Chapter 30
Simon Avery is Polly McGinnis’s Uncle Simon?
My blood goes cold.
This isn’t worlds colliding. It’s the big bang. The extinction of dinosaurs and nuclear fallout rolled into one. A blast so potent, the poison could linger in the air for years to come.
Looking to Ford, then Simon, then Polly, I try to force my mind to time-hop.
To mentally conjure Simon’s Rolodex circa six years ago.
His roster was so star-studded any publicist would have traded their firstborn for it.
If Ford McGinnis was in there, the name wouldn’t have stood out.
He’d be yet another legendary phenom in a long list of the pro athletes, power brokers, and celebrities Simon liked to keep in his orbit.
But here he is, bending down to greet Polly in an exchange that is so wholesome, I half expect him to pull a quarter from behind her ear.
Too bad he’s here to destroy my husband.
Questions flood my thoughts, like a mushroom cloud in my mind detonating far and wide.
Did Ford lose money in the Redwood meltdown like Gemma? Is he in on whatever Simon’s scheming? Is anyone else here an accomplice to the Redwood revenge plot?
I scan the crowd for signs of recognition in their eyes. But Carol, Tippy, and Shep seem blissfully unaware.
My mouth is still slack when Beau hisses, “What the hell is he doing here?”
I can’t find the words to answer him, my gaze jumping between the two of them for a moment. Beau notices what I don’t say.
“You knew?” His jaw tightens. “You knew he was in town?”
“I—”
“Este, you should have told me. He’s been after me for years, pummeling my lawyers with everything he can think of about the Redwood hack. But he doesn’t have any proof. He never gets any traction.”
The knot in my stomach pulls tighter. “You’ve never told me that. How the fuck can I help you when I keep learning new stuff like this?”
“I knew how much you cared about it.” His features harden. “Redwood, I mean.”
I can’t tell if this is a cheap shot or a confession. Did Beau ever feel threatened by my relationship with Simon? Does he still?
“Is there anything else, Beau?” I ask, watching the crowd rise to make their introductions. “Because now would be a really good time to tell me.”
“That’s all of it.” He exhales, and with steely eyes, he returns, “What about you?”
Our standoff is short-lived, though. Simon peels himself away from Polly and straightens to his full height, smoothing his designer shirt like he didn’t just crash-land in my neighbor’s yard.
As Polly turns to run inside, Simon moves toward us with the ease of someone who’s always belonged everywhere, even here, even now.
“Este, Beau,” Ford calls, waving for us to rejoin the group. “Come meet Simon.”
“Let’s just try to get out of this night alive,” Beau mutters as we cross the lawn.
But that hope feels laughable. Simon Avery, the man who taught me to always be running more than one play at a time, is standing a few dozen yards from the hedgerows where I smuggle Polly snacks—a few dozen yards from my home. And he’s two moves ahead like always.
Is he here to ambush Beau? About the hack? About Gemma?
“Simon Avery,” Simon announces. As we reach the pergola, he’s offering Carol a charming nod and a handshake.
She finds her most poised party guest voice and asks, “How do you know Ford, Simon?”
Yes. Do tell, Lucifer. How did you make it to this side of Earth?
“We lived on the same floor at St. Paul’s,” Ford says as he approaches, clapping his hand to Simon’s back.
“Ford left after the first year, though,” Simon continues as if they’ve both told this story many times before. “Recruited down to a golf program here in Florida. But we stayed in touch. I’m not really Polly’s uncle. But she bestowed the nickname a few years ago, and it stuck.”
Jesus Christ.
The world is small, and the world of the one percent is smaller.
But Ford’s brief stint at Simon’s alma mater explains why I never connected them, despite the years I spent ordering Cuban cigars for his class reunions when I worked for Simon.
If they socialized, it didn’t happen anywhere near my airspace.
Simon wasn’t wrong about me keeping him at arm’s length. I stowed my professional life and our relationship in airtight compartments. At the time, I convinced myself that detachment was its own kind of power.
A decision that’s still costing me, apparently.
Every ugly truth I thought I’d buried is clawing its way back into my life.
I touch my fingers to the bridge of my nose to keep from seeing double. My nervous system keeps sending up flares to run, but his wolfish grin tells me Simon’s trap has already sprung. And whatever play he’s running tonight, it’s already in motion.
Tippy and Shep offer brief hellos before Simon turns back to me. “Este, it’s good to see you again.”
“Oh!” Carol nearly fumbles her chardonnay. “You two know each other?”
Do any of us really know anyone?
She perks up, eyes narrowing with interest, practically vibrating at the prospect of new gossip. Tippy’s head tilts, confusion knitting her brow. She’s not sure what it means, but she knows she’s missed something juicy.
Beau’s knuckles whiten around his beer bottle. But I can’t tell if he’s angrier with me or Simon at the moment.
“Este might know me better than anyone.” Simon chuckles affably. “She was my right hand for years.”
“ ‘Better than anyone’ is a euphemism.” I grin, feeling myself take a sharp left turn out of my right mind. “I was Simon’s chief of staff while we slept together in secret, and then he fired me.”
Carol gasps so loudly I think she might swallow her own tongue.
“Apologies for being so forward in polite company, Carol,” I add, my tone frosty—conveying that not only am I not sorry but I’m far from finished antagonizing our new guest. “Whatever this is, Simon, maybe we should cut to the chase.”
“Este.” Beau puts a hand on my arm, trying to steady me.
Uncomfortable laughter ripples through the pergola.
A few glances dart between Beau’s tense expression and Simon’s too-perfect grin. Shep shifts his weight like he’d rather be anywhere else, while Ford looks puzzled. Simon’s smile doesn’t falter, but the muscle jumping in his cheek gives him away.
I force a smile that feels like it’s stapled to my face, while my heart pounds against my ribs.
I’ve stolen some of his momentum, going off script and outing the one detail he’d expect me to be discreet about.
Size up your opponent’s weakness, and then exploit it to create imbalance in the negotiation.
That’s what he taught me. It feels good to turn his war games against him.
Tippy lets out a bark of laughter. “I love her!” she shouts. “Didn’t I tell you we were cut from the same cloth?” She looks over to Shep as she points at me. “It’s like, we don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks. ’Cause life’s too short.”
“She always has been a wild card. That’s for sure,” Simon says. There’s a lift of his eyebrows that only I recognize as irritation as he turns to Beau.
“So many Californians coming to Florida.” Carol simpers over the rim of her wineglass. “It’s like Beatlemania. Wasn’t Gemma Klein from California, too?”
Carol is best known for her love of gossip, but something about the question feels sinister. Especially for Carol, who’s always working so hard to be the arbiter of decorum and manners.
“Maybe you should move to California, Shep?” Tippy mumbles into her glass of wine.
And I wonder how the countdown to their prenup standoff is coming.
Shouldn’t be long now.
But before anyone can take the bait, Simon smiles and responds to Carol, “I’m only visiting. I had some business in Miami, but when the storm altered my plans, I decided to spend a few days checking in on old friends.”
He says “old friends” like the phrase is laced with strychnine—a threat that’s hard to place but clearly toxic.
“We’re not friends,” I say without inflection.
Return to sender.
“She was from California,” Tippy mutters. “Gemma. Este knew her.”
“Beau, too,” Simon adds, not missing the chance to cast suspicion in Beau’s direction.
“She hated you,” Beau answers bitterly. “Said you were never going to leave her alone.”
Carol’s ears perk, the way a dog catches the word “walk.” Tippy tilts her head like she’s missed the joke. While Shep and Ford look like they’re daydreaming about being on the golf course.
Simon was never going to leave Gemma alone. What the hell did Beau mean by that?
Simon keeps his expression fixed, but I catch the cunning flicker in his eyes. “Gemma had a flair for the dramatic,” he says. “Always convinced everyone was out to get her. Maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong. Right, Beau?”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Beau says, stepping toward Simon.
“Did Gemma finally unravel all your lies?” Simon taunts. “She figured out what you’re capable of—hacking Redwood, lying to Este—so you murdered her to shut her up?”
“I didn’t kill Gemma,” Beau snaps back, and I feel him move toward Simon. Before he takes a step, though, I reach out a hand to keep him from lunging.
“Don’t,” I plead in a voice only Beau can hear.
“Gemma said you were obsessed with the Redwood hack,” Beau says, taking a sip of his beer to steady his voice. “But I didn’t realize it had driven you to delusion.”
My pulse stutters at the antagonism in Beau’s tone. I have to get him out of here before there’s a fistfight and Winter Park has one more reason to believe he’s a violent killer.
“I’m not delusional, Beau.” Simon’s tone is so light, Shep chuckles. “But when someone guts your company with a massive security breach and runs off with your chief of staff, you tend to take notice.”
“You fired me on a note card,” I sneer, unable to hold back.
And now both of the Walkers are coming unglued.
“A gross misjudgment on my part.” Simon touches his heart, playing at gentlemanly. “One for which I apologized when we met at my hotel.”
Beau’s nostrils flare at the mention of this.
“It doesn’t change the fact that—” I start. But I stop myself, realizing I’m falling into another one of his well-laid deceptions.
Judging from the careful smiles plastered on everyone’s faces, they’re missing it, too. They’re all looking at me like I’m being unreasonable. Like I should really hear Simon out. Not Beau, though. His eyes darken, like I’ve wounded him.
“What do you know about why Gemma was in Winter Park, Simon?” I press.
Simon was after Gemma. For what? Details about Beau and me?
“You sent her here,” I accuse, hardly believing the words as I’m saying them.
Gemma was also a notorious gossip, literally profiting off her patrons. Why would she come here for Simon? She was my friend.
But there was a time when I trusted Simon, too.
“You give me too much credit.” Simon chuckles. “Gemma never did need an invitation to insert herself.”
My palms are clammy as the heat rises in my cheeks. Shirking accountability is an area Simon always did excel in. He slides out from under the weight of an accusation like it was never meant for him. And worse, he makes the accuser sound unhinged for voicing a complaint.
I can feel the eyes under the pergola flick to me, then away again, like maybe I’m the problem. Like I’ve pushed things too far.
All these years of lazy summer days have dulled my instincts.
White-hot rage moves through me in an instant. I’m one breath away from settling this the old-fashioned way—charging at him with my fists flying—but Beau’s already got a hand on my waist, and he’s hauling me toward our yard.
“We’re leaving,” he says firmly.
“Beau—” I start, vibrating with fury.
“I know,” he says. “But not like this.”
That’s when Polly barrels out the back door, a cookie platter gripped in both hands.
“Uncle Simon, I made cookies.” She looks at me, enthusiasm lighting her eyes. “He’s staying with us tonight, because his hotel is full.”
“Lucky you,” I say, relaxing my posture so she doesn’t suspect there’s an argument under way.
She shouldn’t have to hear that her “uncle” is a narcissistic megalomaniac until she’s at least a teenager.
So I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.
Beau’s grip on my waist has barely loosened.
He’s poised to pull me out of here at a moment’s notice.
Simon takes a cookie, winking at Polly. “Apparently platinum status doesn’t mean much when the whole coast is fleeing inland.”
“Este and I are headed home,” Beau says, pulling at my waist again.
Before anyone can say good night, though, Detective Travis Ardell cuts across the lawn, as rain begins to spit down. He’s waving us in with the practiced impatience of a lifeguard finishing his shift.
“The storm’s moving fast,” he calls, swinging his arms as he lopes across the yard. “You all need to be inside, hunkered down. Now. Once the winds pick up, it’s going to slow down our ability to safely reach residents in need.”
Chairs scrape, Shep clears his throat, and Tippy and Carol look relieved to finally have something to do with their hands after the Beau–Este–Simon standoff.
The three of us stay rooted while everyone else hurries to gather the dishes outside, shuttling them through the hurricane-impact doors of Ford’s house.
Ms. Dowling comes out to help, squinting as the rain lands on her face and hair.
The homes here are built to withstand weather like this, but as the crowd disperses, every one of them glances skyward, wary of the storm bands closing in.
We break apart toward our respective homes like schoolchildren filing inside after recess.
Beau leads the way back to our house, but I watch Simon, unwilling to turn my back on him before he’s a safe distance away, closed inside Ford’s living room.
Even then, it feels irresponsible to take my eyes off him.
“Este,” Beau calls from the pool deck. “Come on!”
Over the lake a crack of lightning splits through the sky as thunder rumbles, and I know we’re out of time to find out what Simon’s doing in Winter Park.
The storm is here.