Chapter 3
Three
Astor
It’s half past eleven in the evening when I pull up to the beach house.
Cillian’s SUV is parked next to Leo’s beat-up Ford. A dim light glows from the kitchen window.
I roll to a stop on the opposite side of the cottage and cut the engine.
Per usual, I sit glued to my seat for a full minute, dreading facing what lays beyond the four walls ahead of me. I gaze at the moon, surrounded by a million twinkling stars. From my vantage point on the cliff, they seem so close that it feels like I could reach out and touch them. I wish I could. I wish I could spread my arms, ascend into the sky and just be free.
Free from myself.
A silver beam of moonlight stretches across the black ocean below. It’s a still, quiet night. Cool for late summer.
When I’d purchased the cottage a decade ago, it was meant to be a vacation home. Surrounded by twenty acres of dense forest and a lush garden, the two-bedroom home sits on a cliff that overlooks the Pacific Ocean. A small walkway zigzags down the side of the cliff to the shoreline. The moment I saw it, I knew it was mine.
After Valerie and I had gotten married and her depression and hatred for me became too overwhelming (for both of us), she moved here, under the care of a medical team. After that she and I rarely spoke or saw each other for years. Now, here we are again. Similar circumstances, although nothing is the same.
I drag in a deep breath, pocket my keys, grab my duffel, and step out of the car.
My back pops painfully as I slowly right myself.
The flight from the beach house to southern Louisiana is just over four hours, one way. So, every Saturday and Wednesday, I am in the air for a total of eight hours, and driving for a total of three. The bi-weekly trips have taken their toll on both my pilot and my body—but not my focus. If my body failed me, I would still find a way to make the trip. Every day if I had to. If that’s what Sabine asked of me.
“Evening, Leo,” I say over my shoulder, hearing him before I see him.
“Hey, boss.”
Leo hikes up the sloped hill of the side of the house. Wearing all black, he’s almost invisible in the night, aside from the long blond ponytail running down his back.
Leo’s position within my company has morphed dramatically since he joined years ago. Originally, the former Marine was hired as a mercenary, but when he injured his back during his third mission, I hired him to manage my properties, where he is on-call 24/7. Now, he doubles as a security guard for the beach house to ensure there are no unwanted visitors—or threats. When he isn’t monitoring the property, which is ninety-percent of his life, he’s bartending at a local seaside pub. Leo is a simple man. Rarely speaks, never complains, and is always on time. We get along well.
“All quiet?” I ask.
He smooths a hand over the top of his head. “All quiet on the loop, boss.”
The loop is what we call the perimeter of the property, including all twenty acres and multiple entry points. It’s a lot to monitor. His security job here entails the outside only. Inside, between Cillian and I, there is always someone here.
I glance at my watch. “You can cut out early, if you’d like.”
“No, it’s fine; I’m on until sunrise.”
“You look like you need sleep, son.”
Leo glances in the direction of his apartment, twenty miles away.
“Go,” I urge. “Get some sleep. I’ll do a perimeter check later tonight. See you tomorrow.”
Leo dips his chin. “Thanks, boss.”
Cillian is sitting at the breakfast nook when I walk in, a laptop in front of his face, a longneck bottle in his hand. I glance at the master bedroom at the end of the hallway and am relieved to find the door closed.
Cillian looks unusually tired and it’s then that I realize my pilot (and my back) isn’t the only person who’s affected by my trips to Louisiana. The moment I found out Sabine was alive, I made Cillian, my right-hand man, the interim CEO of Astor Stone, Inc. so that I could be freed up to deal with something I’ve never dealt with before. Two women, one who owns my last name, the other who owns my heart.
Cillian looks up from his computer, blinks away whatever email he was engrossed in.
He leans back, looking me over, and picks up his beer. “Did she open the door this time?”
“No.” I toss my duffel on the chair, grab a beer from the refrigerator and join him at the table. I’m in a shit mood.
Cillian takes a long drag off his beer.
We sit in silence for a moment.
Suddenly, Cillian frowns and leans forward. “What the hell is on your arm?”
I glance down at the swollen, oozing bumps that cover my exposed skin.
“Bug bites.”
“Gross, man. They don’t have bug spray in Louisiana?”
“There isn’t a strong enough chemical on earth to keep away swamp bugs. Trust me on this. They’re the size of my fucking fist.”
After sleeping on Sabine’s front porch after my first (failed) visit, I’d awoken to hundreds of insect bites, head to toe. I bathed in antihistamine cream for the following three days. Eventually, I just got used to them. Just like I’ve gotten used to wearing supermarket T-shirts, worn Levi’s, and boots instead of suits every day. I can’t remember the last time I wore a suit, or got a haircut. Even the five o’clock shadow I used to trim to perfection has grown into a full-on beard.
Yes, I am a shell of the man I used to be. I’m aware of this.
I just need to get Sabine back and everything else will fall into place.
“The swamps.” Cillian chuckles and shakes his head. “She really didn’t want you to follow her did she?”
“She knew I’d find her, just like she knows she’ll take me back.” I sniff.
“Not if you die of malaria first.”
“I’ll buy some spray,” I say, exasperated.
Cillian’s computer dings with another email, pulling our attention. One of the million emails intended for me that are now being handled by Cillian.
When he accepted the interim role, I wasn’t sure how he would handle the demanding position. Turns out, Cillian is a shrewd businessman. Before now, Cillian’s strength lay in his fists. The man was a born mercenary—a savage predator known for his brute physical strength. Now he spends his days on the phone with the United States Department of Defense and studying case files.
So much has changed.
Everything has changed.
“I was just typing up your daily summary,” he says.
I dip my chin, and again, we fall into silence. Both too tired to talk about work.
“How’s Valerie?” I ask, finally.
He blows out of breath, sinking deeper into the chair.
“She slept most of the day and night. She was really out of it when she was awake.”
“So, normal, then?”
“Yes. And that reminds me—Charles sent over a few dates and times for you to meet with the attorneys he’s vetted to help work on the divorce.”
“I’ll take a look, thanks.”
After learning that Sabine was alive, I reached out to Charles, my main attorney, about navigating a divorce with Valerie. While in the ER, I made a promise to Valerie that I would be by her side while she learns to navigate her diagnosis, and I meant it. However, I understand that I cannot continue in a fake, loveless marriage while the love of my life is out there.
When Valerie and I got married, she signed an iron-clad prenuptial agreement, which I’m certain she didn’t read. (And, admittedly, I didn’t push her to do so). Valerie was much too eager to step into the “Astor Stone lifestyle” to care about much else. However, with her recent schizophrenia diagnosis, things have become muddy. Apparently, divorce becomes exceptionally complicated when it requires an attorney who specializes in the grounds of legal incapacity.
“Did she speak today?” I ask.
“Not to me, but I think she said a few words to Jackie when she came by for her daily visit.”
Jackie is Valerie’s home-care nurse. After interviewing dozens of candidates, I hired Jackie years ago, not only for her competency but also her no-bull attitude. Despite being barely five feet tall and two decades older than most nurses these days, Jackie walks into the room like she owns the place.
“Oh,” Cillian continues, “and she left a ‘how to live with someone with schizophrenia’ pamphlet on the counter over there.”
I snort. A pamphlet. Ha. Since Valerie was diagnosed months ago, I’ve read every article available on the subject. Even still, I feel completely out of my comfort zone.
“How were her vitals today?” I ask.
“High blood pressure again and a slight temperature. I think Jackie took some swabs or something,” he jerks his chin to a piece of paper sitting on the counter, next to the pamphlet. “There’s the summary of her visit.”
We drink our beers somewhere in-between the comfortable silence that comes with being friends for so long, and a simmering tension from things unsaid.
Then, to my surprise, he says it . . .
“So. How long is this going to go on?”