Chapter 16
Sixteen
Bryson leaned back, wiped his mouth with his napkin before tossing it on his plate, and smiled as he stared at all the faces sitting at his parents’ massive table.
The Boone dining room was built for mornings like this.
It was built for the hum of voices, the scrape of chairs, the clink of forks against ceramic.
Even with the breakfast rush winding down, the big walnut table still bore the evidence — half-drained mugs scattered between plates streaked with syrup, a platter of scrambled eggs long gone cold, a pitcher of orange juice sweating onto a folded linen napkin.
The scent of bacon hung in the air, woven through with the faint perfume of the lilies his mother had arranged in a vase on the sideboard.
Every so often, a burst of laughter or a sharp call floated down the hallway from upstairs, where Ashley and Hasley were engaged in the school-morning ritual of chasing down missing shoes, lost homework, and the occasional child.
The house hadn’t been filled with this kind of activity in years, and Bryson’s mother was in her glory. All these people might not be her family—these children might not be her grandchildren—but his mom opened her home and her heart, giving them a safe harbor in the middle of a storm.
Bryson sat near the head of the table, elbows braced on the polished surface, coffee cupped in both hands.
Across from him, Riley sat curled in her chair, one knee pulled up, her ankle hooked on the edge of the seat.
By now, her tea was probably lukewarm, but she turned the mug slowly between her palms as if absorbing its lingering heat might anchor her here a little longer.
Devon sat next to her, phone in hand, his thumb flicking over the screen with deliberate slowness—which meant he wasn’t engaged in the conversation of the room and more interested in what might appear on that damn cell.
Bryson had a good idea of what Devon was waiting for and it made Bryson want to reach across the table and snatch the damn thing right out of Devon’s fingertips.
Bryson was so tired of hearing about Emery Tate and her situation.
The woman had created her own problems. There was no conspiracy theory.
Nothing anyone could say would make Bryson change his mind on that.
Jessica, Grant’s daughter, was twelve years old and stubborn as hell—like her father—hadn’t moved since she finished her waffle. Arms crossed tight over her chest, she stared at the wood grain of the table like she could bore a hole through it with sheer will.
Kelly hovered beside her daughter, patient but stretched thin. “Alright, Jess. Time to get ready for school. Let’s go.”
Jessica didn’t blink. “I’m not going.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” Kelly said sternly, but softly.
Bryson glanced over the rim of his mug.
Grant set his soda on the table and leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Young lady, your mother and I will not tolerate that tone. Not at home, and especially not when you’re a guest at someone else’s.”
Jessica’s chin lifted. “Then maybe you should tell me the truth about what’s going on.” She cocked her head.
The words landed like a dropped plate—sharp enough to cut through every other sound.
The room suddenly stilled, and all eyes were on Jessica.
“This is not the time or place.” Grant kept his voice even.
Jessica’s frown deepened. “It never is.” She pushed her chair back and raced out of the room.
Kelly exhaled, hard. “Excuse me, please.” She darted off after her daughter.
Bryson gripped his mug, staring into the dark liquid.
“Sorry about my daughter’s outburst.” Grant leaned back, ran a hand across his eyes, and then down his face. “Not only is she at that age. But she shouldn’t have to deal with adult problems.”
“No need to apologize,” Walter said, leaning forward. “I’ve dealt with a few angsty teenagers myself.”
“She’s incredibly intelligent. A little bullish, like me, but she’s really a good kid.” Grant let out a long breath. “But lately, she’s testing our patience. Sometimes I wonder if we’re losing control.”
“I, for one, think she’s a lovely child,” Bryson’s mother said. “Reminds me of myself at that age.”
“You’re a good father.” Riley smiled. “The way you handled her reminded me of the way Dad used to deal with me.”
Grant blew out a puff of air. “You and Dad always did have a special bond.”
Bryson pushed his coffee aside, staring at Riley, studying her expression, waiting for the tears to appear. But they didn’t. Progress.
“Grant and I were always so jealous,” Erin said.
“You know,” Riley started. “I used to feel like the two of you had your own private little club. Like there was some super-secret handshake to get in, and I was never going to be able to crack it.”
“We’re all together now, and I’m sure Dad is looking down on us all, smiling. It’s what he wanted. That’s all that matters.” Grant smiled.
Bryson had had his siblings. Their support had always been a given. They’d engaged in brutal verbal combat sometimes, but when it mattered, they had each other's back. To see Riley and her siblings at the same table, after a decade, left Bryson's soul scraped raw.
Devon’s phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen, and his expression shone with constellation brightness. He lifted his gaze, catching Bryson’s, then flipped the cell face down.
“Emery Tate? Again?” Bryson asked, jaw tightening.
“If it was, you should be glad I didn’t take her call.” Devon's face broke into his familiar smartass grin.
“Right. Because the second I’m out of earshot, you’re gonna tap that screen and return the call.
Do you really think I’m that stupid? I know you’re talking to her.
The rumor mills are buzzing—saying Stone Bridge Winery plans on hiring a walking scandal.
” Bryson pushed his chair back and abruptly stood.
God, this got under his skin. It wasn’t so much that Emery was interested in working at Stone Bridge Winery.
Or even the scandal, though that did make Bryson pause.
However, Bryson knew when his brother got into his feelings, logic went out the window.
It didn’t happen often. Maybe twice in the last ten years.
But when Devon fell, it was always for the wrong girl.
“You’re being dramatic.” Devon narrowed his eyes.
“And you’re sleeping with her,” Bryson said under his breath.
His mother rose, and she walked by, she gave Bryson a little love tap on the back of his head. “Enough of that. It’s rude and not appropriate in front of our guests.”
“Ouch.” Bryson glared. “I’m only saying what we’re all thinking.”
“It would be unprofessional of me to sleep with a potential hire.” Devon grinned.
“Sarah, Patrica, Quinn,” Bryson said. “Shall I go on?”
“Stop it.” His father’s voice was deep, steady, impossible to ignore. “You boys are acting like toddlers. This wouldn’t be the first time we considered someone with a questionable past. And might I remind you, that one is working out.”
“Mommy! Mommy!” Willa’s voice came from somewhere down the hall. “I can’t find my favorite hair tie. I need my favorite hair tie.”
“I know I should teach her that any hair tie will do, but pick my battles, right?” Erin was gone before anyone could answer.
“I should go help Elsa in the kitchen.” His mother kissed his dad’s cheek. “There are leftovers in the fridge for lunch.”
“Thanks, Ma.” Devon snagged his cell and was out the door—to call Emery, no less. Freaking wonderful. But that was a problem for future Bryson.
“Let’s take this to the study. Harlan and Declan, the private investigator, will be here any minute, and I’d rather not talk over cold eggs,” his dad said. “This conversation deals with Grant’s case, but if Harlan doesn’t mind if Bryson and Riley are there, then neither do I.”
“I doubt he will.” Grant nodded. “I’ve discussed with him how I’d rather this family is in the know. Too many secrets, lies, and half-truths have torn us apart.”
“All right then. Let’s go.” Walter waved his hand.
Bryson snagged a tray of mugs and the pot of fresh coffee that Elsa had brought in near the end of breakfast and followed the crowd down the hallway toward the study, glancing at the pictures on the wall, noting the mix of Boone-Callahan history.
Pictures of his great-grandparents with Riley’s. And then there was his dad with Sean. But what struck him was how many there were of him, Grant, Riley, and even Erin. It was as if they were already part of the house. Their shared history had taken a weird detour, but now it had been righted.
Bryson set the tray on the coffee table and glanced around, watching the group slip into leather chairs, grateful Riley had chosen one big enough for him to join her. He sat on the arm, and she curled up in the center.
Walter poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Grant.
He wrapped his fingers around the mug, stared at the surface like it might offer an escape, then pushed it back. “I haven’t been able to drink this since Monday.” The unspoken part hung heavy in the air.
No one rushed to fill the silence.
Bryson thought about that for a moment, letting his memory stretch over the last few days. It was odd that he hadn’t noticed it. Though he did find it strange that Grant had chosen diet soda at breakfast. But one of Bryson’s sisters drank diet soda like it was her lifeline to sanity.
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Brea reappeared, ushering in Harlan and Declan West.
“Good morning, gentleman,” Bryson’s father said. “Please, help yourself to some coffee.” He waved his hand.
“Walter. Everyone.” Harlan looked as precise as always — suit pressed sharp enough to cut. A leather folio under one arm. “Some of you already know Declan, the private investigator I like to use. One of the best in the business.”
Declan, lean and sharp-eyed, moved with quiet purpose, scanning the room like he was taking mental photographs before sitting down. “You must be Grant.”
“That would be me.” Grant waved his hand.
Declan opened a notebook, his tone calm, measured. “I like to get straight to the point. So, mind if we dig right in without all the formalities?”
“Please. I feel like I’ve been in limbo for years, not days.” Grant sighed.
“All right. While I believe this is good news for Grant, it’s not necessarily good news for the family.” Declan shuffled a few pieces of paper around.
“What the hell does that mean?” Riley asked.
“Let him talk,” Harlan said, his tone soft.
“Parker and Elizabeth are asset-rich but cash-poor. Between Parker’s cancer treatments, the trials, and Elizabeth’s spending habits, they were in the red a year ago.”
Bryson saw Riley’s shoulders tense, her eyes narrowing just slightly—a reaction most people would miss, but Bryson knew her better than most. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means, they’re struggling,” his father said. “They have things, but not the means to pay for them, or live the way they are.”
“My mother made it sound like the money she invested in the Ponzi scheme didn’t affect them too badly,” Grant added, his fists at his side. “I told her if she needed help, I was there, but she brushed it off as if it were nothing. Pocket change, she called it.”
“Well, it wasn’t. It was a sizable amount. Enough, that it cleaned out their savings and some of Parker's retirement fund. Your mother also re-mortgaged her house.”
“Jesus,” Grant muttered. “That’s a lot of fucking money. Over a million.”
“Shall I continue?” Delcan asked, glancing around the room.
Grant waved his hand.
“A few months back, small deposits started showing up in Elizabeth’s account.
Nothing overtly sizeable. Nothing that would make anyone question it.
Cash or money orders. The amounts don’t exactly match the missing revitalization fund withdrawals, but the timing’s close enough to raise suspicion. Could be coincidence. Could be cover.”
Grant shifted, tugging at his pant legs, his jaw flexing, face turning red as if someone had set the room on fire.
“Since I don’t trust my ex-wife as far as I can spit, and Sandy had her in for an interview, Riley snapped this picture of her and Elizabeth yesterday.” Bryson lifted his phone and showed the image he’d had Riley forward to him.
“What’s this?” Declan asked.
“We don’t know.” Riley took Bryson’s hand, but her gaze was on her brother. “Mom and Monica were near a boutique. The two were having a bit of an exchange. It looked a little heated. Mom was tense. Monica didn’t look happy.”
“Any idea what was in the package?” Grant held out his hand, and Declan passed the phone. “It’s not very big. Just an oversized envelope that bulges in the middle.”
“I couldn’t even begin to guess,” Riley said.
“Do these two women have a reason to have a secret meeting?” Declan asked.
“Monica has had Elizabeth do some work on the Main Street beautification project. So, I suppose anything is possible.” Walter leaned against the desk. “But both women are all about appearances. They’re the type who enjoy being seen. Being heard. Side streets are not their style.”
Bryson pointed at the cell, then the stack of papers. “Sandy needs to see all of this.”
“And she will, but it needs to be done the right way.” Harlan lifted a hand. “Through proper channels. We can’t have this coming back and making Grant look bad,” Harlan said.
Declan flipped a page in his notebook. “One last thing—the fund’s ledger shows edits under Grant’s credentials. I had my IT specialist do a deep dive. Those edits originated from Elizabeth’s home IP address.”
The room went still, the mantel clock ticking in the corner like it was keeping score.
Grant’s voice, when it came, was low and frayed. “This isn’t happening. It doesn’t make sense. Even with all this new information, I can’t—or maybe I refuse—to piece it together.”
“Sandy will find the missing threads, and when she pulls it, this thing will completely unravel,” Bryson's father said in that deep, calm tone that made Bryson remember just how lucky he’d been to have been born into such a great family—wealth truly meant nothing without love.
Grant looked between Bryson and Riley. “I know I’ve said this a million times, but I didn’t take that money. I didn’t hurt my father. But I also can’t believe my own mother would mastermind something like this. She’s a little nutty, but she… she wouldn’t do that to me. I’m her son.”
“We’re going to find the answers.” Bryson held his gaze. “No matter what they are, just remember, no one in this room believes you’re guilty of anything.”