A Family Secret
Kennedy Cross
Contents
About This Book
1. Claire
2. Claire
3. Liam
4. Liam
5. Claire
6. Claire
7. Liam
8. Claire
9. Liam
10. Claire
11. Claire
12. Liam
13. Claire
14. Liam
15. Claire
16. Claire
17. Liam
18. Claire
19. Claire
20. Liam
21. Claire
22. Liam
23. Claire
24. Liam
25. Claire
26. Liam
27. Claire
28. Liam
29. Liam
30. Claire
31. Liam
32. Claire
33. Claire
You might also like
About the Author
About This Book
Claire Brooks’ whole world is turned upside-down upon the apparent suicide of her beloved father. With no one to lean on, she only wants to bury herself in her work. But when it looks like the suicide might really be a carefully crafted murder, Claire puts her career as a homicide detective on hold to return home in search of answers.
As she begins to question everything she once knew, it seems like Liam Carter, the new guy in town, might be her only refuge from such painful questions. Not only is he strikingly handsome and talented, but Liam is tender, charming, and understands her pain more than most. But that’s because he is running from pain of his own. As the truth begins to catch up with them, they’ll only be able to survive together.
1
Claire
What a long day.
The kind of day where nothing feels better than finally returning through the front door. Home, fastened in my own secluded bubble, a break from the chaos. At least for a night.
I learned early on that a divide between work-life and home-life is crucial to remaining sane in law enforcement. More often than not, it’s impossible to completely separate the two. There’s no such thing as nine-to-five courtesy when you’re a homicide detective. The 3:00 AM, startle you out of sleep and send adrenaline pumping through your chest calls are inevitable. But it’s the mindset that’s important.
Work is work, home is where I smooth out the wrinkles of the day and defer to my friendly side. The side of me that likes to wave at people instead of studying them. To be good at this job, you can’t be the obsessive angel of the law with the cold-hard-exterior all the time. It’s why Superman has a secret identity; you need to spend a little time as Clark Kent to be ready to confront the moments when your cape is needed. You need to stay human, and Ethan helps with that.
There’s nothing quite like walking through the door and dissolving into someone’s waiting arms. The feeling of being wrapped in the embrace of someone that knows you through your love and compassion, not through the distorted lens of a murder investigation. There are a lot of days when I come home wounded, distressed, and too jaded to want to interact with regular people. It’s nice to have someone who reminds you that you’re human.
Though, if I’m being honest, lately I’ve only come home to Ethan’s empty house. Which is partially mine too, I guess. Since I moved in six months ago, I’ve certainly tried to make it feel more like mine. Ethan’s long trips are just part of the tradeoff.
He’d already inherited his father’s construction and landscaping empire when we met. I’ve never known him without three places to be and fifty-five things to do. And part of me wonders if the same attraction would’ve cultivated if I had known him before. We both hate to be stationary, inactive, without a task on the horizon.
Oddly enough, it creates kind of a balancing effect. It’s almost therapeutic. I come home and discard my uniform, take a shower—sometimes with company, but not always—then pour myself a glass of wine and usually spend an hour or so sitting with Ethan, taking my mind off the day by perusing over whatever new project Black & Williams Construction is engaged in. Which, as of lately, has been the new Valley Park Condominium Complex. The same reason Ethan’s been traveling the last five days.
Home tonight.
It was either going to be tonight or tomorrow night, depending on how the meeting went over water rights. But the text I got earlier today assured that he’d be home tonight with a bottle of Chateau Montrose. And that means the meeting must have gone very well.
As I’ve done each of the last five days, I shed my uniform into several messy piles on the bathroom floor. True, I’m eager for him to get home, but I can’t say I haven’t appreciated having the place to myself. Ethan hates clutter and messes, even a few stray clothes or a book left on the couch. And in this place, there’s lots of room to make a mess.
Steam from the shower begins fogging the air. On the whole, the master bathroom looks more like a miniature spa. The floor, the walls, and the counters are all warm colored granite. At one end of the room is a sauna. Beside it are three steps leading up to a bathtub cornered into the wall. At the other end is a glass door enclosing the toilet, a long counter with two sinks, and an enormous, beautiful shower.
The house has two kitchens, a primary one on the first floor and a secondary one in the basement next to the theater. It has three decks, including one attached to the master bedroom. A total of five bathrooms, three with a shower and all five nicer than any bathroom I’ve ever had. The company was lucrative when he inherited it, but this house is evidence that nothing has dwindled under Ethan’s leadership.
I never even knew there was such thing as a luxury towel until I used one that can only be purchased online from a producer in Eastern Asia that makes their towels from a blend of Egyptian cotton and bamboo. I’m finally starting to get used to all the posh luxuries, though. Not like the expensive towels ever put me off, which I’m reminded of as I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a cocoon of heavenly warmth. But I do admit the house was a lot at first. Ethan’s not pretentious necessarily, but there’s no doubt that he’s a man of finer things. Everything from his work suits to his weekend “casual” wear. But all the various amenities are starting to feel like belongings of my own.
My parents bred humility into me as a helix of my DNA, which is something I won’t ever relinquish. Though as I scan my closet (my closet, because Ethan has his own), it’s clear that Ethan’s wealth is finding its way into my wardrobe. But I’m starting to feel less guilty about that, too.
It wasn’t something I ever sought out, but why shouldn’t I deserve this kind of lifestyle? It’s difficult when the vast majority of people I interact with are living tattered and broken lives. If I could give to victims half of what I have with Ethan, I would. But that’s not part of my job.
My job is to be the strong and resilient force of light that drowns out the darkest corners of society. My job is to be tough in the face of evil, and willingly empathetic to those who need it. Maybe one day Ethan and I can donate a generous fortune to a battered woman’s shelter, to foster care services and rehabilitation clinics. But for now, my job is to be part of the groundwork.
But now I’m home. And tonight, I’m feeling sexy.
I’m feeling young and eager and somewhat intoxicated with the luxuries around me. Or more specifically, intoxicated with the anticipation that my favorite luxury of all will be joining me in less than an hour.
It only feels fitting to throw on the charmeuse nightgown Ethan bought me last Valentine’s Day. It’ll be a nice little surprise. Lingerie nightgowns are some of his favorite gifts to buy, but this one—the short black piece with thin shoulder straps and
lace trimming—is his favorite.
I retrieve a wine glass from the cupboard before remembering the treat Ethan has in store. We usually have a nice glass of Merlot with dinner, but it’s been awhile since he’s brought home an especially expensive celebratory bottle. Mostly just because he’s been working and traveling so much lately. The last evening we truly had to ourselves was the night after Black & Williams was awarded the Valley Park condominium project. A blockbuster Miami gem guaranteed to return at least triple the investment, as Ethan had described it.
That had been a long, wonderful night.
Instead, I meander into the room I refer to as Ethan’s Oval Office and hop on the computer for a few minutes while I wait. When I was skimming Facebook several nights back, I came across an ad for a grand piano that would look absolutely stunning in the second story living room. It’s crafted from African cherry timber with a dark, maroon finish.
I haven’t been around a piano since moving from my childhood home in Fort Martin, and I’ve missed it. My mom taught me to play growing up until she passed when I was fifteen. It was the piano that I used as refuge, my last enduring connection to her.
It’ll be nice to have one in the house again, and it’ll make an awesome gift for Ethan’s thirty-fifth birthday next month. I’m quite sure he doesn’t play, but regardless, he’ll appreciate the addition.
But I can’t find it. No chance it’s still in my Facebook feed, and I can’t remember the name of the page that ran the advertisement. But this is why the computer saves your history, isn’t it?
I’ve never impressed a soul in the Marvel PD with my technical abilities, but I do impress myself as I bring up a window with every page that’s been visited in the last three days. But I need to go back a little longer. I found it right before Ethan left on his trip, which would make it about a week back. And there it is.
Steinway & Sons Treasures. That’s the name of the damn page. I’m about to click, but it’s the name of a site several lines below that catches my eye. A Gmail icon next to text reading: A little pre-trip tease ;)
Not an email that I’ve ever sent or received. Not to mention, neither of us even use Gmail. It’s far too insecure for the department, and I gave Ethan the same advice. His work and personal email are both company protected.
I click the link.
The page that loads is an email inbox with one of the messages highlighted and displayed to the right. It’s full of pictures.
My heart drops into my stomach where a churning nausea is about to erupt.
The message contains anywhere from ten to fifteen pictures, all selfies taken by the same half-naked blond. She’s sprawled on a bed, pulling seductively at her panties. In the next image her nipples are exposed. Eventually the panties are discarded too.
I swallow bile. My fingers are so jittery that I can hardly feel myself scrolling back to the top of the page.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: A little pre-trip tease ;)
My legs dissolve into the chair as my heart thumps loud, irregular beats that echo in my ear. I’m flooded with rage. Then a deep wave of sorrow. Then more rage.
I close the page.
I’m back in the kitchen before I can feel myself walking. My feet don’t feel connected to the ground. I don’t even feel connected to my body.
Ethan’s cheating. On me. With… Anna Amazing?
Who the hell is that? I’ve never met an Anna.
I’ve drifted to the living room where I collapse into a chair. My head is swimming. I close my eyes, pinch my temples, and rack my brain for any Anna that I know. But, nothing.
I feel both heavy and deliriously weightless at the same time. Ethan is cheating on me.
And when? How?
Anna Amazing had sent him that message the same day he left for “meetings” which probably didn’t even exist. Lying asshole. Does that woman even know he’s living with me?
Probably no such thing as a Valley Park condominium project, either. Probably spent a nice week in Miami with Anna Amazing. Just leave me here to work and sleep in our bed with the thought that he’s off on some blockbuster project. Fucking liar.
And now, just by happenchance, you’re coming back early, huh?
It must be hard to not to spend one more night with Anna Amazing. But no, you have to go home to your girlfriend. Maybe spoil her with a nice bottle of wine so she doesn’t ask any questions.
What a lying, cheating prick. And I caught him.
I’m going to interrogate him like he’s a fugitive. I’m already mentally turning the living room around me into IR 6, my favorite interrogation room where I regularly turn grown men into pathetic cowards. I’m one of the best interrogators in our department, and I’m going to chew up Ethan like a piece of gum. I’m holding nothing back.
He’ll be exiting the highway any minute now. Probably about to turn onto Wallace Rd with a smirk and a $300 bottle of wine in the passenger seat. Probably freshly showered so he doesn’t smell like her.
And he thinks I’m clueless.
He thinks I’m holed up in this stupid house happily distracted by fancy, plush bullshit just so that I never question that maybe my boyfriend is an unfaithful lying piece of dumpster garbage. That maybe all these long business trips to properties around the state aren’t actually business trips at all.
What a liar.
My skin is crawling with hot tremors. And for the first time, I remember that I’m dressed in his favorite slutty nightgown. Probably the same gown he bought for her.
I race up the stairs and into the bedroom where I rip it off. I throw the nightgown onto the bed just so that he knows I was wearing it. Was. Never again.
I throw on a pair of pajama pants and a loose department tee.
Seeing it lying on the bed brings another sickening round of nausea to my gut. To think I gave myself to that scumbag. I trusted him. Did he bring her here while I was out at work? Had their naked bodies been tangled together right where I sleep while I was out risking my life?
Every object in the house suddenly feels poisoned. I don’t even want to breathe the air.
I descend the stairs back into the kitchen, molding my disgust into firm anger. Or more accurately, motivation. I’m going to break him down, make him confess everything and make him watch me leave. And I’m never coming back.
I don’t even notice that I’m pacing until my phone rings, igniting embers in my chest. He’s calling to let me know he’s close. I’m not going to answer—this occasion deserves a surprise—but I check the cell just to make sure. And I’m wrong. It’s my sister, Alison.
Without thinking, I press to ignore it.
I’m a bottled-up grenade right now, and she doesn’t deserve to field the effects of that. But she calls again. And without leaving a voicemail, which is odd. Not like my big sister, one of the only people I know who refuses to text. This time, I answer.
“Alison?”
“Claire.” It comes out blurred by tears. “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Dad’s dead.”
“What?”
“He’s g-gone.” She chokes on the word. “He killed himself.”
2
Claire
Alison’s thick tears give way to a hysterical sob. I can’t move. It’s like I’ve been run over, my chest caving in. He can’t be.
“How?” I have to force the word from my mouth like it’s a lie.
Alison is overcome with tears, too distraught to form words.
“What happened?” It’s the last breath I feel capable of producing. The walls of my throat are too tight and hot.
“He jumped.”
“Where?”
“Off his balcony,” she stammers, “into the—” Alison’s sobs swallow her voice before she can finish. But I can finish it for her; off the deck, down fifty yards into the sharp rocks protruding out of the ocean.
I fall to my knees.
“No,” I whimper into the phone. He can’t be. I can feel myself hyperventilating, but my lungs won’t fully inflate. Alison’s cries turn shrill, piercing the air between my ear and the phone. The sound cracks the last barrier containing my own tears, and they wash down my cheeks.
The front door opens, startling me into dropping my phone.
“Claire!” It’s Ethan’s voice, I can tell. For an instant it fills the room with reassurance but quickly shifts into suffocating anger. He’s darting over to me, and a second later, his arms are around me.
“Get off!” I shout.
He reaches again for my shoulders. “Claire, what’s—”
“GET OFF!”
My heart is thumping so hard that every beat feels like it might lodge in my throat. I collect my phone off the carpet.
“Alison?” Nothing but dead noise. “Alison?” I repeat, but she’s already ended the call.
“What happened?” Ethan is standing above me now. “Claire! Talk to—”
“Get away from me!” I point across the room. “Don’t touch me!”
He raises his hands and inches back. I drop my head into my arms, letting tears stream down my skin. The room is spinning. I cough in a gasp for air. Then his voice cones again.
“Claire…” It’s a faint whisper this time.
“My dad’s dead,” I yell. “He’s gone.” As the words leave my lips, I become weightless.
A Family Secret Page 1
