Chapter 17
E verly
My phone’s obnoxious ringing yanked me from a heavy sleep. I scrabbled to grab it up from beside the bed, my mind’s comfortable haziness fading with the realisation of exactly who was on the line.
Only my father had that tone assigned.
One that hit my nerves like nails down a blackboard.
“Good morning,” I answered.
“Everly. Where are you? You haven’t replied to my message.”
I paged through to the relevant text thread. I’d sent six messages over the past few days, updating him on the break-in and repairs, and heard nothing back. His message from this morning lurked at the top.
Father: Are all the arrangements made for Piers’ stay?
I wanted to gripe that he’d sent that just five minutes ago but held my tongue. Connor had filled me in on the rest of the voicemail he’d overheard at my home, so I’d ensured the housekeeper had made up one of the guest rooms. It was telling that Father had asked twice, though. “Everything’s in hand.”
“Good. We’ll be back around seven and will pick you up at the house. Dress for a formal dinner. Don’t embarrass me.”
I struggled upright, the uncovered arched window giving me the view of dawn battling heavy clouds. Not a gorgeous display this time, but murky, and with rain falling.
“At a restaurant, or is it a formal event?” I asked. The two would have different outfit choices.
“The Mill.”
I nodded, not that he could see me, and mentally sorted my wardrobe for what I might wear to the fanciest restaurant in Deadwater where people went to be seen. A muted jewel tone, maybe a deep purple. I had a favourite velvet maxi dress with long sleeves, a conservative neckline, and a thigh slit that always boosted my confidence. It wasn’t too tight, so sitting for a long time wouldn’t be a trial.
Dinners at The Mill were usually tasting courses—hours spent over very rich, very well-designed, very small meals. I didn’t love eating in public, so pushing around endless tiny bites wasn’t my favourite. None of these thoughts would leave my lips.
“Thank you,” I said.
The call disconnected. My father had hung up. I exhaled and rolled out of bed. Then I stilled, and a rush of memories flooded me. My request of Connor. The room down the hall. The fact that a quick sense check of my body felt…normal.
Not sore. Not touched.
Unused.
I sank back down on the mattress. Disappointment had been my father’s worry, but I owned that shame. I’d offered myself, and Connor had turned me down.
Even unconscious.
My gaze snagged on a piece of paper on the side table. With a heavy heart, I collected it and read the word. A single one which left no confusion over Connor’s mind.
LEAVE.
I packed, a numbness settling over me. A code print-written on the back of the note—four-three-seven-seven—called the lift for me, and waiting at the bottom was Mick. I peered past him.
“Is Connor around? I’d like to say goodbye.”
He clasped his hands in front of him. “’Fraid he’s out. I’ll take you to work.”
I didn’t have it in me to object.
In my Town Hall office, I went about my normal day. I organised meetings. Sent emails. Checked my phone, starting then deleting a message to Connor several times. Genevieve sent me her brother’s number, at his request. I saved it but couldn’t think of a message to send him.
In contrast, a hundred questions for my father floated about my mind.
At six, Mick drove me home. Our housekeeper’s car was still outside, so I told him to leave, almost certain that he’d hang around regardless.
On autopilot, I showered, shaved, did my hair in a sleek updo, and wriggled into the shapewear I needed to create an acceptable silhouette in my evening gown. At seven, I was downstairs and waiting, settled on a hard sofa in the formal drawing room, but still with the weird detachment I’d felt all day, like I’d left half of myself behind in the warehouse.
Laura, our housekeeper, had worked late, readying the house, and the sounds of her pottering around should’ve been soothing, but all I thought about was Connor.
He’d asked me to stay. I’d refused him. Again.
The unexpected repeat of our past shocked and alarmed me, so much I couldn’t settle my mind. Yet that wouldn’t wash with my father. He’d notice, and I’d suffer.
I forced my attention off Connor, staring instead at the framed family tree my father had made for the chimney breast wall. He’d paid an artist to create it in a heraldic style, with aged paper and a coat of arms that wasn’t ours.
I traced down the paint-framed faces and connections.
Once, long ago, our line of family had come into being by a titled man screwing around with a servant in his household. My four-times great-grandmother had been a wet nurse to the noble family and was pregnant again before their son and heir was weaned. Oddly, for the time, the family kept the wet nurse’s baby, another son, and raised him. He didn’t get a title or any land, but his parentage had been acknowledged.
My father conveniently ignored the illegitimacy element and, on the family tree, showed a clear line from that noble family to us.
I’d never cared for his aggrandisement. My thoughts had always been of pity for the poor wet nurse whose story ended with the child’s birth.
A car pulled up outside, the headlights slashing across the room, then doors clunked, and male voices followed. My shoulders stiffened, but I rose and drifted to the hall. My emotionless state would be useful tonight.
My father thrust through the front door sporting a broad grin, his arm out to guide in his friend, and his ruddy complexion informing me he was already in his drink. I took in the second man, Piers.
He was perhaps in his early thirties and had the clean-shaven, smart look of someone who worked in London’s financial quarter. His suit was high-end, either Charles Theroux or Hilos, and over-tailored to show a muscular form.
It took me a few seconds to place the man. Piers Roache, my memory filled in his full name. I’d encountered him in the capital around a year ago. Some event where city leaders from around the country met with CEOs of Fortune 500 companies and other bigwigs. The attendees were almost all male, and the testosterone levels had been through the roof.
My father had been leading a bid for funding in Deadwater, a business investment initiative, with his aim to get one or more of those companies to set up in our locale. The whole event had bored me to tears, but I’d played my part, dodging the handsy men and putting names to faces to help Father press the flesh with those he sought after most.
Now one of those walking erections was in my home for a couple of days.
Inside, I withered.
On cue, Piers’ gaze slid over my body. “Everly, right?”
I formed a smile and extended my hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Roache. Welcome to our home.”
“Yeah. Call me Piers.” Ignoring my outstretched fingers, he tossed a smirk at my father. “Or sir. She can get used to that.”
Father chuffed a laugh and strolled into the drawing room, heading for the bar, I guessed.
Piers came back to me. “Get in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I blinked at the order. “Excuse me?”
His amusement dropped, and again, he spoke to my parent rather than me. “These girls. They spend all day pissing around with their hair and makeup but expect us to be ready without any time. Thought you said she was bright?”
Turning away, he clicked his fingers at Laura, who hovered down the hall. “Show me my room.”
Her lips pressed together, and she exchanged a glance with me. “If you’ll follow me.”
Piers stomped upstairs, and I trotted after Father. At the Italian globe bar in the drawing room, he dropped a ball of ice into a tumbler then extracted the crystal brandy decanter, pouring himself a three-finger measure.
Earlier, I’d gone through his office, hunting for any clues to the mysteries I had about him. About Connor. About Cherry and Natasha. About Riordan. My search had been lacklustre, and I’d discovered nothing.
I wanted to question him now, but I stalled out. Was I looking at a killer? At fifty-five, he was a fit man, not as tall as the son I now suspected him to have ignored, but with the same brown hair that we all shared. His was shot through with grey at the temples, a fact he didn’t mind because once a woman had commented on a post online that it made him appear distinguished.
Vanity wasn’t a sin my father avoided.
Nor was lust or anger. His fits of rage were a feature of my childhood. I’d tiptoed around them like a ballet dancer, learning fast that quiet obedience could spare me a slap to the face or hours of being berated.
I’d honed my craft in diplomacy in the battlefield classroom of our home.
I’d witnessed him take down his stepson with a fist to the gut. On several occasions, I’d encountered Connor’s mother with a bruised cheek and tear-streaked face. Yet as loathsome as he could be, murdering strangers didn’t fit what I knew of him.
Draining his glass, my father poured another. “What is it, Everly?”
I jumped, shifting my position to hide it. “May I ask who we’re dining with tonight?”
“You’re going out with Piers.”
Disquiet tightened my belly. That was unexpected. “Only the two of us? Why?”
“Because he’s a valued guest. Do I need to say more?”
“No, sorry, what I mean to say is I’m unprepared. If you gave me an objective of what you want from Mr Roache, I can make sure?—”
“You’ve been told what to do. Do I need to write a step-by-step instruction?”
“I just meant?—”
His fist smacked down on the globe bar, rattling the glasses. I stepped back, my hand flying to my chest.
“Fucking Christ. It’s very simple. Be seen at dinner, smile, laugh, and represent the family?—”
I nodded quickly. “Of course. I always do.”
“—then bring him home, suck his dick, and do whatever else he fucking wants to keep him happy.”
I stared at my father. He didn’t make jokes.
He sighed as if I were a child in need of patient guidance. “You’re twenty-seven now. People want to know why you’re still under my roof.”
I opened and closed my mouth. “You’d like me to move out and get my own job?”
He gritted his teeth. “For heaven’s sake.”
Footsteps drummed on the stairs.
Piers entered the room, his shirt fresh and a sports jacket over his arm. “Was I fast enough for you, Little Miss Makepeace?”
Father slanted his eyes at his friend, and I remembered my smile and bobbed my head.
“Please excuse any impatience, it wasn’t intended.”
Piers snorted then drew me by the elbow into the hall and to the door. Outside, he dropped his hold on me so I trailed after. At the car, I scanned the road beyond the end of our driveway, spotting a familiar vehicle and a man faintly visible behind the glass. Not Mick, as I’d half expected, but certainly another of the men who worked in the warehouse.
Disappointment crushed me, entirely unexpected, but real. I’d left Connor’s apartment on his instruction, so there was no reason to expect him to be the one watching over me.
Yet my evening had the sense of being out of control before it had begun. I needed him to know where I’d be.
Climbing into the car, I belted myself in then slid my phone from my clutch.
Piers dropped into the seat next to me and neatly plucked it from my fingers.
“Hey!” I protested.
He concealed it in his inside pocket and switched on the engine. Without turning to me, he said, “You’re on a date with me. You won’t be seen with your nose in your phone.”
An actual date? Father had implied it but I’d assumed…I didn’t know what. Not this. Surprise caught my tongue, and I stared at his profile, my resentment making him all the more loathsome. Then I faced forward with my hands in my lap. This man was important to my father, so he’d said. Surely the blow job reference couldn’t have been meant, but refusing to go out at all would deliver me into a world of trouble.
I’d get through the dinner like I did all unpleasant events, then plead a headache so we could come home as early as possible.
I’d lock my door tonight.
Even my low mood wouldn’t make me forget that.
The Mill was at the exclusive end of the city centre, in a row of grand buildings which included Deadwater’s university and museum, all built from the same stone and beautifully designed.
Luxury cars dropped off patrons whose eveningwear glittered in the evening lights.
With Piers, I entered the wide dining room, already busy with tables full of those smartly dressed diners. I smiled to the people I recognised through my father and thanked the waiter who took my wrap and showed us to our table. I settled onto the comfortable bench with my back to the wall, space for my clutch alongside.
“Move.” Piers pointed to the empty chair the other side of the table.
I squinted at it. “What?”
“If you didn’t hear, say ‘pardon’. If you didn’t understand, get up.”
My cheeks heated in my shame. I stood and took the opposite chair. He’d clearly never heard of the etiquette that dictated the woman be offered the seat facing the room, but I didn’t want to cause an argument.
With the quiet efficiency the restaurant was renowned for, our waiter reappeared with a carafe of water and the wine menu. Piers ordered without asking me. When the man left us, I waited for my so-called date to speak.
Instead, he glared out at the room, his fingers silently drumming on the white tablecloth. He’d removed the sports jacket, and his pale-blue shirt strained over gym-built biceps. Probably the result of steroids. He wore the impatient, barely constrained aggressive air of one of those types.
“Would you like me to tell you who I recognise here?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Right, then.
Instead, he opened his mouth, and with his focus still on the room, recited his career highlights. A pause came, and I found him staring at me.
“Who do I work for currently?”
“Webman-Foster,” I supplied. “I didn’t realise there would be a test.”
He didn’t smile. “Job title?”
God. He was serious. Lucky for me, fact retention was one of my superpowers, even if it had been read out like the world’s dullest weather report. “Investment Portfolio Manager.”
With the barest of acknowledgements, he watched the room once more.
“Would you like to know anything about me?” I asked.
“Your father told me all I need to know.”
If this had been a real date, I would have filled the silence myself with beige chat. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be here, let alone play get-to-know-you with a man who had the worst manners of anyone I’d ever met.
The waiter returned with our bottle of wine and poured a taste for Piers to approve. At a nod, he filled our glasses.
“We’re ready to order,” Piers informed him.
Shit. I hadn’t even checked the menu.
“Tonight’s tasting menu begins with—” the waiter said.
“We’re ordering à la carte. The lady will have a Caeser salad, hold the dressing, and I’ll have the best cut of steak this place can scavenge. Rare.”
I squinted. No dressing on that salad meant just lettuce and croutons. I might not have wanted a big meal, but an edible one would help create the illusion that I was eating.
“Actually, I’d like—” I started.
Piers cut me a flat stare. It told me to stop. It screamed danger and reminded me so much of my father that I closed my mouth and dropped my gaze to the table.
With a murmur, the waiter left us. I made no attempt to speak, stuck facing Piers’ direction and with nothing but the little vase on the table to focus on. In a way, it suited me. I didn’t have sparkling conversation in me. I was vacant. Empty.
Bereft.
The meal arrived. I picked at my dry lettuce and crunched a crouton. The chef had thankfully dusted parmesan over the dish, and I angled my lettuce to scoop up a piece.
“Cheese is mostly fat,” Piers commented.
I glanced up. He sawed through his steak, blood pooling on his plate.
“Without the Caeser dressing, this meal is unpalatable,” I answered.
I had the patience of a saint, but it was wearing thin. He’d taken my phone, ordered without asking me what I’d like, and been an overall jerk. I wouldn’t say any of that, as much as I wanted.
“You’re overweight so need to learn self-control,” he continued.
I exhaled, a rush of anger mixing with hurt. With breathtaking arrogance and a lack of awareness, Piers started on a diatribe about his nutrition and exercise routine.
Setting down my cutlery, I abandoned the terrible meal and folded my arms, waiting for the moment he realised I didn’t give a shit. He talked and ate, finishing his steak and vegetables, leaving the potatoes, and not once did he register my hostility.
The waiter took our plates, returning with a smaller menu. “Would sir or madam care to be tempted by the dessert menu?”
“No,” Piers said.
“Yes, madam would,” I corrected, taking the elegantly printed menu and running a finger down it. “The cheesecake, please.”
“Very good.”
He left us, and I gazed back at Piers, my expression neutral, though his was twisted in disgust.
“You won’t eat that,” he dictated.
“I told you my meal was less than satisfactory, so I will.”
He held my gaze, something ticking over in his that I couldn’t read, then he curled his lip and reached for the wine bottle, emptying the rest into his glass. I didn’t care. I wasn’t a big drinker, and the sooner I’d had a bite or two of my sweet course, I’d ask to leave.
The tinkling chatter of the other diners around us closed in on me. Pressure built. Piers downed his wine and held his gaze on me.
He had small eyes, I noted. Smaller than reasonable for a man his size.
At last, a bowl was set down in front of me. I produced a happy smile with my thanks then took up my fork. The pudding had a honeycomb decoration and fresh raspberries alongside, plus a drizzle of coulis.
With his elbows on the table, Piers tracked the waiter leaving. At the same moment, the people next to us stood to vacate their table, their backs to us as they praised the meal to the host.
“We’re leaving,” Piers told me.
“Excellent.” I angled my fork to slice into the cheesecake.
“On Saturday, you’ll accompany me to a dinner and dance at the Hudson. Wear something that fits you better.”
I stilled. Another date? God, no. “Sorry, I’m not available.”
“It wasn’t a question. Now drop the fucking fork.”
I breathed out hate because fuck him. For my father’s sake, I should be doing everything I could to impress the man, but I just couldn’t.
I lifted my hand with a bite of food.
Under the cover of the people blocking us from the rest of the room, Piers half rose, looming over my plate.
He spat onto the cheesecake, his saliva dribbling over my fork and on the creamy pudding.
In horror, I dropped the cutlery, the clatter loud in the restaurant’s quiet hush.
“Next time, you will behave better,” he instructed with crystal-clear coldness and his voice at a level where only I could hear him.
The next several minutes passed in a blur. Piers paid the bill and joked with the waiter about women’s fickle appetites, and we left the place, returning to the car through the mild evening. I was in shock, I realised. My numbness had taken a slap to the face by someone so vile, he rivalled my father for the trophy of World’s Most Awful Human.
Surely that hadn’t just happened.
The rudeness and ignorance. The self-centredness. The spit .
Piers drove us home. Throughout the whole journey, my father’s edict played out in my mind. Suck his dick. I couldn’t. You’re twenty-seven. People are talking. He’d set me up. My father was pairing me off with this specimen of a person. Not just for a date, but longer term, and for some benefit to him I couldn’t imagine.
Clearly Piers didn’t like me. He probably hated all women.
The minute the car came to a halt on our driveway, I hopped out and quick-stepped to the door. He had my phone, but I needed to get inside. At the last minute, I scanned the street to see if anyone from Connor’s crew was still following me.
But it was empty.
Laura’s car was gone, too. The only other vehicle in sight was a taxi, bringing home the couple who owned the huge house next door and who’d been on holiday. The woman waved, but I didn’t return it, not wanting to linger a second more outside.
I reached into my clutch.
A hand grasped my elbow.
Piers reached past me and opened the door with a key I didn’t know him to have. He wrestled me into the dark hall. Fear gripped me, and sweat broke out on my brow, my body urging me to run. To get away from him. But I couldn’t escape.
Once, when I was fifteen, another man had done the same. Caged me. Hurt me. Right here in the same spot.
Whatever Piers expected to happen next, I couldn’t oblige.
My father’s friend pushed me against the wall and rummaged in his pocket. I slammed my eyes closed, like that would somehow help me, piecing over what I could do.
“You’re forgetting something,” Piers purred, his breath sour with the meat and wine he’d consumed.
He pressed an object to my chest. My phone, I gathered from the shape.
Then he took my collar and yanked it, tearing the dress to shove my phone into my cleavage. “Well, well. Look what you’re hiding under here.”
I twisted away, clutching my décolletage. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Come on, don’t be like that.”
He advanced on me. This wasn’t happening. I couldn’t let it, not again. Yet I was almost certain that if I yelled, no one was going to come running.
What I did next surprised even me. Reaching out, I grasped Piers’ arms and raised my knee in a swift jerk upwards. It connected sweetly with his groin.
He fell back and clutched the injured site. “You fucking bitch.”
He was going to hurt me for that. I knew it even as I flinched to get away.
Abruptly, a scream of terror tore through the air, coming from outside, and startling enough that Piers stalled in his second attempt on me.
I used the interruption to kick off my heels and run.