The call doesn’t go through. I try again, and get nothing again. And then I turn, because Ali’s phone is buzzing on the coffee table.
I grab it to turn the ringer off so she can sleep. When I pick it up, I see a string of messages lit up on the main screen. It’s an exchange between her and her father, and how can I not read them when my name jumps out at me? When they’re communicating about me?
Dad: Text when you arrive, and let’s make a plan of attack.
Ali: I’m here. Let me do things my way. Trust me.
A heavy weight settles in my gut.
Dad: Any progress?
Ali: Just getting started. But I told you, I’ve got it. Will fill you in tonight.
Text after text like this. I scroll through dozens of them until I get to the end of their exchanges.
Dad: Really hope you’re getting the goods on Blackwood.
Ali: Definitely getting everything I need.
And then Graham’s reply, which came through just now.
Dad: Good girl. Call me ASAP. I need to know what you got on him.
I go so still I’m pretty sure I’m not even breathing. I can’t make sense of it. Nothing adds up in my mind.
I flip the silence button on the side of the phone and set it down.
Chloe.
My deceased wife is the “goods.”
That’s what Ali has wanted this whole time.
Information for her father. Dirt, as Rhett called it.
Leverage.
Blackmail.
Two days ago, in the partner trust exercise, I told her my wife died in a drunk driving accident—something I’ve been covering up for years.
But now that they know, if they dig enough, they’ll find the police report.
Could I have possibly given her a better weapon?
Graham has everything he needs to publicly humiliate me and rock the company I’ve built to its foundations. To drag Chloe’s memory down and—
Alison.
Who I thought was . . .
How?
How could she do this? How the fuck could I have missed it? Did she know who I was all along on Halloween? Did she come after me?
I move back to the bedroom and stare at her sleeping form. I want to rip the blankets off her. Let out the rage that’s ripping around inside me, tearing me up.
I talked to you.
I fucking trusted you.
I was ready to give you my goddamn heart.
But I don’t say a word.
It takes me less than two minutes to pack up the few things I’d taken out of my bag. I do it without making a sound. Without looking at her again. Then I grab my ski jacket, even though there’s nowhere to go in this storm.
I’m not trying to go anywhere.
All I know is that I can’t be here with her.
Chapter 37
Alison
I wake, smiling, to a knock on the door.
“God, those room service people are persistent.” I turn, expecting to find Adam there, but his side of the bed is empty.
“Adam?” I call. No answer.
I hear the electronic beep of a key card in the door, and struggle to sit up, pain slicing through my ankle. Adam must have gone for some breakfast—or lunch, I think, noting the high slant of a pale sun through the suite’s picture windows. Outside, the snow’s still falling, but the sky is blue beyond, and the fierce winds seem to have tapered off a bit.
The door swings open, and Darla, from the clinic, comes into the room.
“Good afternoon,” she says cheerily, but even from across the suite, I can see that her mouth is set in a grim line.
“Hi,” I say, drawing the blanket hastily around me. “What—”
“Mr. Blackwood asked me to stop by and look in on you.”
“He did?” My brain is awash in static. I look at the window again, look around the room. Something’s wrong. “Where is he?”
She comes to the side of the bed and sets down a navy blue medical bag. Her broad, friendly face looks troubled. “Can I look at your ankle?”
“Of course.” I gather up the blankets, pulling them off my feet. “But what did Adam say?”
Darla focuses on unwrapping the bandage on my ankle. I can feel her weighing her words, and my heart starts a wild crashing in my chest.
“He left,” she says, finally. “He asked me to look in on you. And I know he made arrangements with the hotel. Paid for the room and all incidental charges.”
“Was there an emergency? Is everything okay?”
I pick up my phone from the nightstand and don’t see anything from Adam. No calls. No texts. Only one from Philippe, saying everyone got back safe and sound, and one from my father, nagging me for details.
Darla peels off the last of the gauze covering my foot. The bruise looks worse—mottled purple and yellow—but my ankle’s less swollen. “I’m pretty sure this is just a bad sprain,” she says. “But the roads are better. We can get you to the hospital for an X-ray if you want.”
What I want is to know where Adam is. I think back to last night, to his eyes on mine, to our connection, which felt truer than anything I’ve ever felt in my life. What happened between then and now? Where is he?
“Darla,” I press. “How did he look when he talked to you? Did he say anything else? I’m worried.”
She shakes her head. “He just looked . . . in a hurry. Distracted. He came by and gave us a ton of cash and asked us to make a house call up at the resort. Gave us his key card and your room number.”
“That’s it? Nothing else?” I brush my hair back from my face and try to map it in my mind. I half-remember a drowsy, affectionate conversation in the morning. He pulled the blankets over me, touched me sweetly. Smiled. Everything was fine. Or seemed fine, at least.
“He just said he’d cover any other expenses but that he had to go,” Darla tells me. She finishes rewrapping the bandage. “Why don’t you talk to the hotel? I know he talked to the manager and the concierge. Maybe they can tell you more.”
I nod, but in my mind, I keep reliving the steady, serious gravity of his eyes staring into mine.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Darla asks again.
I shake my head. “You’re pretty sure it’s a sprain?”
“Ninety percent.”
“I’ll take my chances then.” I want to be left alone. I need to get Adam on the phone, to find out what’s happened.
Darla offers me a painkiller, and my ankle hurts enough that I take it.
“All right,” Darla says. “We’re in good shape here.”
You might be, I think.
She props my crutches next to the bed and brings over a robe and a change of clothes. “The concierge is standing by to assist you,” she tells me. “Anything you need. Help with anything. Just ask. Can I help you change before I go? Take you to the bathroom?”
As if I don’t feel humiliated enough. “No, I’ll be okay. Thanks for your help.”
She goes, and I pick up the phone to call Adam. My pulse spikes, and I feel like I can’t swallow.
My call goes straight to voicemail.
I pick up the phone to text him, but I can’t find the words. Where are you? Why did you leave? Did I imagine everything about last night—about us?
I’m scared of what he’ll say. Scared that I’ve been so wrong about him—about everything.
Where is he?
A powerful desire pulses in me. A need to dull things, to blunt the ragged fear coursing through my body. I can’t sit with it. I’m scared to feel what it will mean if he’s left me here. If he never really cared about me.
I struggle up with the help of my crutches and hobble across the room. Everything feels strange, vertiginous, like I’m going to plummet through the floor or fly off into the atmosphere. My ankle lashes me with pain, and it seems to take me forever to cross the few yards to the mini bar.
There I unscrew a small bottle of Absolut and gulp it down straight. Then I do the
same with a bottle of Tanqueray, chased with a slightly larger bottle of white wine. So thoughtful of the Four Seasons to keep so much in stock.
For a second, I think I’m going to be sick, but I breathe, get ahold of myself, feel the warmth of the alcohol spread through me. With the painkillers, it’s a different kind of buzz, like having my brain encased in plastic. The room is a boat, and I’m riding wave after wave. I can’t feel my face or my hands. Or much of anything. Which is what I wanted.
I make it, barely, back to the bed and sink onto it, throwing my crutches onto the floor, the whole bed swaying. The pain in my ankle’s remote now. The room stretches around me, growing cavernous, white and sterile like a mausoleum.
My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me. I drop it and search through the folds of the heavy comforter for it. Finding it, I see that it’s Philippe.
I’m almost crying as I answer. My lips feel numb. I can’t feel the phone when I lift it to my ear.
“Jesus in a hand basket,” Philippe says over the line. “It’s Armageddon around here. What happened?”
For a second, I can’t speak. I don’t know what’s happened, and it’s like I’ve been turned inside out and emptied of everything.
“What’s going on?” I manage, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, sharply. “But are you? You sound weird, Ali.”
“I’m . . . fine. What’s going on?”
“Rhett just kicked us out of the offices. The whole team.”
“What?” This would be the part where I jump out of bed and start putting on clothes, go into emergency coping mode. But I’m too busy drifting on my mattress—so much white everywhere. It feels like the absence of everything—not just color but life.
I make myself focus, try to home in on Philippe’s words.
“He didn’t look happy about it, but yes. He came in about fifteen minutes ago and told us we had to go.”
“Had he talked to Adam? Did he say?”
“No, but I assume the order came from on high. Isn’t he there with you? How’s your ankle?”
“It sucks,” I say. “All of this sucks.”
“Ali-girl, what’s going on? You don’t sound right.” The concern in his voice makes the tears come for real, and then I start to sob. My body’s wracked with it. I can’t breathe for a long moment. I can’t make sense of anything.
“I don’t know. Adam just left. He threw a bunch of money at people to look in on me and disappeared.”
I hear Philippe’s intake of breath and then a long moment of quiet as he tries to process. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“No,” I say, shakily. “It doesn’t.”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know yet,” I tell him. “I guess just clear out and—”
“Already done.”
“Okay. Tell the team I’m sorry.”
“There’s no reason for you to be sorry. Something’s fishy here. I’ll dig around, try to find out what’s up. And I’m going to call your dad.”
“No, wait—” I start to say. If my father gets involved, he’ll want information from me. Want me to tell him everything I know. But I need him to help me get out of here. And I need to get out of here.
“Go ahead,” I tell Philippe, and we end the call.
Family’s everything, I hear his voice say. We need to choose each other every time.
But I haven’t chosen family. I’ve chosen Adam.
And look where that’s gotten you, the voice in my head tells me.
My phone buzzes in my hand again, and I know without looking that it’s my father. I put it on speaker. I’m too tired to hold the phone anymore.
Vaguely, I hear him speaking to me. His tone is soothing, solicitous.
“ . . . can’t believe that jackass left you there . . .” I hear, and I want to argue, but I can’t believe it either.
“Alison, honey,” he says. And his voice is quiet, confidential. “I’m getting on Thad Weaver’s private jet, and we’re coming to get you. Give us a few hours, and we’ll come take you home. Okay, sweetheart?”
I nod, though I know he can’t hear that. I want so badly to be at home, curled in a ball in my bedroom. I want my mom and dad. I want not to hurt anymore, not to feel the grief and anger carving into my high.
“Tell me what’s going on,” my father says, in that same gentle tone. “What did you find out?”
Collapsing back against the pillows, I look around the suite. The snow’s died down. The room is quiet, filled with Adam’s absence. Not a trace of him. Like none of it happened. Anger sweeps through me, searing away everything else.
“Nothing, Dad,” I say, but I start to cry again, and I know he knows I’m lying.
“Alison,” my father repeats, and his tone is so gentle, so wheedling. “I’ll be there in no time, but you have to tell me. What did you get on Blackwood?”
I’m tired. So tired. And I can’t think of a reason to protect Adam. He’s not here. He’s not the one who’s going to bring me home. I look down at the phone for a long, long time.
And then I tell my father everything.
Chapter 38
Adam
Thirty hours after leaving the resort in Jackson, I’m finally getting to my house in Malibu. There were no flights, so I rented a car and drove. Stopped at a roadside motel to grab a couple hours of sleep when my eyes wouldn’t stay open. Hit five different states trying to avoid road closures. Barely remember any of it.
As I step into the kitchen, rich, fragrant smells flood my nose. Grey’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a small saucepan. He’s set the table, and on the island, I see a carved turkey, mashed potatoes, string beans, and rolls.
My brother’s pretty much a screw-up, but he’s a decent cook. Bizarre for a nineteen-year-old kid, but something just translates when he touches food.
He turns and spreads his hands. “Happy Turkey Day, bro.”
I drop my weekend bag and stare at him.
For an instant, I’m tempted to tell him about everything that happened in Wyoming. But that urge is gone pretty fast, leaving no trace behind.
“What’s going on, Adam?” Grey says.
I look at the food he’s obviously spent all day preparing. “This is cool of you, but . . .”
I can’t finish. I can’t say the words I can’t. They go against my moral code.
I move to the bar and grab a lowball glass, a bottle of Dewar’s, and head for my room. My favorite leather chair sits in front of a floor-to-ceiling window to the Pacific. I sit and pour and take a long pull. The sun is just setting over the ocean. The moon is rising. Such a solid, eternal thing, planets and continents and oceans.
The surf pounds against the sand. The gulls circle and dive.
Clouds float and night falls.
Nothing is steady.
Friday.
At some point, in the morning I’m almost sure, Grey comes in and asks me to surf. We argue. About surfing or something, and I tell him to fuck off.
I watch the beach and I try to forget.
I try to stop replaying every moment with Ali.
When it works, it’s because I’m thinking of Chloe, or the mistake I’ve made that could affect my company like a cancer.
At some point Grey comes back and tells me I need to talk to him. Rhett’s worried and he’s been calling Grey to check in on me. Mom—“your mother”—called him directly since I didn’t check in with her on Thanksgiving, which Grey’s especially pissed about. Not that he ever answered the call. He let it go to voicemail.
I let him finish then I tell him to fuck off again.
Saturday is more of the same except I switch my brand to Maker’s Mark for a little variety, and my scruff is starting to itch.
Sunday, I feel better. Well enough to leave my room and take the bottle out to the back deck for some fresh air.
“What the fuck, Adam?” Grey says, when I sit at the table and
refill my glass.
“Grey, come here.”
He comes over, and stands over me. His eyes are drawn and he looks tired, like he hasn’t been sleeping, which is weird because insomnia is my job, but I also see a flicker of desperate hope in them.
“Check it out.” I point to the beach. “Lucky’s figured out his timing. He can launch over waves for the tennis ball now.”
“Fuck you, Adam. You’re not allowed to fucking fail,” he says as he walks away.
I spend the rest of the day trying to figure out how he could possibly say that to me when he knows about Chloe.
Monday morning brings a surprise.
Someone pounds on the door. Since it doesn’t stop, that means Grey’s out somewhere. I get up from my spot on the deck and answer it.
Graham Quick pushes past me and looks around my living room like a repossession agent, measuring my worth by my furniture and the prints on my wall. Seeing everything he’s going to take from me.
“You screwed up, Blackwood,” he says, his back turned to me. “And by the smell of you, you know it.”
“I just want to be clear about something, Graham. You’re trespassing right now.”
“Are you going to call the police?” He turns, regarding me with Alison’s intelligent eyes. There’s no gentleness in Graham’s though. But maybe there never was in Ali’s either.
Adrenaline makes me feel weightless. “No. I was thinking I’d take care of it myself.”
“Relax, I’m not going to keep you long,” he says, his eyes darting to the patio outside. Through the open glass door, the bottle of whisky and my glass shine on the table, gold and amber in the sunlight. “You look like you’re busy with important matters. I’ve come here with a proposal.”
“Is that right? Let’s hear it.”
“I’m willing to increase my investment in your company to thirty million. That’s a lot of money, Adam. I think even a spoiled little shit like you can recognize that. But in exchange, I want majority share. Fifty-one percent. And I want the chairman position on the board. You agree, and I don’t say a word to anyone. No one needs to know you’re a pathetic drunk who wrapped your wife around a tree four years ago.” He smiles. “That would be bad, wouldn’t it? For Boomerang’s bottom line? For the studio venture with Brooks Wright?”
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