Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CADEN
I get home and find Alistair lounging by the pool with an open bottle of wine and a half full glass on the table beside him.
“Early start?” I say. “It’s barely noon.”
Al shrugs. “I’m off today. Don’t be judgy.” He slides his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and waggles his eyebrows at me. “Daisy says you spent the weekend with Isla Davenport. You know she’s engaged right? Quel scandale!”
“She had the flu, you dick,” I say, dropping into the lounge chair beside him. “It wasn’t anything scandalous. And I speak Spanish, not French.”
“Mom made us learn both, as I recall,” Alistair says. “Though I really only remember the swear words.” He makes a gesture up toward the house and a few moments later, one of the staff comes out with a wineglass for me.
“I’m good,” I say.
“Oh shut up and have a drink with me, Caden.” Alistair pours the wine and hands it to me, then tops up his own glass. “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve been thinking.”
I give him a side-eye. “That sounds ominous.”
He chuckles and takes a swig. “Tell me more about this sustainability stuff.”
“Seriously?”
“The company needs a rebrand,” Alistair admits. “We’re not even close to being back to where we were before Mom died. Dad likes to pretend everything is fine because he doesn’t want to talk about that. Ever. He’ll act like it’s to do with the pricing structure or getting a bad deal from suppliers but we all know that the winery needs a makeover. Environmentalism is popular apparently—I was doing some research this weekend.”
I can’t help being impressed. Alistair rolls his eyes at my expression.
“Don’t give me that look, I do like to work as much as I like to party.”
I raise my eyebrow.
“Okay maybe not as much, but…” He sighs and takes a long drink. “You know what would be even better—if you were the one leading the charge on this.”
“No,” I say quickly.
“Come on,” he says. “Everton needs its heir.”
I grab my own glass and drink half of it in one gulp. “Why don’t you be the heir?”
“Ha! Not a chance. Even if Dad did offer me the keys to the castle—which he would not because he’s stubborn and old-fashioned and you’re the first born and all that—I wouldn’t want it. I enjoy my current work-life balance,” he says, making a sweeping gesture out at the pool. “But you…you could really make some changes around here.”
I feel a slight lift in my chest and tamp it down quickly.
“I was talking to Dad about it,” Alistair begins, but I cut him off.
“Dad only wants me to come back so he can put me under his thumb again. Not happening. I’m going to make sure Mom’s case doesn’t get shoved in some basement, then I’m going back to Argentina.”
That feels especially certain after seeing Luke and Isla together. What a fucking punch to the gut.
“Fine, fine,” Alistair grumbles. “How goes the investigation?”
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. I feel totally off track after a weekend spent with Isla.
“Still putting the pieces together,” I say.
Alistair snorts. “In other words, you’ve got nothing. Come on, man. I don’t want to lose my bet with Charlotte Perez.”
It seems like the perfect opening to hear Alistair’s version of events. “Why don’t you tell me your story?”
He takes a gulp of wine, his face suddenly wary. “What story?”
“The morning she died,” I say quietly.
Alistair looks down into his glass and shrugs. “My room faces the lodge. I didn’t hear anything. Had my AC blasting and I was passed out hard. Finn woke me up to tell me. He heard the shot, you know.”
I nod. Al swirls his wine and takes another drink. “Dad found her.” I flinch, the 911 transcript appearing in my mind’s eye. “Came back into the house screaming. I’ve never seen him like that. Wild eyes, crazy hair, this vein standing out in his forehead. Then the sheriff came and made us all go outside. Then you showed up with Noah and Isla.”
We sit in silence, both lost in our own memories. Alistair refills his wine and gives me a sly look.
“So you were with Isla that morning,” he says.
“Yup.”
“Which, I assume, means you spent the night with her.”
I frown at him and press my lips together.
“So you two were like…” He waggles his eyebrows. Leave it to Alistair to break a somber moment with a sexual innuendo.
“Mind your own beeswax,” I retort, something we all used to say to each other as kids.
He chuckles. “That’s a yes.”
I down the rest of my wine and leave Alistair to his own devices. I head to my room to take a nap—I didn’t get much sleep at Isla’s, worrying over her temperature, changing her sheets, making sure she always had fresh water. I flop onto my bed and clap my hand over my eyes as I remember helping her into clean pajamas. Her skin dewed with sweat, her curves warm beneath my hands. I wasn’t inappropriate. I would never be. I kept my eyes on her face and was always respectful.
But god, how I want her now. I can’t deny it anymore. For the first time in ages, I allow myself to peek inside the box of memories I’ve kept sealed up tight—the evening we spent together the night of the Everton anniversary party. Slipping her out of that red strapless dress. The pert bud of her nipple between my teeth. The slender curve of her waist. The slickness of her sex and the tight nub of her clit. The way she moaned for me.
My cock is standing at attention, throbbing with need. Sleep seems futile so I get up and storm into my bathroom, turning the water on as hot as I can stand. Rivulets drip over my pecs and stomach, running down my thighs. The past unfurls like a ribbon in my mind. Isla’s soft dark hair falling in waves around her sweet face. The way her breasts felt heavy in my hands, fitting perfectly into my palms like they were made just for me.
I grip my shaft and start to stroke myself as I remember her little moans, the way she would tighten as I slid my fingers inside her, probing her, making that clit swell and hum. I increase my pitch as I imagine her naked in this shower with me, pressing her against the glass as I plunge inside her from behind, her ass firm against my thighs, one hand snaking around to pleasure her. I hear the coos she would make, begging me for more, squirming against me, slippery as an otter. I see myself flip her around, hitching one perfect leg over my waist and taking her, hard and deep, making her know she’s mine.
I jerk myself into oblivion, coming so hard I feel a pinch behind my eyes as I exhaust myself. I sag against the cool tile, exhausted.
She’s not mine. She’ll never be mine.
She belongs to Luke now.
I grab a bar of soap and angrily run it over my chest, foaming it under my arms and cleaning my dick. Fucking Luke in that fucking yellow polo and stupid fucking khakis. Even when I was still the rich kid from the Way, I didn’t dress like that. Is that what Isla really wanted all along? I wonder what they even talk about.
I turn off the tap and grab a towel, drying myself and then wrapping the towel around my waist. I head into my room to get a change of clothes when my phone rings.
It’s Noah.
I put it on speakerphone.
“Hey,” I say, carrying the phone into my walk-in closet.
“How’s Isla?” Noah asks.
“She’s better. Fever broke this morning. She’s with Luke now,” I add, unable to keep the grouchiness from my tone.
“Yeah, Joni said she saw his car in the lot.”
“The Magnolia Grapevine strikes again,” I say dryly.
Noah chuckles.
“He showed up this morning in a stupid polo and khakis looking like a mini-me of his dad. What does she see in him? I don’t get it. Was that what she wanted? The country club life and all that bullshit?” I grab a pair of jeans and a pale blue V neck, yanking them on as I continue to vent. “And when I opened the door, Noah, I swear, the jealousy on his face…he looked furious to see me. Like, dude where the fuck were you?”
“Private island,” Noah pipes up.
“Yeah, and about that—no service? Seriously? Do you know anyone who goes anywhere with no service these days? And especially someone from the Way? I’m not buying it.”
“You think Luke was lying about being on a private island?”
“I think if I was engaged to Isla, I wouldn’t go anywhere where I didn’t have service. I wouldn’t just abandon her like that.”
“You did though,” Noah points out softly.
I lean my head against the cool wood of the closet door.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I did.” There’s a long pause. “I guess I’m just…”
“Jealous?” my best friend supplies unhelpfully.
“Yeah,” I say again.
“That’s normal.”
“I hate it.”
“That’s normal too.”
“I don’t want her to be with him,” I say. “They feel wrong together. I know I’m biased but…”
I trail off. But what? They shouldn’t be together because I didn’t like a look on Luke’s face or a party I know nothing about? The fact is, I don’t want her to be with anyone else, period. It’s not about Luke’s expressions or his clothing or whether his phone has service. I’m just desperately trying to find something that would give Isla a reason to leave him. To be with me.
And that’s not going to happen.
Aren’t I the one who’s leaving anyway?
But if she chose you, would you stay?
I don’t want to answer that.
There’s a long pause, then Noah changes the subject.
“How goes your investigation?”
“Oh, are you talking to me about that now?”
He seems to realize his mistake—I hear a quick intake of breath. “No,” he says.
“Come on. Let me look at the police files.”
“Nice try,” Noah says wryly. “You want me to lose my job?”
“I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“No dice.”
“It was worth a shot.”
Noah chuckles. “Want to meet up at the Screw later this week? I can’t talk but I can listen. You can run your theories by me.”
“That sounds great,” I say.
We hang up and I feel a little better. I bet Noah will do more talking than he says—he’s already spilled some details anyway. It’s nice making plans to meet up with him again. It’s nice to have Alistair forcing a glass of wine on me on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It’s been fun working on the booths with Cody while Reggie fixes cars and plays oldies on his tiny radio.
It hasn’t been as awful being home as I feared.
I told Sebastian I wouldn’t be back until the end of the summer—it’s winter down there, so it’s the off season anyway. Of course, he told me to take all the time I needed and reminded me how important family is.
I head down to the kitchen to make myself an espresso, planning to head to the blue study to do more research. Noah got me newly invigorated, and I want to have something to show for myself when we talk. Just as I’m sipping my drink, Dad strides into the kitchen.
“What are you doing home?” I ask.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
“Oh. Okay.”
We stand in silence for a few awkward moments.
“How’s the gir—how is Isla,” Dad says.
Working from home and asking about Isla? As if he even cares. I’m instantly suspicious.
“Uh, she’s good,” I say. “Much better now. Fever broke.” I clear my throat and add, “Thanks for calling Dr. Wilkins.”
Dad shrugs. There’s another awkward silence.
He glances out the windows to where Alistair lounges in the sun. “Your brother seems to think there’s merit to this whole sustainability idea.”
“There is,” I say defiantly.
He turns to me, his dark eyes flashing. “And you know how to implement that? You’ve been working all those jobs you say you have?”
“I’ve never lied to you, Dad,” I snap.
My father’s brow creases. He suddenly looks much older than I’ve ever seen him. He rubs his temples and leans back against the kitchen counter.
“I know,” he says. He takes a deep breath and his gaze drifts out to Mom’s garden. The huge rhododendrons are bursting with color. “Perhaps a shakeup is what the company needs. So. I would…very much like…to hear some of your ideas.” It sounds like each word pains him. “That is, if you really think they will benefit Everton.”
My father has never, ever , asked to hear my ideas. I always thought he was allergic to the word recycle. The longer I stare at him in disbelief, the tighter his expression becomes.
“You were right,” he says tersely, and this time I think I might fall over from shock.
“About what?” I ask.
“Business hasn’t been the same since she…” There’s a flicker of pain in his eyes but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. “Everton needs a fresh start. I would…appreciate any advice you have to give.”
“Okay,” I say.
The hardness around Dad’s mouth and eyes returns, his posture straightening. He’s back to being Russell Everton, billionaire businessman.
“Good. I’ll have Roger put something on the schedule,” Dad says brusquely. There’s the father I’ve known my whole life. Scheduling time with his son via his business manager. “I assume you have a business plan in order? Pricing? Construction? ROI? The board will need to be thoroughly briefed.”
“The board?” I thought this was going to be a talk just the two of us.
What a foolish assumption.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Dad says dryly. “Very well. I’ll give you…” He takes out his phone and checks his calendar. “Three weeks to prepare.”
It feels like the responsibilities are piling up. But this is my chance to prove how sustainability can work for Everton.
“Sure,” I say, then grab my espresso and stalk past him out of the kitchen.
I’m not sure I like this new Dad any more than I liked the old one.
I get to the blue study and turn on the computer. It hums to life and I put Marion Everton murder into the search bar. Immediately all the articles I found at the library pop up on the screen. I quickly print them out then find a highlighter in one of the desk drawers. I spend the afternoon highlighting any pertinent information. The ones about me aren’t helpful, since I know I didn’t kill my mother. I feel a surge of gratitude toward Isla for protecting me, and for the sheriff’s department for protecting her, and keeping her identity a secret.
I look over Fred’s files as well—I still can’t bring myself to look at the autopsy or the crime scene photos, no matter how non-explicit Fred claims the photos are. I search the desk for more supplies—the bottom drawer is locked, but I find some index cards and thumbtacks and Post-its in another drawer. I start to make notes. I pull one of the paintings down and begin to tack my notes to the wall, like I’m making some sort of police murder board.
I put the burglar theory on one side and the Carl Fillion/Elsa Lowendale on the other, along with a note that says Everton Enemies.
I flip through Fred’s files, past the interviews with my family members, and the transcript of Dad’s 911 call. He’s got a list of the items that were taken from the shed—a few pieces of Mom’s pottery and some framed photos and a couple of old trinkets. Anything with blood spatter on it, apparently. The thought makes my mouth go dry. Nothing seems to have come from that, and I quickly move on. Fred did talk to some of Dad’s employees but not Carl or Elsa. I wonder if Dad trusted the sheriff had done his job there and didn’t want to dredge up the past. Or tarnish the brand, more likely—the Fillion scandal really made Dad angry and he wanted it over and hushed up as quickly as possible, as I recall. Fred did track down some local small-time criminals, people with records for theft or burglary. But none of that led anywhere either.
The burglar theory just isn’t flying with me. Noah was right—how would a random drifter know to go through Mom’s garden to get to the back of the house? The only other way to access the back of the house is through the bay. I can’t imagine some thief showing up with his own boat. And wouldn’t it make more sense for a burglar to go around robbing the Way on the night of the actual party, rather than the morning after? Everyone was at Everton. A lot of mansions were empty.
I check one the of the articles from the New York Times and see that Mom was shot at approximately six twenty-four the morning of June 22 nd . I see that the cops knew the precise timing because someone reported hearing the gunshot. Was it Finn? I read further and see that no, it was a “neighbor” who didn’t want to be named. We don’t really have neighbors—our house is pretty isolated, surrounded by woods on either side. But people sometimes fish on the bay in the early morning hours. I check Fred’s notes but he doesn’t have anything in there about this mystery neighbor. I put up a Post-It with Neighbor? on it.
I turn to my other theory—Carl or Elsa killing Mom as a revenge plot against Dad. A quick Google search shows me that Elsa moved to California and started a new job there six months before the shooting. I remember Elsa as kind of a ditzy woman, always forgetting things, her desk cluttered. She does not seem like the ideal candidate for this sort of thing.
Carl is a much stronger suspect. The strongest one I’ve got. He hated Dad—he lost his job and his credibility when Dad fired him. We couldn’t prove he was embezzling money, but Dad sure as shit went after him. You don’t cross my father like that. He left Carl blacklisted and bankrupt. That’s bound to cause some resentment and rage. And Carl had been to the house on more than one occasion. He would know about the garden.
My pulse kicks into a sprint. I Google Carl’s name but there’s not much—just a Facebook page that hasn’t been active in years and an old wedding announcement from over a decade ago.
I pick up my phone and call Fred’s number. It rings a few times then goes to voicemail.
“You’ve reached Fred Norman. I’m out of the office on vacation through the end of the month. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”
Fuck. I leave a message anyway.
“Hey Fred, Caden Everton here. Listen, I was wondering if you could help me find an address for someone. His name is Carl Fillion. He used to work for Everton until Dad fired him. Let me know as soon as you can. Thanks.”
I lean back in my chair, feeling invigorated. I’ve got a lead. For the first time, I feel a sense of hope.
I wonder what Mom would say if she were here. If she’d be proud of me. If she’d feel vindicated.
Actually, she’d probably say something like… I’m just glad you’re home.