Chapter 4
Chapter Four
FORD
“Leverage for what?” Griffen asked, sitting back in the chair, picking up the pen again, and flicking it through his fingers.
“Leverage I could use to get Dad to step back from the business. To rein in some of his more predatory behavior. I wanted to do better—for our business partners, for this town.”
“And did you find anything?” Griffen asked, his head tilted to the side.
“Not enough before time ran out, and someone shot him. I know you found my notes on the contracts related to Finn’s kidnapping. All I uncovered were more questions.”
“Do you think your research had something to do with Dad’s murder?” Griffen asked. “Cole admitted to framing you, but you don’t think he killed Dad?”
I shook my head, then asked, “What does West think?”
“West thinks he’s telling the truth. That he set you up, sent people to screw with us, but that he didn’t kill Dad.”
“I’d believe he did it,” I said, “if Dad had died right after Caro Haywood died.”
Caro had been Cole’s beloved wife. She’d died along with her baby during childbirth.
After Cole had discovered the baby was Prentice’s—and so was his wife.
He’d been devastated but had sat on his rage, cold and calculating, until Prentice’s fresh corpse provided an opportunity to take his vengeance.
We’d learned Cole was capable of crimes of passion.
He’d murdered a jewelry designer only months before for, as he’d put it, having a smart mouth.
But generally, Cole Haywood was deliberate and contained.
“I think if he wanted to kill Dad,” I said, “he would have done it closer to Caro’s death.
He wouldn’t have waited two whole years after she died.
And he would have done it…” Images flashed through my mind, and I shook my head.
“I don’t think it would have been as painless as a bullet through the forehead. ”
It was the simplest way I could sum up my thoughts.
Griffen’s jaw set, and he nodded. “Agreed. Even with the bonus of pinning a murder on you,” Griffen said, “I don’t think he could have restrained himself to a single shot.” He set the pen down and sat forward, bracing his elbows on his desk. “So, who do you think is good for it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I want to go back through business associates, contracts, deals we were working on. I have my notes from before Dad was killed. Paperwork up in the attic that I was going through.”
“What do you want from me?” Griffen asked.
I shrugged. “Permission, I guess. It’s your house, your attic, and technically your storage bins full of paperwork.”
If I were any of my siblings, I was pretty sure Griffen would have said something like, It’s your house too. But he didn’t, because I wasn’t one of our siblings. I was the one who’d had him exiled. I was lucky he’d let me back in the Manor. It was too much to expect free rein of the place.
“It’s fine with me,” he said after a hesitation. “But, uh, Ford?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“Be careful. I know Cole is in jail, but if we really think he didn’t kill Dad, then someone else did.
Right now, everything’s nice and quiet. Your name’s been cleared, the investigation’s technically reopened, but West doesn’t have new evidence, so it’s not going anywhere.
Whoever pulled that trigger is probably feeling pretty safe right now.
They’ve already killed once. They might not hesitate to do it again if they feel that safety is threatened. ”
His eyes locked on mine, boring into me, and I nodded. “I know.”
“If you’re doing this because you feel like you have to prove something,” Griffen said, “think about what you’re risking.”
I shoved out of the chair, needing to move. “Don’t you want to know who killed him?” I asked.
Griffen leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, watching me pace the carpet in front of his desk.
After a long pause, he said, “I do. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.
I want to know who killed him so we can close the door.
So I can be sure my family is out of danger.
That this is over. But that’s not why you want to know. ”
He was right, and it irked me.
“It’s part of why I want to know,” I argued. “Of course it’s part. But yeah, I also have something to prove.”
“Not to me,” Griffen said. “Not to your family.”
I thought of the look in Paige’s eyes. The suspicion and fear.
“And if I was never planning on leaving Heartstone Manor, that would be fine,” I said.
“But Griffen, you should see people’s faces when they come into the brewery.
So many of them think I did it. I’m not going to put any of you in danger—” You can’t promise that, a little voice in my head whispered.
I ignored it. “But I need to know who did this. I need to clear my name once and for all. I want to do better,” I admitted, my stomach rolling, uneasy with the look of compassion, of pity, on Griffen’s face. “I want to start over.”
Griffen started to speak, and I interrupted.
“I know I can’t change the past. And I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for what I’ve done. But I can’t start over until we know who killed our father.”
Griffen crossed his arms over his chest and gave a short nod. “Go for it,” he said. “Just keep your eyes open. And be careful.”
I forced out a curt “Thanks,” and escaped his office.
I took the stairs to the attic two at a time, only a little out of breath as I reached the top.
My father hadn’t been one for going through files and had never ventured into the attic, as far as I could remember.
Which was why, in the months before his death, I’d taken to hiding my research up here.
By then, I was living in a suite in the Inn at Sawyers Bend, unable to tolerate sharing a roof with Prentice any longer.
But his office had remained here, and he’d grown hermit-like in his refusal to leave Heartstone.
He’d fired staff, even Miss Martha, Savannah’s mother and our longtime housekeeper.
Artwork had been disappearing, the house growing dusty, cobwebs springing up in the corners.
I hadn’t known he’d been grieving the loss of Caro, the woman he’d hoped to make his wife, and the child he’d expected her to give him.
I didn’t know how much sympathy I would have had if I had known.
In a million years, when I’d suggested they co-sponsor that charity event, I’d never imagined it would end the way it had.
Caro was another man’s wife. Our friend’s wife.
Not that my father had ever cared for other people’s marriage vows—or his own.
It hadn’t occurred to me that he had enough heart to grieve anyone.
Back then, I’d thought the decline of the Manor said something about his mental state.
I’d thought if I could find anything compromising in his business records, maybe that, along with the state of the house, could be used to wrest control of the company from Prentice.
When I’d conspired to get rid of Griffen, it had been about envy.
I could admit it now. But in the years before Prentice had been killed, I hadn’t been driven by envy or greed.
It had been about my family. After far too long, I finally saw Prentice with clear eyes: the manipulations, the lack of ethics.
He knew how to stay just inside the law while rarely doing what was right, and I was tired of it.
I wanted to have collaborative relationships with our business partners.
I wanted to support my siblings in finding their dreams. I wanted to sleep well at night.
And for any of that to happen, I had to get rid of Prentice—or at least neutralize him.
I’d gone through everything I could find, looking for the proverbial smoking gun. Now I had to wonder if buried somewhere in those papers was the answer to who killed my father. Had I been getting too close? What had I missed?
The only way to find out was to restart my investigation.
I remembered where I’d stopped, more than a year ago, only days before Prentice had been shot and I’d been arrested.
I’d been going through a banker’s box stuffed with files I’d hidden in an antique wardrobe in a corner of the attic.
It was still exactly where I’d left it, the wardrobe too bulky and dated for Savannah to have tried to put to use.
I pulled over a threadbare bench and opened the box.
Hours disappeared as I leafed through files, contracts, and pages of notes.
A real estate deal for some strip malls in the upstate of South Carolina.
We’d done well on that one. The seller, not as much, but there wasn’t anything here to inspire murder, and I set it aside.
Stacks of leases for businesses in town.
I saved a few that were worth looking into.
For the most part, nothing there either.
Below that, a legal-sized envelope. When I unfastened the flap, invoices flowed through my hands, thin and crinkly with age.
A plumber, an electrician—but these looked old.
I checked the date and did a double-take.
Really old. 1986. I’d been an infant. I didn’t remember this much work done on the Manor—but would a child really note that?
I sorted through the stack of papers in my lap—concrete, gravel, the garage.
Prentice had been the one to tear down the old carriage house and convert the second ballroom beneath the guest wing into garages—less gracious, but much more convenient.
But that had been done prior to my birth, so why had he done more work in ’86? I didn’t know.
I shuffled the invoices back into the envelope and set it aside to ask Griffen.
Maybe Miss Martha knew. Savannah’s mother remembered everything.
Steps sounded in the hall outside the door.
The attic was divided into different rooms, most of which were stuffed with furniture.
I caught sight of a small blond head of hair by the doorway.
“Is somebody in here?” a thready child’s voice asked.
“Back here,” I called out. “Just going through some papers.”
Judging by the size and the hair color, I’d have to say August, my brother Tenn’s and his wife Scarlett’s son. I didn’t interact with the kids much, but I knew them by sight.
“What are you doing up here?” I asked as August tentatively entered the room.
“Hide and seek,” he answered simply.
That was enough. Hide and seek in Heartstone Manor was an Olympic-level event. “What’s off-limits?” I asked.
“Everything on the kitchen level,” he answered promptly. “Dumbwaiter, garage, cars, people’s bedrooms, and Griffen’s office. Also,” he added, “no hiding behind the curtains in the art gallery because Mom’s afraid we’ll knock something over.”
I nodded sagely. “Solid rules,” I said. We’d had similar ones growing up. “But the attic’s not off-limits?”
August shook his head.
“You want a suggestion?” I offered.
He stared at me, wary but not afraid. “Sure,” he said.
I crooked my finger, and he closed the distance between us. Leaning down, I whispered in his ear. When he heard my idea, August gave a quick whoop of glee and disappeared.
It wasn’t long before I heard more steps in the hall.
I looked up, expecting to see Nicky or Thatcher, and was surprised to see Paige, her pale blue eyes scanning the room, jolting as they landed on me.
For a second, our gazes locked. Nerves swirled across her face, and she took a step back, wrenching her eyes from mine to scan the room again.
“Have you seen August?” she asked.
I didn’t want to lie, but I wasn’t going to rat the kid out either—not when he had such a stellar hiding place, courtesy of yours truly.
“Well,” I said, sitting up and putting the box to the side, “I’ve been really focused on going through this paperwork. I’m not sure I was paying attention.”
Her eyes narrowed on mine. “Uh-huh,” she said. “So, you don’t know where he is?”
“I’m sure he’s around somewhere,” I said, “but if I knew, telling would be cheating.”
Paige huffed out a breath of annoyance. “True,” she said, “but Finn is putting out tea with fresh-baked shortbread, and I didn’t want August to miss it. So, if you see him, could you let him know?”
“If I see him,” I agreed.
She backed out of the room and carried on down the hall.
I wanted to ask her to stay, or to follow and invite myself to tea, but talking to me wasn’t part of her job description.
I listened to August’s lighter steps following her down to tea as the late afternoon sun shifted, casting the attic in shadow.
In a house full of family and warmth, I was alone in the dark. It was exactly what I deserved, no matter how much I might wish for more.