9. Everett
Chapter 9
Everett
I didn't say yes because she asked me to sit with her. I said yes because there was nowhere fucking else I wanted to be. The second we got home, I had every notification set on my phone to alert me of any and all movement, both inside and out. Usually, I only have the outside notifications turned on, but tonight, I wasn't taking any chances. Whoever broke into Connor's house knew exactly where the cameras were located. They'd clearly been casing the place, and at this point, it's unclear if they had done so with the knowledge he was out of town, or if whoever entered the house did so knowing Cameron was inside because she was the target and not things. It's that last thought that has me breaking my silence. I've held my tongue long enough, but it's time to compare notes. Damon Salt had secrets, ones he tried to protect his daughter from, and just because he died doesn't mean they died too. We both received letters from him after his death.
"Cameron," I say her name to grab her attention, ensuring I have it before saying anything more. She's on her second glass of bourbon and her eyes have been glued to whatever fluffy romance movie she's been watching for the past hour. I don't know how channels like this stay in business. The love they propagate isn't real, yet they make millions selling false realities year after year. Her eyes find mine, and my stomach tightens. The truth is I've spent the past three hours we've been home staring at my computer, unable to work because of the hell I've been living in at the thought of her getting hurt or, worse, losing her. "I think it's time we talked about the night of your twenty-first birthday." Her eyebrows raise slightly, and I instantly realize the error in my wording. I clear my throat, closing my laptop, "Let me clarify. I'm referring to the letter I left you. The one from your father."
"Oh," she says, eyeing her now empty glass. "If you want to talk about Dad, I need a refill." Pushing the soft throw blanket off, she rises, putting her long, toned legs on display, legs I shouldn't be looking at, let alone thinking about, but I am all the same. So when she asks, "Would you like a refill?"
My answer is easy. "Yes, make mine a double, please."
From where I'm positioned on the couch, my back is toward the kitchen, which is a good thing. As much as I don't want to take my eyes off her, I need to. I need to get a grip on myself. She might be an acceptable age, but what about everything else? Duty, honor, respect, loyalty to my best fucking friend. He might be six feet underground, but that doesn't change the fact that he entrusted me with his most prized possession.
She's back in what feels like seconds with our drinks, not spending nearly enough time making them for me to clear my mind of the reckless thoughts I can't seem to escape. When she hands me my drink, her perky satin-covered breasts are practically spilling out of her camisole, causing me to cross my legs. The last thing I need is for her to know she affects me. She's been teasing me for years, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore. Collecting her discarded blanket, she takes a seat, but it's no longer on the couch opposite me. No, now she's sitting on the far side of the same one I'm on. The move is innocent enough—she even covers her bare legs—but it's the proximity in general that's becoming unbearable. It should calm my nerves, seeing her, smelling her, having her close, but instead, the combination feeds my insanity.
"What exactly do you want to talk about? I know the envelope was sealed when you gave it to me, but I assumed it wasn't in its original packaging."
She knows me well. That damn envelope was the bane of my existence when it showed up the day she turned twenty-one. I contemplated opening it and repackaging it just as she's assuming now. After all, she didn't know the letter existed, and neither did I until it arrived. However, I ultimately decided against it. I had already received my own letter from Damon the week following his death. Aside from a father writing his daughter well wishes for a milestone life event, I didn't believe there was anything in hers of importance. But with the events that have happened recently and her twenty-second birthday coming up, I'm not convinced her letter was only regrets, hearts, and words of affirmation.
I could ask her to tell me what the letter said, but I'm not sure she'd give it to me verbatim, and I don't want to ask her something and inadvertently share information she's not yet privy to, but I've suspected for some time that, maybe even before the accident, she's known Kelce isn't her brother full or otherwise. Leaning into that will help me gauge my next question.
"Did Damon mention Kelce in his letter to you?"
Her chest visibly inflates before she takes a long drink of bourbon. That reaction tells me she knows something.
"I know he's only my half brother," she answers flatly. "But you already knew that." She raises a brow, daring me to tell her she's wrong. "So how about you stop dancing around what you really want to ask me and get on with it?"
Fucking hell. Now I'm the one taking a drink to keep my hands to myself when all I really want to do is punish her for her smart mouth.
"Fine," I finally say with a renewed vehemence as the fresh cognac heats my veins. "Kelce isn't your father's son. Which means he's not part of your father's will?—"
"That's not true. He was left money in a trust fund, same as me. You were there when the lawyers read the will."
"You're not wrong that he was left money in a trust fund. However, the difference between yours and his is that his is revocable. Yours is not."
"Revocable?" she questions. "You mean like he has to meet certain criteria to keep his inheritance. I've heard of trust fund babies who lose their right to their inheritance because they went against the terms of their fund."
She's done her homework. I'm not sure why I expected anything less. Cameron Salt has always been intelligent. Her mind has always been a weakness of mine. Looks are one thing, but add a brain to that package… You'd be surprised how hard of a combo that is to find.
"Yes, that's one way a trust can be revocable. The other is that the grantor put an expiration date on it." I'm confident the only reason Kelce was ever on it to begin with, was most likely because Amelia had been present when the trust was set up, meaning there was no way Damon could cut him out completely. So he snuck verbiage into the document that ensured his assets would go to his blood and his blood alone.
"Okay…" She brings her legs up, resting her glass atop her knees. "When is his part of the trust set to expire?"
I take another drink. It's unusual for me to have conversations where I'm not certain of the outcome. However, tonight changed things. I may not be certain that Kelce was behind tonight's break-in, but I need her to take the break-in seriously. She needs to understand there is a potential threat to her and that tonight may not have been a robbery gone wrong.
"His trust dissolves the day you turn twenty-two."
It's another reason I wasn't in a hurry to push Cameron out all these years. In the letter I received upon Damon's death, I learned the truth about Kelce, and he also told me about the trust and how Kelce's last disbursement would be the year Cameron turned twenty-one. That was when her trust reached full maturity. She gained access to funds at eighteen, but assets such as property and her shares in Callahan she learned from a young age not to sweat the small stuff, especially the things we can't control. But I also know that behind her tough exterior is a tender heart. She feels things deeply, and if anyone is going to share truths about the past, it will be me. Just not yet. I don't have all the details, and she deserves every last one.
"Kelce is broke."
I don't elaborate any more than that. Of course I've been keeping tabs on him. The second I found out about the accident, I was watching him, but it was a week later, when I received Damon's letter, that I started watching for entirely different reasons. Kelce is his mother's son. Cameron and Kelce's trust funds were set up to pay lump sums to them at the start of each calendar year. He would blow through his within five months, year after year. Last year was his last payout, and when he didn't get one this year, I expected a visit or a call, but so far, nothing—aside from the fact that, at the moment, he's currently MIA.
She trills her lips and runs her fingers through her long auburn hair. "Maybe I can loan?—"
"No," I cut her off, my tone firm, leaving zero room for argument. "Do you have more than enough money to help him? Yes, but that doesn't mean you should. Sometimes, the best way to help someone is by giving them nothing at all." She's quiet as she thinks over my words. It's in our DNA to help our family and those we care about. We want to make things better. I'm all too familiar with sacrificing to help others, and I refuse to let Cameron walk the same path I chose. I know she agrees, but I change the subject before she can give it any more thought. "Besides Kelce, what else did your father's note mention?"
"I don't want to talk about my father's note anymore tonight," she says with the tiniest amount of annoyance as she turns away from me and faces the TV. I watch as she sets her glass on the side table and picks up the remote, readying herself to finish the movie and ending our conversation, which doesn't work for me.
"Cameron, this is important. I need to know if your father?—"
"You already know what my father had to say. You knew about Kelce, so I'm sure you know the rest too."
"I need to hear the words, Cameron." I try to maintain my calm. I can't be sure where her petulance is suddenly coming from. Obviously, talking about her father isn't easy, but this seems like more.
"I don't know why you insist on making me your jailor. It's like you want more reasons to hate me."
"What the hell are you talking about? I don't hate you."
"Could have fooled me…" she mumbles under her breath before reclaiming her bourbon.
My jaw clenches hard. I loathe that I've given her any reason to believe that I don't care deeply, but if she thinks I hate her, that might be for the better. I take another drink to curb my need to say things I can't take back and instead say, "What did he say?"
She shakes her head before dropping it and staring into her glass. "He said he was sorry that he couldn't be the man I believed him to be: good, decent, the man who hung the moon and all the stars in the sky. He talked about how he wished he could say he was a good person who made a bad choice because he knew that's how I would justify his skeletons." So far, she's not saying anything I didn't expect, aside from the part where he didn't believe himself to be a good person. I would have reasoned that comment the same way Cameron would. Good people fuck up daily. That's life, but his use of the word skeletons gives me trepidation. She pulls in a stuttered breath before adding, "And he said to trust you. You might be stony and all business, but you have the heart he never had. He said you'll keep me safe." When I don't say anything because my mind is still stuck on the fact that he entrusted the care of his daughter to me as if that were a great idea, her eyes find mine. "Are we done now?"
I divert my gaze and nod before finishing my cognac in one go. Those words sound like trouble. They make it sound like she's mine. I don't say anything; I can't. Anything that came out would be lies, and out of all the people in my life, she's the one person who can read all of them. The one person who has always seen me and the one person I can't have. I pick up my laptop and flip open the screen to pick up where I left off, mindlessly staring into oblivion.