The Guy in the Photo
Delaney
I was curled up with my phone on the cabin's rustic couch, staring down at the photo that filled my screen. In it, Maddox McGuiness stood beside Sloane Hayworth at some gallery opening in Beverly Hills.
They looked like they were made for each other.
Maddox looked devastatingly handsome in a dark tailored suit. He wasn't smiling. But he didn't look miserable either. His hair was neat, his expression was calm, and his dark eyes revealed absolutely nothing.
Beside him, Sloane wore a pale gold dress that hugged every curve. Her honey-blonde hair was pinned loosely atop her head, with a few soft strands escaping around her face as she smiled up at Maddox.
She looked stunning – and perfectly paired with the man whose arm rested casually at her waist.
They were both tall, attractive, and impossibly polished, like the sort of couple who belonged on a red carpet or at one of those exclusive parties where everyone was somehow famous.
Already, four days had passed since Walt had called me over to see the news. Since then, I'd spent nearly every waking moment gobbling up information like the answer to life itself might be buried in the details.
For what felt like the millionth time, I shifted my attention to the woman at Maddox's side.
Sloane Hayworth.
Wow.
The identity of Maddox was shocking enough. But seeing him paired with Sloane – the daughter of Cynthia Hayworth, who my mom had been griping about for years – was the one-two punch that still had me reeling.
By now, I'd watched Sloane cry at least a dozen times on various TV and podcast appearances, where she told the sad tale of how she'd been left at the altar by the black-hearted villain I'd known simply as Maddox.
She was a gorgeous cryer, too, somehow managing to look luminous even with tears sliding down her cheeks while she dabbed at her eyes.
How on Earth did she do that? Whenever I cried, I ended up with puffy eyes and a red nose. But not Sloane. She looked heartbreakingly beautiful while I looked like someone who'd been hit with a pollen bomb.
Some of Sloane's crying had occurred while promoting her new book, which had just made the New York Times bestseller list. In it, she'd described Maddox as a cold, controlling man who viewed people as possessions and was impossible to please.
She'd called him abusive – not physically, but emotionally – saying that he made people earn his affection and took it back whenever they disappointed him.
Honestly, it didn't sound like abuse to me.
Like, let's say someone did something awful and refused to apologize. Were you supposed to smile and move on?
She'd also described him as a ruthless narcissist who thought of nobody but himself, which was hard to reconcile with the man who'd been so generous and thoughtful with me – well, until I'd flipped out, that is.
But that wasn't all my fault, was it?
Maddox had definitely misled me. But why?
And why on Earth was he showing people my photo?
None of this made sense.
Regardless, I felt terrible – not only about the way I'd lost my temper, but about the fact that Sloane was still missing. And of course, that made me feel even worse, because a stupid argument was nothing compared to a real tragedy.
I was seriously losing it.
It didn't help that in only a few days, our time at the cabins would be done. Already, we'd stayed a lot longer than planned. But the place was seasonal and would be closing at the end of October, which meant my little escape hatch was about to disappear.
In other words, whatever I was doing next, I would need to figure it out soon.
But here I was, still stuck on Maddox.
By now, I knew his biography by heart.
Maddox McGuiness was thirty-three years old, which somehow seemed impossibly young for a man the internet kept describing as a billion-dollar cautionary tale.
His mother was Evelyn Whitmore-McGuiness, but it was the middle name that carried so much clout. The Whitmore side of the family owned enough companies, hotels, resorts, and luxury brands that even I recognized the name.
Maddox was the younger of two brothers. The older brother, Alexander, was the undisputed golden boy. He'd married the right woman, worked for the family business, and apparently spent his entire life saying exactly what everyone wanted to hear.
Unlike Maddox, Alexander had never once thrown a man out of a fundraiser for harassing a waitress. Or told reporters to shove it. Or been photographed flipping off a blogger at a gala.
Regardless, every article, every blog post, every newscast repeated the same two words when it came to Maddox.
Black sheep.
At some point, he'd apparently stopped explaining himself. The earlier stories described a man who argued with everyone. The newer ones mostly described a man who said nothing at all.
These days, he never gave interviews. He avoided social media. And he treated public relations the way most people treated telemarketers.
After the wedding disaster, things had only gotten worse. His family had publicly distanced themselves. Several articles suggested he'd been cut off. Others insisted he'd walked away voluntarily. Nobody seemed to know for sure because Maddox himself never said anything.
The man simply didn't explain himself. He hadn't defended himself after the wedding, and apparently he wasn't interested in defending himself now – which was either incredibly dignified or beyond suspicious, depending on who was talking.
After days of reading, I still wasn't sure who Maddox McGuiness truly was.
I was still studying the photo on my screen when I heard a familiar knock at the cabin door. Walt. Still clutching my phone, I called out, "Come on in!"
The door had barely shut behind him when he looked at my phone with a frown. "What happened to writing?"
My face warmed. Oh, crap. That's right. I'd told him I was going to spend the day working on my next book. Instead, I'd spent the entire time obsessing over Maddox.
I hadn't been lying. I'd intended to write.
It just never happened, that's all.
And now Walt was laughing. "Hey, check it out." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tightly crumpled sheet of paper.
When he tossed it toward me, I caught it on instinct. "What's this?"
Looking smug, he said, "Open it up. You'll see."
I unwadded the sheet and took a look. It was a note, written in big bold ink. It contained only three words. Told you so.
I looked up with a laugh. "Oh, shut up."
But Walt was right. He did tell me so. Just before going out fishing, he'd actually bet me that I'd be as productive as the hydrangea, which sat accusingly on the kitchen table, where my laptop should've been.
Instead, the laptop was still in its case, I was still on the couch, and my word count for the day was exactly zero.
Walt said, "You know what you gotta do, right?"
"What?"
"Ask him." He didn't need to say the name. Maddox.
I stared. "Ask him what?"
"Everything." Walt started counting off. "Why the picture? Why the business card? Why'd he never tell you his last name? Why'd he move your car?"
"Hey, I don't know for sure he moved my car. It was just a theory, that's all."
But Walt just kept on going. "Why was he looking for you? Why'd he keep showing up? Why was he so sneaky with the penthouse?"
"Wait…sneaky?"
"Yeah, acting like the place was his when it really wasn't."
Why indeed.
Walt threw up his hands. "Why all of it? That's all I'm saying."
I bit my lip, but said nothing. These were the same questions I'd been asking myself for days.
No. Not days.
Some of those questions I'd been asking for months.
Maybe Walt was right. Maybe it was long past time to get some answers.
Maybe – just maybe – it was time to return to Chicago, if only for a day.