Chapter Nine
CHAPTER NINE
Gage
A s a peace offering, I stop at Pop’s favorite bakery and treat him to coffee and donuts. I didn’t forget about our argument after talking to JodiAnne’s nurse, and a Boston crème will go a long way to smoothing out some ruffled feathers.
He eyes me like I have something to say, but I only juggle the box and our coffees. Baby hustles past me to get out of the cold.
I’m late.
After watching Zarah drift off and the long drive back to the city, I didn’t fall into my own bed until well past midnight.
Baby had a blast though, and the sleep I lost was worth it.
I bumped into Stella on my way out the door. She was standing in the yard letting Arya and Sansa do their business before penning them up for the night.
I confessed my questions upset Zarah, and she smiled a smile so sad I’m surprised Zane is still alive and not six feet underground from a shattered heart.
“It’s okay,” she said, holding her coat around her. “We try to get her to talk about it, and her therapist encourages us to pry bits and pieces out of her. She hates to talk about the past, and I can’t blame her. I hate talking about the five years Ash had me under his thumb, too. If she’s willing to talk to you, even just a little, it’s a good start. It’ll be hard, don’t misunderstand me, but it will be good, I think, in the long run, if she can purge those memories to someone she can trust. Someone who won’t get disgusted and toss her aside after he knows the truth. Because that’s what she’s scared of, you know. That she’ll be brave enough to tell someone, and she’ll be shunned for admitting what happened to her.”
“I would never do that,” I said angrily, gripping my keys.
Calmly, she replied, “She doesn’t know that. She hasn’t known you long. Trust is hard to come by in this family, and I’m sure you can understand why. When you hear, ‘Trust is earned,’ that will never be truer than with Zane and Zarah. I’m sorry. You’ll have to prove yourself.”
“I have no problem doing that.”
Stella grinned. “Then buckle up, sweetheart, you’re in for a bumpy ride.”
If I hadn’t liked her then, I would have after our talk. No one values honesty more than a PI. She didn’t bullshit me or question my motives. Simply welcomed me into the family.
“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Pop says, sitting behind our desk. He’s probably already put in an hour of paperwork before I dragged my ass through the door.
“Took your advice,” I say, passing him the box of donuts and setting the cups of fancy coffee he’ll give me shit for later on the corner of the desk.
“Yeah? Finally let Sierra talk you into bed? Buffed out your edges.”
I piss and moan about it, but I don’t mind talking sex with Pop. He’s had a woman or three since his divorce. Some of them liked me, some of them didn’t, and some didn’t give a damn either way, only cared about getting Pop between the sheets because he looks pretty damned good at sixty-two.
I pry a lid off one of the coffees and sip. There’s a hint of vanilla in it. Yep, Pop’s gonna give me shit. “Nope. The other one.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Zarah Maddox?”
“Yeah. She texted me yesterday and invited Baby out to run their property. I stayed for dinner. Nice people.”
Pop’s no dummy. “You didn’t get up her skirt.”
“No. It’ll be a while before she’s ready for that. I don’t know how Max did it. She’s a scared little rabbit most of the time. There must have been something she trusted about him.” It grates on my nerves, too.
“You’re jealous.” Pop reads me pretty good.
“Yeah, yeah I am, and I’m gonna have to control it. He had her first, but he’s gone. Gotta let it go.”
He opens the box of donuts and whistles. Don’t know if he’s whistling at the fat and sugar content or what I said. “Wow. She crawled under your skin, didn’t she?”
It doesn’t take much to remember the way her lips felt under mine, or the way my cock hardened when she wrapped her arms around my neck. “All it took was a kiss.” I pause. “I’m sorry about our conversation yesterday. I’ve never been ashamed of what we do or where I come from. If I’d wanted that, I could have spent a lot more time with Max, Rourke, and Mom, but I didn’t. I know where I belong and I’m happy here.”
“Didn’t take offense, but I know how hard it is to mix the two together. Oil and vinegar. Add some spice and do your best to make a nice dressing.”
“I wouldn’t have believed a person could until I met Stella Mayfair last night. She grew up in foster care, yet she wears Zane’s billions like she was born into it. If Zarah and I start a thing, I’ll be looking for that balance.”
“No one says you gotta find it tomorrow.”
“Yep.”
I settle in and do my share of the paperwork and answer the phone. We can’t meet JodiAnne’s psychiatrist until tomorrow, and I send a quick email to Polly Donnelly to keep her informed. She’s not going to like it when we tell her that her daughter’s death wasn’t anything more than a tragic accident.
I’m content, put in a few hours of work and think about Zarah. We didn’t make any plans to see each other, only said we wanted to. I don’t know what she does on a daily basis, and she might need to rearrange some things to fit me into her routine, if that’s what she wants. I could text her and ask if she wants to go on a date. I wonder if she’s ever had a simple dinner and movie night out. If not, I’d like to be the first to share it with her.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” Pop says, sipping the dregs of his coffee.
“What?” I ask.
“Your head in the clouds?”
“Better than my head up my ass.”
He’s about to respond, but his cell rings and he glances at the screen. “It’s your mother.”
I sigh. It’d be futile to tell him not to answer.
“Delilah, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Her voice comes through the phone, even-tempered, if not a little annoyed. “I’m looking for Gage. Does he not have a cell phone anymore? I can’t seem to get through.”
“He’s right here.”
“Oh, good. Can I speak to him, please?”
Pop hands me his phone, and I mouth, “Thanks a lot. Mom,” I answer.
He shrugs into his jacket and calls Baby to go outside. She perks her ears and trots out the door. Don’t know why he thought I needed privacy.
“Gage, darling, you’ve been avoiding me.”
I don’t lie, so I don’t say anything.
“Rourke and I would like to see you. The holidays are coming, and we’re having a few people over for a Thanksgiving dinner party.”
“No.”
“But I haven’t told you who—”
“Pop and I are working a case. I don’t have time to rub elbows with King’s Crossing’s rich and famous.”
“Oh, well, it’s just a small gathering, and Lorraine Baxter was hoping to introduce you to her daughter, Tinley. She’s just back from Europe.”
I think about inviting Zarah and the stir she would cause. She’s infamous and disliked as much as she is famous and admired. Ash’s jobs hated her father and took their hate out on her. I’m sure there are plenty more who wouldn’t hesitate a second to hurt her because of her family name. Will any of those people be seated at my mother’s table? Could I look any of them in the eye and not wonder whose side they’re on?
Suddenly, I’m interested to find out.
“Fine, I’ll go, but I’m seeing someone.”
“How lovely. Who is it, darling? Anyone I know?”
“Zarah Maddox.”
I hang up on her sputtering.
I do what I don’t want to do because I said I’d do it, and that afternoon, I drive over to Max’s apartment. Zarah’s presence is going to dog me the whole time I’m there. I’ll wonder if he ever brought her there, made love to her in his bed. If he fed her popcorn while they watched movies on the couch.
Maybe they were too busy trying to tear down Clayton and Ash Black’s empire, but everyone needs a break, and he and Zarah could have hidden out there to escape for a little while. I hate that the jealousy cuts me so deep, but it’s not only jealousy, it’s resignation, too. It’s the knowledge that if Max were still alive, they’d be together right now. He’d be bringing her to Mom’s dinner party, they’d be dating, they’d be going on walks through the woods behind the Maddoxes’ house, he’d be the one by her side, helping her wade through the drugs and discovering who she is under the layers of medication.
I’d still be, I don’t know, spying on cheating spouses in Pop’s old car, feeding Baby French fries and listening to Pop hound me about getting married.
But Max is dead, Zarah asked me to kiss her, and while I’m standing in Max’s living room over a year after his death, I wonder if I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing and a little voice that whispers, “No,” runs a chill colder than an icicle down my spine.
Fuck.
I can’t steal Zarah from my brother. He’s not here anymore, but that doesn’t mean I feel right about it, either.
His living room is jammed full of stuff, and a fine layer of dust covers every inch of every surface. I should have done this months ago, but I didn’t want to face my feelings. Had I known Zarah was going to be thrown into the mix, I would’ve done it a lot sooner. I feel guiltier than shit, remembering the way her lips lingered on mine.
I untie my laces and tug off my boots so I don’t track melted snow all over his carpet. I didn’t need Baby’s judgy blue eyes staring at me and I left her at home. She liked Max and mourned his loss in her own way. His scent would have made her sad.
I have the key Mike McClennan gave me in my pocket, but I have no idea how big the lockbox is, what’s going to be inside it, or where Max would have kept it. My brother was a packrat, and shelves and shelves of books and notebooks and little shit clog his living room. Mom insisted on doing a few things, and she washed the dishes that were left in the sink, took his trash to the dumpster, emptied the fridge, and cleaned the bathroom of all Max’s toiletries he didn’t bring to the Crowne, but that was all she would and could do. His will made it clear this was to be my job.
Mom and Rourke, I don’t think, had any idea what he’d been working on until he passed away. He kept his cases close to the vest, and he had numerous resources and snitches willing to talk because he staunchly protected his sources. It’s not a mystery why he played an instrumental role in destroying the Blacks’ empire.
His curiosity got him killed, and he died in Zane’s arms, Zarah’s name the last word on his lips.
Yep, I’m gonna love going through his apartment.
Storage space would be cheaper than paying rent, and I’m tempted to hire movers, pack up everything, and shove it all into a U-Haul unit without a second thought. But Max’s request tugs at me, and I regret burning the note he gave me. I didn’t want Zarah to see it. I didn’t want her to know how much Max really had loved her. I was afraid that if she knew, we wouldn’t have a chance.
If you have a comfortable love, you don’t need squishy.
Max would have been her rock, and Zarah could have lived without the butterflies in her stomach. Passion is nothing but trouble.
I swallow back the burn in my throat and rub at the key in my jeans pocket, small and silver. Where would Max keep a lockbox? I put my PI skills to use and shuffle into his bedroom. The bed’s made, a pile of thrillers and true crime books on his nightstand.
Flipping up his bedspread, I use my phone’s flashlight and search under the bed. The dust bunnies are thicker under here, but I don’t see anything that needs a key. Files and cardboard boxes, an old laptop box, some of Smokey’s toys. I go around and look on the other side to check if I missed anything, but all I find is a mound of petrified cat puke.
I stand, my knees popping to thank me for the effort. A closed closet door hides more of the same. Files, lots of clothes, the vests he favored that made him look more like a university professor than a reporter. A plastic bedding bag that holds spare blankets.
There’s a desk and printer in Max’s second bedroom, and an air mattress is still blown up, though due to age, most of the air is gone. A thin blanket is piled on top of it. No pillow. A litter box that was emptied, either by Max or our mother, is wedged in a corner.
The FBI confiscated Max’s laptop during the investigation, and the desk’s surface is clear, only a blue pen lays off to the side near a notepad.
I sink onto the chair and run my fingers over the wood. I can picture him here, pounding out stories for the paper. Idly, I search the drawers, but there’s nothing except office supplies: stapler and extra staples, hole punch, notebooks and pens that haven’t been used yet. Printer paper. A thesaurus and dictionary. Paperclips. His laptop charger. More cat toys.
I didn’t think I would need this long to find a box, and sweating, I pull my jacket off and lay it over the back of the chair. The closet doesn’t have anything in it except old clothes Max didn’t wear anymore, and the shelf above them is empty.
In the kitchen, I search the cabinets. They’re full of expired canned goods, boxes of noodles, and cat treats.
He sure loved that cat.
Other drawers and cabinets reveal plates and bowls, cutlery. Saucepans and frying pans. He cooked decent meals for himself, at least, which is more than what I do when I’m alone.
A striped dishtowel hangs on the oven’s door handle.
For the hell of it, I open the fridge, and Mom left a six pack of beer on the top shelf. It’s a fussy brand I don’t buy, but I pull a bottle out of the cardboard and use the hem of my shirt to pry the top off. Leaning against the counter, I sip and swish the carbonated drink around my mouth. It wasn’t often Max and I shared a beer. At Mom’s once in a while if we were invited to the same events. Holidays. What would our relationship have been like if I would have extended an invitation to play a game of darts and drink a beer every once in a while? Would he have accepted? I was silent toward him, but he was the same. He didn’t call to bullshit, didn’t ask if I was seeing anybody to double date. He stayed on his side of the line.
I don’t remember if I drew the line or not. Maybe. Maybe because I always preferred to spend time with Pop, I drew the line and hadn’t even realized it.
Maybe he’d been waiting for me to step over it and I never did.
I walk out of the kitchen.
He wasn’t obvious about hiding the lockbox like most people who use a box to keep social security cards and birth certificates, car titles. I’ll have to get more inventive if I want to find it. Inside the stuffing of the couch, inside a chair’s upholstery. Behind the bookshelves.
In the bathroom, I slide the shower curtain aside, but the tub’s empty except for a spider hanging out, and so is the medicine cabinet and vanity, besides a few stray rolls of toilet paper Mom left behind under the sink. Nothing is taped to the bottom of the toilet’s tank lid, and I raise the lid of the actual toilet as well.
He wouldn’t be so blatant.
I don’t want to rip his couch apart, but I push the cushions off and find three quarters, a dime, and some kitty litter. I run my hands along the insides feeling for a catch in the cracks, but the couch doesn’t have a hideaway bed in it.
The whole place is carpeted, and nothing looks out of sorts on the floor. Loose floorboards are a popular place to hide things, but there’s nothing like that here.
Jackets, hats, scarves, and winter boots fill his front closet. Several pairs of dress shoes. I guess he went out a lot.
As far as apartments go, Max’s is a decent size, but I’m running out of places to look. Maybe it’s not here. McClennan didn’t say anything about Max storing the box at a bank, and there are a million in King’s Crossing. I might as well consider the lockbox good as gone if it’s sitting in a safety deposit box somewhere.
I finish the beer that’s growing warm. I’ll have to throw it away at my place. The task of packing up this apartment feels daunting, and even though I know it’s wrong, I consider putting it off again.
If I don’t pack up his things, maybe he’ll come back.
It’s stupid. I saw him at the memorial service. I watched Zarah cry over his body.
Yesterday I kissed her, and her berry lipstick stained my lips.
I’ve already wasted an hour searching Max’s apartment. I use another twenty minutes and go through his bookshelves, looking for anything that would need a key, but there’s nothing but books, books, and more books. Moleskin notebooks that are full of notes about his articles, facts about cases. I find a list of his snitches’ names I’ll need to...maybe I won’t destroy them. Maybe I’ll keep them and Pop and I can pull a few favors once in a while.
For now, I put them back, though I hide them better.
The Feds had no reason to search Max’s apartment, and besides our mother, I’m the only one who’s been here since his funeral.
I picture Zarah on the couch, Max leaning over her, a hand to her breast, his lips on hers.
I’m falling in love with my brother’s lover.
The lockbox isn’t here.
I push my boots onto my feet, tie up the laces, and yank on my jacket. I’m standing in the hallway locking his door when it hits me like a lightning bolt. Fumbling with the key, I unlock his door, and leaving the keyring dangling, rush into the kitchen. I open the oven and inside sits a roasting pan large enough to cook a turkey that could feed twenty people on Thanksgiving Day.
I slide the pan out of the oven, place it on the floor, and lift the lid. There, resting in a sea of crumpled up newspaper, is the lockbox. It was under my nose the entire time.
I open another beer and carry the lockbox into the living room. Sitting on the couch, my heart hammering a million miles a minute, I unlock it using the little silver key. For a second, I expect it not to fit, but it does, and the lid pops up.
My hands are shaking when I open it. Another Moleskin notebook lays on top, this one thicker than the others on his shelves, and several CD cases, the CDs sparkling in their clear plastic. None of them are labeled. I don’t have a laptop with me, and I’ll need to wait until I get back to my apartment before I can see what’s on them.
I flip through Max’s notebook and discover it’s a journal. I close the cover, pursing my lips. I don’t want to invade his privacy, but he left it to me. There must be something inside he wants me to read.
Choosing a random page, I skim the entry, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the Maddoxes.
I choose a page closer toward the middle.
I found Stella Mayfair and Richard Denton today and brought them to the apartment. Stella looks horrible—thin and sad. Richard keeps touching her, and though he said he’s not, I think he’s in love with her. He can’t take his eyes off her, but I don’t blame him. She’s beautiful, even after the attempts made on her life. They don’t trust me, but they aren’t going to have a choice, not if they want help proving Clayton Black was the one who killed Kagan and Lark Maddox. I put Stella to bed in my room and I’m going to sleep on the couch. I don’t want her to try to run away. Someone’s trying to kill her. I didn’t say anything earlier, but I think it’s Zane Maddox. He wants revenge, and he’ll do anything to get it.
That’s the end of that day’s entry. Zane thought Stella ran off to Italy with Sergio Cardello, but everyone in the world thought that when pictures started circulating online. Ashton Black planted the rumors to prevent anyone from looking for Stella while he held her captive right here in the city. I remember it, but it was six years ago and the Maddoxes weren’t on my radar.
I flip to another page.
Zane doesn’t think we’re safe at my apartment, and he moved us to the Crowne Royale, a sweet, empty hotel near the Renegade. He’s got a private investigator from LA working with us. Smart and no-nonsense, I like her. I met Zarah Maddox, and she took my breath away. Zane didn’t want her alone at their penthouse, and she and her nurse, Ingrid, are going to stay at the hotel. She’s like a ghost, blank behind her eyes. Too thin, and her skin is sallow, her hair brittle. She flinches at little things, like a voice too loud, a light too bright. Where Stella is sunshine, Zarah is night. Stella’s blonde hair, her bright blue eyes, they are perfect opposites to Zarah’s pitch black hair and dark eyes. It’s no wonder Ashton Black wanted both of them: perfect bookends.
I see that now, after reading Max’s observation. Never considered them to be opposites, only sisters in tragedy, but Max is right.
Ash Black wanted the light and the dark.
Max closes that day’s entry writing two lines I won’t ever forget. I met Zarah Maddox only a few hours ago, and I’m already in love with her. I have a feeling no matter how much Ashton Black hates her, I bet he loves her too.
That night, I call the prison where Ash and Clayton Black are serving time until the DA’s office can finally conclude their lengthy investigation. Ash is still there, a model prisoner, does everything that’s asked of him and reads a book a day.
I ask them to fax over a visitation application to our office. I want to look the asshole in the eyes when I tell him he’ll never have his hands on Zarah again.
Then I drive out to the Maddoxes’ country house. I only go halfway down their drive and let the engine idle as I stare at the lights beaming through their windows. A woman walks the dogs across the yard, her figure glimmering in the moonlight like a vision. From this far away, I don’t know if it’s Zarah or Stella, even Lucille or Ingrid for that matter, but I don’t drive the rest of the way to find out.
I sit until the figure retreats from the cold and the lights in the house go out one by one.