle clanked back onto the burner, and cups rattled on the saucers.
Well, shit. She wasn’t going to sit here and be insulted. She jumped off the stool just as Frannie turned with the filled cups. She shrieked at Hannah’s abrupt movement; the teacups slipped from her grasp. China shattered, and boiling water splashed the tiles and her sweatpants. Another ear-piercing shriek, as water saturated the fabric. Frannie stared at the mess and slapped her hands over her mouth, oddly resembling a little girl. Her overly large sweatshirt sleeves slid to her elbows and Hannah gasped. Long scratches ran down Frannie’s left forearm. Devon had given a DNA swab because of skin found under Honey’s nails. Hannah’s heart drummed so fast she couldn’t catch her breath.
Frannie lowered her arms and kicked at the wreckage. She didn’t seem to realize what she’d just exposed. “You startled me.” Her voice was an accusing shrill. That creepy, vacant stare returned. “Look what you’ve done.”
I didn’t do it. Lightning blinded Hannah. She should leave. Call out to Devon. Surely he’d heard the screams. “I was about to excuse myself.” Her mouth was so dry, it was a wonder the words came out intelligibly. “I don’t want tea anymore. I’m going to find Devon.” She pointed at the doors that led to the dining room. “He’ll help us clean up.”
“I can’t be alone when I get like this.”
“Like what?” A metallic taste coated Hannah’s mouth.
“When I’m not right.”
“You’re all right, Frannie.” To get the itchy palms to stop, she added a bit of truth: “You just called me a stupid slut. I’d say you’re fine.”
“I said that about Honey.”
“Honey’s not here.” Hannah’s knees trembled so badly
she gripped the corner of the island.
Tears spilled out of Frannie’s eyes, the same beautiful blue as Devon’s, but as fragile as the teacups on the floor. “Don’t leave me.”
Hannah shivered. “I…I’ll stay a little longer. Take some deep breaths.” All she had to do was make light conversation and babysit until Devon came to see what all the noise was about. Then she’d figure out a way to show him the gouges his sister hid under the thick sweatshirt. And maybe there was a perfectly good explanation. Frannie was unbalanced, but she seemed too wrapped up in her own problems to murder her father’s fiancée. Hannah breathed calmly for the first time in minutes. She was reading way too much into all of this because of the whole creepiness factor.
“He didn’t love me enough,” Frannie mumbled, wiping her eyes on the cuffed sleeve. “No one does. And then fucking Honey walks into our lives…”
Sympathy flooded Hannah. “Your father would still love you if he’d married Honey,” she said in the soothing voice she’d used to calm Mom in the bipolar lows and Aunt Milly during her anxiety attacks. “Honey could never have taken that.”
The shrill laughter made her step back. The ping-pong moods were too much. “I’m not talking about my father. She was fucking my husband!” Frannie shrieked. “I saw them through the window when I was looking for Todd. She was going to marry my father, take my inheritance, my husband, and my son!”
“How could Honey have possibly known your husband?” Her voice sounded way too high.
“I found out she met him on a website guaranteeing discreet affairs with married men. Only she blackmailed them. Instead of giving her money, Brady turned her on to a bigger fish. Within six weeks, my father proposed.”
Hannah bit her lip. Were these hallucinations? Fabrications? The story was so bizarre. “Did you…tell your father?”
“Punishing her was more important.”
Fresh horror skittered down Hannah’s spine. Where Honey had been tall and slim, Frannie had wiry strength. A fact Devon used to point out in high school. Never underestimate my sister. She may look fragile, but she’s faster than me and probably just as strong.
“You think I killed her,” Frannie said softly.
Hannah choked back a scream. Pretending to toss the mess of hair off her shoulders, she cast about the kitchen. A rolling pin was two feet away on the counter. She eased to the side. “Did you?” The squeak was so high, even she didn’t hear it over the storm.
Frannie tilted her head, smiling. Only the smile was cold and calculated.
Hannah folded her arms nonchalantly, her fists clenched. She eased another step to the side.
“You’ll never make it to the rolling pin, Hannah. Sit back down. I’ll make us more tea.”
The swinging door to the dining room pushed inward. Joseph strode in with an industrial-strength flashlight, his white hair and black raincoat sopping. He paused in surprise when he spotted them. “Miss Francine. Miss Moore.”
“I don’t think Frannie is well,” Hannah blurted, taking the final step and resting her hand on the rolling pin. “I think she stopped taking her meds a few days ago.”
“Nonsense.” Frannie waved a hand, and by God if she didn’t look perfectly normal as she smiled up at the old man. “We were about to have tea.” She raised an eyebrow at Hannah. “Right?”
Joseph gazed from one to the other, and then took in the watery shards littering the tiles.
Devon’s voice shouting for her filtered through the storm. It gave Hannah the backbone she needed. “I think she pushed Honey.”
Said aloud, the terror of the last half-hour crushed her. The adrenaline dump turned to bile in her throat. She trembled like an old woman, and her limbs tingled. It didn’t matter. She was safe, and Joseph could take it from here. She let go of the rolling pin as the stoic carriage of the unflappable butler crumbled before her.
“Oh, Frannie,” he said, sounding achingly old. “What have you done?”
Chapter 28
Devon pivoted at the quick footsteps. “Oh, it’s you.” He palmed the erratically flickering candles.
“I was in the kitchen.” Frannie thumbed the dining room doors she’d just walked through. “Thought I heard you shouting.” Her voice echoed hollowly around the foyer.
“Christ, it’s like wandering around a haunted house. Where is everybody?”
“Wake. I couldn’t face it, so Ricky took Todd. Nice shirt. Is that the latest fashion?” She swung her flashlight and hummed as she made her way toward him. Her eyes seemed wild and overly dilated above its beam.
The storm must have unhinged her a bit; it certainly had him. And God knew how poor Hannah was dealing with it. “Have you seen Hannah?”
“About ten minutes ago. I asked if she wanted tea, and she said no. She was in a hurry to get home.”
“Home?” Devon walked in a circle, as if he could light up the far corners with his candles. She left? In the middle of this? Fear gnawed at him. Something wasn’t right. At the next jag of lightning, he spied a dark lump at the base of Zeus and walked over, illuminating it. “She’s still here. She wouldn’t have left without her jacket.”
Frannie looked around, blinking rapidly. “Huh. I don’t know where she could’ve wandered off to then. We were in the kitchen, and she said good-bye and headed out through the dining room.”
Which leads straight to here. It wasn’t like she could have gotten lost. Devon circled again, feeling like an idiot. Where could she be?
Frannie stepped closer. “I didn’t know you two were on such intimate terms, what with your high-society wedding in May.”
“Just help me find her,” he snapped. “Hannah!” The front door pushed open, and they spun toward it. Frigid, damp wind whirled in, snuffing out Devon’s candles. Harrison staggered into the foyer, his umbrella bent, his white hair like a mousse commercial gone horribly wrong. He slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the empty house.
“Father.” His sister’s voice sounded strange. “What are you doing home?”
Harrison leaned the ruined umbrella gently against the wall and breathed out a ragged sigh. When he straightened, the dead eyes and weary lines carving his face made him resemble a frail man every bit his seventy years. He attempted to smooth his hair. “I had Evan drive me home. I couldn’t maintain the façade.”
Frannie’s mouth popped open.
She’d probably been left out of the loop on Honey’s duplicity. That could wait. Bryant Wilson couldn’t.
“We need to talk,” Devon said shortly.
Harrison slid an exhausted gaze his way, pausing at the gaping, half-dressed look he had going on. “It’s over. I didn’t get your company in time.”
In time? He was done with the games. “What about Bryant Wilson?” he asked through clenched teeth. His father’s shoulders slumped. Something tugged inside Devon, but he ignored it. “I demand answers.”
It was another moment before Harrison spoke. “All right. Come into my office.”
“In two minutes. I need to find Hannah.” At his father’s confused look, he added, “The art lady. She was near your second gallery when the storm hit. Now she’s lost somewhere in the house.”
“Take the flashlight, Dev.” Frannie held it out. “Go talk your big business deals. I’ll relight your candles and make sure Hannah’s safe. Take as long as you need.”
Devon hesitated. He should really be looking with Frannie, because something was off. But his sister knew more hidey-holes around here than he ever had, and Harrison held answers he needed. It’s over. I didn’t get your company in time. What the hell did that mean? Harrison was dropping the takeover? And why would he have claimed he was Bryant on Friday? Curiosity and a thin ray of hope dragged Devon into the office.
Harrison gingerly lowered himself in the leather chair as if his body ached. He hadn’t made eye contact since the foyer, and now gripped the edge of the colossal desk, staring at his white knuckles.
“What do time and your o
ld partner have to do with you stealing my company?” Devon sat across the wide desk, glancing out the window at the next flash of lightning. The display was nature at its most savage. Trees bent at a frightening angle, and the lake rose like a dark beast, covered in furious, foaming white caps. All went dark. He shuddered and turned to his father. Although he wanted this confrontation to be all fire-and-brimstone fury for what he and Eric had been put through, he couldn’t bring himself to even raise his voice in the face of this peculiar frailty. Thunder ripped overhead, the bass hurting his inner ears. Still he didn’t press for an answer.
Harrison finally looked up. “What do you know about Bryant Wilson?”
Devon shrugged. More games? Harrison couldn’t just explain outright why Bryant Wilson was helping steal Ashby? “You and Mom argued about him a lot. I think she sided with him, and you were always angry. Whether it was at him or her or both, I don’t know. I was nine. It meant nothing to me. Why would he buy Eric’s shares?”
“He didn’t. He died of heart failure four years ago. And I hope the bastard is burning to a crisp.”
Devon spread his arms. “So we’re back to square one. You are Bryant.”
“I took the name, yes.”
“Why? He was your enemy.”
“Not always.” Harrison’s shoulders slumped, the resignation on his face such a white flag of surrender that Devon’s jaw slackened. “He was my closest friend at Yale. We both entered the Navy together, running the supply department aboard the Princeton. After Korea, we started a brokerage firm. Figured we’d marry a couple of babes, settle in the suburbs, have kids who’d also grow up as best friends.”
Devon raked a hand over his still tender scalp. He wanted answers. He wanted to find Hannah and take her back to the Drake. He wanted to turn her back into the wanton vixen she’d been upstairs. This trip through his father’s memory played no part in any of that.
“We named the company BryWick. Eight years in, we were making money hand over fist. Not a deal went wrong; not a contract fell through. Then one day we received a surprise visit from the Securities and Exchange Commission. Turns out Bryant had played fast and loose with investors’ money. He’d dummy up statements, pay old investors with new investor money. Siphoned off millions no one ever found. He did this for years, right under my nose. Only he’d grown careless. The reports he issued were too good to be true, and it sparked the SEC’s interest.”
