Chapter 36. Isabel, the Assistant
Isabel, the Assistant
PRESENT DAY
Brooks showed up at my door with a look on his face that was as charged as a live wire, wearing a pressed navy suit so straitlaced and serious that I could no longer deny he was, first and foremost, an FBI agent.
“What’s wrong?” I asked the minute I opened the door. His barely contained energy was obvious in the tense fists of his hands.
Brooks’s gaze swept me from head to toe, taking in my jeans and faded USC Law shirt, which I’d stolen from him years ago.
It was embarrassing to be caught wearing it, since I’d thrown it on this morning with Brooks on the brain—I could see it distracting him, his lips twisting to say something sly, but I cut him off.
“Brooks, seriously, it’s nine in the morning. Why are you here?”
He tore his eyes from my shirt. “I gave Detective Holloway copies of the photos from the private investigator and explained our theory that Easton killed Georgia ten years ago and has a motive to frame Scout.”
“He hates her,” I said. “Did you listen to the podcast links I sent? He’s made a whole second career out of blaming Scout for Alden’s suicide.”
Brooks rubbed a hand over his dark hair. “Holloway’s not buying it.”
“What? Why?” Had Scout been right not to trust the police?
He crossed his arms. “I think she’s had Scout in her head for so long it’s hard for her to consider another suspect. But I convinced her to bring in Easton for questioning. He flew back from one of Knox’s campaign events this morning. I need you and Scout to come—”
“He what?” A chill ran down my spine. “Easton’s back?”
Brooks frowned. “It’s a good thing. It means we’ll get him in for questioning—”
Dakota might have chosen to live in the Bankses’ haunted Hollywood Hills home, but Easton had moved with his child bride to a flashy estate in Malibu.
Scout and I had found the address together.
Panic reached its icy fingers through me.
“Brooks, I have to go.” I tried to shut the door, but he threw out a hand and caught it.
“What’s going on? And don’t you dare tell me nothing.” His eyes flashed. “I’m warning you, Isabel. I’m not the same man I was ten years ago. I won’t let you run me off.”
Run, my instincts urged, in direct contrast to his words. Now.
Brooks’s beautiful face twisted in anger. “If something is happening that’s relevant to the case, I need to know. I’ve taken a huge risk for you. I’m jeopardizing my career.”
I couldn’t help it—he’d opened the door to ten years ago, and the question flew out. “I don’t even understand why you joined the FBI. When I knew you, all you wanted was to be a lawyer.”
“Why do you think?” he burst out. “You and Scout weren’t the only ones whose lives changed when Georgia died.
I watched you suffer, and I was helpless to do anything about it.
” He turned sharply to the side, as if he didn’t want me to see his face.
“You knew I was helpless. That’s why you didn’t want me anymore. ”
I stared at him, stunned.
“Can you blame me for choosing a job that gave me some goddamn control?” He mastered himself and turned back to me, standing in the doorway.
“And if we’re asking about motivations, here’s a question I’ve had for years: The Isabel I remember had her own dreams. Why’d you give them up to become Scout’s assistant?
” Brooks scrubbed a hand roughly over his mouth.
“What was it? You felt so guilty she lost her sister you decided your life was an okay replacement?”
He didn’t know what I’d done under the guise of being Scout’s personal assistant.
But that didn’t mean his words didn’t sting.
Or maybe he was right, and it was that simple: Maybe Georgia had been taken and some part of me had decided it was my duty to make it right for Scout, no matter the personal cost.
“Ten years later and you still aren’t ready to have an honest conversation.” The hope in Brooks’s eyes faded. “You won’t even give me that.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.” I prayed he could hear my honest regret. “I really did love you, for whatever that’s worth. Everything else … maybe one day I can tell you. But not today.”
Today, I was still choosing her.
I flew west down the highway, dodging the insane traffic clogging the exits to Downtown, nails digging half moons into my steering wheel. What if I didn’t make it?
Malibu overlooked the Pacific, famous for two things: compounds that towered above the waves and plagues of natural disasters—erosions, landslides, and fires.
The wealthiest rebuilt every time, but my real estate agent had warned there would come a day, as the earth’s climate continued to unravel, that the sea itself would flood Malibu and bury it underwater, a fate no wealth could stave off.
In fact, in the coming years, there was a chance the ocean would reclaim all of Los Angeles.
Like so many other things, it was a ticking bomb.
But that apocalypse was years away. The one I raced toward was happening now.
Somehow, I knew Easton’s house before checking the address.
It stood on the edge of a cliff, storm clouds gathering above, the roof ringed by a dark miasma.
An enormous lawn, guarded by trees, shielded the house from the street, and through the breaks between branches I could see Scout.
A lone woman facing the Hellmouth, at the center of which was her sister’s killer.
I was silent as I approached. But Scout turned anyway and held out her hand, as if she’d known all along I was coming. We stood side by side, fingers intertwined.
“I’m sorry for what I said about you and Georgia.” Scout squeezed my hand. “She was your sister as much as mine.”
It was what I longed to hear, deep down. Proof that I mattered, that everything I’d given meant something. “Thank you,” I whispered.
We stood in silence for a moment, watching the impending storm roll closer. I glanced from the single lit window in the house to the waistband of her jeans, where she’d tucked a slender handgun. “You told me you got rid of that.”
“I lied.”
“What else have you lied to me about?”
She turned to me. “I left my knife in Alden’s room on purpose. So he’d never forget I was there.”
“We,” I corrected. “We were there.”
She smiled. “We.”
We walked around the perimeter of the house, checking windows and entryways, until we found Easton’s sliding glass door was unlocked.
Here in the sheltered enclaves of Malibu, he must feel untouchable.
We crept inside, the sound of our footsteps on the stairs masked by classical music coming from the second floor, where we’d seen the light in the window.
Easton’s office was lined with shelves displaying awards and thick bottles of scotch. A huge Lucite desk sat in the center of the room, Easton behind it, as imposing as a king.
Scout lifted her gun before he could speak.
“What?” Easton shoved back from his desk, scrambling to his feet, his phone falling to the floor. “What’s happening?”
“Don’t move,” Scout said. I couldn’t believe how steady her voice sounded.
I borrowed her strength. “We know you killed Georgia. Not your son.” Behind Easton, through a massive window, stretched all of Los Angeles.
He threw up his hands, eyes glued to the gun. “I had nothing to do with that.” His voice was rough as gravel. “You’re the ones who signed my son’s death warrant, accusing him of it.”
Silently, Scout pulled a folded-up photo out of her pocket and walked forward, smoothing it over Easton’s desk. I looked down at Georgia and Easton tangled together. The color drained from Easton’s face.
“You were sleeping with her.” I knew Scout’s coldness was a mask, but she’d always been too convincing. “The night of your Christmas party, you were the one she met in the pool house.”
Emotions warred over Easton’s face. Ten years had hardly changed him, only hollowed out his cheeks, added a touch of silver to his hair. This was the face of Georgia’s boyfriend. Her killer. I tried to watch carefully, wanting to see the exact moment his expression turned fearful.
There it was. Funny: It was the first time he’d ever resembled his son, with fear on his face.
“I was seeing her,” Easton admitted, raising his hands higher, as if he thought Scout might pull the trigger. “But it was consensual, I swear. The choking was consensual, too.”
Scout’s grip tightened on her gun. Easton’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Your sister wanted to experiment.”
“Liar.”
“I know there was an age gap, but—”
“Did Alden find out?” The thought had just occurred to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. “That you were sleeping with the girl he loved?”
Scout looked at me, and I watched the realization hit her, too. “He must’ve figured out that you were the reason she was in the pool house that night. Which meant you were the one who killed her.” Her chest heaved. “Is that why he took his own life?”
Alden must’ve put it together: The fact that Georgia was found in the pool house, where Easton was famous for bringing his dalliances.
His dad’s predilection for younger girls, Georgia’s unwillingness to share who her boyfriend was.
Maybe Easton’s unexpected warmth upon meeting Georgia had even clued Alden in, such a stark change after so many years suffering his father’s disapproval.
The night we’d come over, Alden must’ve put the pieces together and realized the true scope of his dad’s betrayal.
The look on Easton’s face was confirmation enough. “My son was too soft,” he said. “I tried to toughen him, but I couldn’t.”
“Why did you kill Georgia?” For ten long years I’d imagined every possibility. “Did she threaten to tell your wife?”
Easton scrubbed his face. When he withdrew his hands, there were new lines etched around his eyes I hadn’t noticed before. “I told you, I didn’t kill her.” His gaze met mine, and he took a cautious step from behind his desk.
“Don’t move,” Scout barked.
But he ignored her, taking another step. “I went too far that night. I’ll admit that. I got too rough. I was drunk from the party, probably too excited at the thought of sneaking around with her under everyone’s noses.”
My mouth went dry.
“I choked her too hard,” Easton said, with another step. “Missed the warning signs. She passed out. I’m giving you this honesty because I have nothing to hide.”
“Stop moving,” Scout warned, but Easton stepped forward anyway, and before I could react, Scout struck him across the face, the barrel of the gun splitting Easton’s cheek.
He lunged at her, trying to wrest the gun from her grasp.
“Get off her,” I screamed, and threw myself at him, trying to shove him as he wrestled Scout to the floor. But he was too heavy.
“My son’s blood is on your hands,” Easton roared, wrenching the gun out of Scout’s grip. She kneed him between the legs, then bit him on the cheek, quick as a viper. Easton screamed and reared back, clutching his bloody face, and the gun went skittering across the floor.
I seized the first thing I could find—a Golden Globe statue from the bookshelf, its square marble base heavy in my hand—and swung for Easton’s head, cracking it once, twice, until he slumped over.
I staggered back, chest heaving, and Scout shoved his dead weight off. There was a sudden gasp from behind us, and a voice rang out—a voice that dragged back a thousand memories.
“Scout?”
Standing in the doorway, jaw dropped in shock, was Emmy Nolan—no, Emerson Banks, Easton’s wife. Her hair was blonder, her features so different, and it took me a second to realize why looking at her felt so uncanny.
I looked down at Scout on the floor, then back at Emmy. They could’ve been twins.
Bile rose up my throat as Emmy crouched and picked up Scout’s gun. She held it gingerly, like it was a snake that might bite.
“Emmy.” I dropped the bloody Golden Globe on Easton’s desk. “We can explain.”
“He killed Georgia,” Scout said. “All this time it was Easton, not Alden.”
Emmy said nothing. She simply rose.
And pointed the gun at us.