Chapter 25
Twenty-five
Kingston
Sunday dinner at my parents’ house smells like prime rib before I even make it through the door. Garlic and rosemary drift through the air, layered over the buttery scent of twice-baked potatoes crisping in the oven. The clatter of pans mixes with voices, the chaos wrapping around me.
Theo comes barreling out of the living room on unsteady legs, a grin spread across his face as he wobbles toward the dogs.
They circle him like patient guardians, tails wagging as he clutches at fur and table legs to keep his balance.
Greyson scoops him up just before he topples, and Trinity laughs, adjusting the baby’s bib.
“Slow down, buddy,” Greyson murmurs, but Theo is already wriggling toward the dogs again, squealing without words.
Mom appears with a glass of wine in one hand and a kitchen towel in the other. “There you are,” she says, kissing my cheek before pressing the glass into my palm. “Taste this. We are pouring merlot because your father insists the cabernet is too obvious.”
Dad glances up to give me a look from the carving board, where the prime rib rests under foil.
I take a sip. “It’s too obvious. Let the cabernet breathe for a bit. By dinner it should be plenty ready.”
Greyson bumps my shoulder with his free arm. “Look who’s Switzerland. You look like you slept three hours.”
“Four,” I answer, pretending a smile.
Ryker leans against the counter with Ginny tucked at his side, already stealing the edge of a potato.
“Hands off,” Beckett warns, swatting him away. Sadie shakes her head and turns to Mom. “We’re thinking about a babymoon, and we’ve been looking at flights to Costa Rica. Rosie always wanted to see sloths.”
After Rosie, Sadie’s best friend, died waiting for a heart transplant, Sadie and Beckett began honoring her by completing the bucket list she left behind.
Mom’s face softens. “That would mean the world to her.”
“Sloths.” Ryker smirks. “You’re flying halfway across the world for sleepy tree rats?”
Ginny elbows him. “Better than your idea of a romantic getaway.”
The chatter follows us into the dining room where the table glows with platters of prime rib carved thick, twice-baked potatoes piled high with cheese, roasted root vegetables glistening with olive oil, and two pies cooling at the far end—chocolate cream and lemon meringue.
Mom ushers us to our seats like she has conducted this symphony a hundred times before.
Conversation starts up instantly. Greyson entertains with a clinic story that has Trinity rolling her eyes. Beckett and Ryker bicker about playlists. Ginny swats Ryker’s hand again when he tries to sneak a potato.
Theo toddles laps around the table, the dogs padding after him, tails swishing. He bangs a wooden spoon against a chair leg, the sharp thwack making everyone laugh. Mom sighs fondly and scoops him up, only for him to wriggle free and make another run for the dogs.
It’s warm. Loud. Easy.
And I sit in the middle of it, feeling oddly separate. The file in my inbox from the private investigator is heavy on my heart.
Elise would know the right words to cut through this noise. Or she’d at least help me find them. But she isn’t here, and it’s on me to drop the truth and let it land where it will.
Dad catches my eye over his glass. His brows pull tight. He knows something’s up. We fill our plates with prime rib, crisp salad, and potatoes, passing the platters around the table.
Once everyone has their meal, I clear my throat. “I have an update from Cal,” I say.
The voices dip, the room softening.
“He found Zach. Mexico. Puerto Vallarta. He isn’t hiding. He’s living easy. Marina condo. Golf. Restaurants.”
Beckett’s fork slips against his plate. Greyson’s chair scrapes back a fraction.
Dad’s jaw hardens. “On whose dime?”
I steady my voice. “Max’s.”
The room detonates.
When the questions subside, Mom presses a hand to her chest. “No. He told us— He said he didn’t know.”
Tarryn whispers, “He cried in our kitchen.”
“He said a lot,” I reply. “But Cal traced the wires. From the Maximus Paradise Trust to the LLC paying Zach’s rent. Lease, receipts, ACH confirmations, and retainers labeled as consulting. It’s all there.”
My father lays his palms flat on the table, fury and disbelief cutting sharp lines into his face. “Show me,” he demands.
“I will forward the file.” My throat tightens. “Max is paying for Zach to be on the run, and Cal’s not seeing evidence that Zach’s been back to Canada. So I’m not sure if he’s been involved with the sabotage since he left.”
Mom’s voice breaks. “Why would Max do this and lie to us?”
“Zach’s his son,” Greyson says bleakly.
“Or leverage,” Beckett mutters. “He tanks us, and then rides in as savior.”
“Over my dead body.” Tarryn grips the edge of the table. I slide my hand over hers. She doesn’t pull away.
Silence stretches. Even the dogs seem to go still at Theo’s feet.
Mom pushes back her chair just slightly.
For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, eyes fixed on the prime rib cooling on the platter like she’s trying to make the world ordinary again.
When she finally speaks, her voice is low.
“He sat at this table last week. He prayed with us before we ate. And now this.”
Dad stands, pacing toward the window. He braces both hands against the frame, shoulders rigid, his reflection a dark shape in the glass. For a long moment, no one dares break the silence.
But then Ryker does because, of course, he does.
Only his voice isn’t joking this time. “If he can pay Zach to screw with us, he could be paying someone else to do the other things. The fire, the water valve stuck on before the storm at your place, cut brake lines. And now, rocks poured into the water line. What’s next? ”
The edge in his words betrays something I rarely hear from him—fear.
Greyson exhales hard, staring down at his plate. “Jesus.”
Mom finally gathers herself, smoothing her napkin, forcing composure back onto her face. “We’ll get through this,” she says, but it sounds more like a prayer than certainty.
Dad turns from the window, his voice steel. “We don’t feed on each other. We don’t turn this house into his stage. We make a plan.”
The suggestions start tumbling out—Ryker blurting ideas about security, Beckett adding motion sensors, Greyson pushing legal.
Elise would hate this, hate the way betrayal threatens to fracture the strongest roots.
“Do we manage this ourselves, or do we alert the police and let it get out to everyone in town?” Mom asks, pain etched in every word. “He’s your brother.”
Dad’s gaze hardens. “He made his choice when he wired that money. He’ll answer for it.”
“I’ll contact the lawyers tomorrow,” I tell them. “I’ll send them the file. And I will fly to Vancouver this week. Dad, do you want to come with me to meet with the lawyers?”
Dad nods. “And we audit every system. Hire security.”
“I’ll walk the rows with Tarryn,” Ryker volunteers.
Beckett raises his hand. “Me too.”
Mom reaches across the table and squeezes Dad’s hand. “We’ll get through this. We always do.”
Conversation trickles back in uneven bursts as we return to the meal. Beckett and Sadie talk quietly, and Ryker teases Ginny into swatting him again. Greyson scrolls for motion sensor specs, Trinity steadying Theo as he bangs his fists against the table, delighted with the sound.
My family is knitting themselves tighter around a rupture. It’s what we do. But what if we can’t? What if there’s so much damage that in the end there’s no winery to hang on to? We simply can’t let that happen.
I lift my glass. “To not letting the bastards win.”
“Language,” Mom scolds automatically, and laughter rolls across the table like a release.
We drink. The wine is dark fruit, iron, and something stubborn I decide is hope.