Chapter 5 Esme #2
Robbie padded down the hallway, his door clicking shut a moment later. Grady reached for the remote and clicked out of the movie app, which took us back to regular television. The late night news was on, but I didn’t pay any attention.
I settled back against the cushions, my glass of wine in hand. “Want to watch something else?”
“Sure, I just need to check the soccer scores, and then we can pick whatever you want,” Grady said.
I froze, my heart sinking. “You missed the game?” I’d forgotten that his favorite team was in the playoffs. “You sacrificed watching to stay with the kids? And Robbie made you watch that awful documentary while your team played.”
“No big deal. I’d rather spend time with them.
Robbie was super excited about that documentary.
I can check the score now.” He looked down at the remote and then back to the television, clearly preparing to change the channel to a sports network.
But instead, he flinched and then stared at the screen.
An image of the disgraced Hollywood producer, Sean Hale, appeared. Grady unmuted the sound.
“The death of Sean Hale has been confirmed. Earlier this evening, the entertainment mogul was found dead in his cell,” the anchor said.
“He was found unresponsive during a routine check. His bedsheet had been used as a noose. Authorities have not ruled out foul play or suicide. We’ll be sure to keep you updated as news breaks. ”
“Wow, no way.” I stared at the television screen before looking over at Grady. “Do you think someone murdered him? To keep him quiet?”
Sean Hale had been one of Hollywood’s most powerful producers.
All that changed when an exposé dropped in a reputable magazine, featuring interviews with several actresses who claimed Hale had drugged and raped them.
More women came forward after that, each with similar stories.
One had managed to escape his assault, only to be blacklisted from every studio in town. Several hadn’t even been eighteen yet.
His arrest came swiftly. The trial took months, but the conviction was decisive: life in prison.
For a while, the story dominated every news cycle.
Now it was back in the headlines. And it begged the question—were there other powerful men who wanted to keep him quiet?
There had been rumors all along that there were other celebrities involved in both the crimes and the cover-ups.
Or had he taken his own life?
Grady continued to stare at the screen, his skin looking yellow under his tan. His chest rose once, sharp and shallow, and didn’t quite seem to fall again.
I lowered my glass. What was wrong with him?
I didn’t think he’d followed the story, even when the rest of the country couldn’t stop talking about it.
Seraphina had met Sean Hale once, during negotiations with producers for the rights to one of her series.
She’d said he’d given her an icky feeling. A month later, it all came out.
“Grady, what’s up? You look weird.”
Grady turned off the television, but he didn’t look at me. His jaw worked once, twice, as if he were grinding something down. His fingers curled inward against his knee, thumb digging into his palm hard enough that the knuckle went white.
“I should probably go,” Grady said, the words flat and abrupt.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “It’s still early. You didn’t check the soccer scores.”
“Yeah, I’m suddenly tired.” He stood too fast, knees bumping the coffee table with a dull knock. He took two steps toward the kitchen before stopping himself, dragging a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, some stuff at the shop. A new order’s coming in early in the morning.”
Why was he lying to me? He didn’t restock boards this time of year. Not when he was about to head into winter months. From November to March, he was only open part time. No one bought boards in the winter.
“Grady, are you okay? You’re acting weird. Did that story upset you?”
He looked at me for a moment, indecision in his eyes. “Why would it?”
“I don’t know. You’re acting like it does, that’s all.” I couldn’t imagine what would make him react this way to a man he didn’t even know. “Have you been following this story?”
Again, with the hand through his gold curls. “I mean, not really. It was hard to miss, though, right? The story was everywhere.”
“Yes, it was. I followed it pretty closely when it all came out. Those poor women really broke my heart. But I always got the feeling you didn’t really pay attention to anything that happened in Hollywood.”
“I don’t.” His eyes seemed glassy, like hazel rocks under a river’s stream. “But, hey, I’ve got to run.”
I stood, setting my glass aside, wishing I could reach for him and make him tell me what was going on in that head of his. “Thanks again for staying with the kids.”
He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Anytime.”
“Text me when you get home?”
“Sure, yeah,” Grady said. “Shouldn’t take me long.”
I stood, unsure whether to close the distance or give him space. “Please, let me know if I can help. With whatever this is.” He had never once in the history of our friendship left abruptly. Sometimes he even slept over on the couch if we stayed up too long talking or watching a movie.
“Thanks.” Grady gave me a sad smile and then paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob a beat too long.
His shoulders sagged just slightly, like he was too exhausted to walk down the stairs.
But I knew better. Grady Nash never tired physically.
He was in terrific shape. It was an emotional burden.
I just didn’t know what it was. And I didn’t care for the feeling. At all.
He turned back for one last glance. “Sorry, Esme. ‘Night.”
He was gone before I could answer back. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the apartment. I stood, flabbergasted, staring at the empty space where he’d been.
Finally, I picked up the remote and turned on the television. The broadcast had already moved on, but I switched to another news station until I found the story again. I listened carefully, but there was nothing I hadn’t already heard.
I finished my wine while I switched to yet another news station talking about the story, my mind racing.
Had Grady known one of the women who accused Hale?
Was that his connection to it? But if that were the case, why hadn’t he ever shared it with me?
Now that I thought about it, Grady didn’t talk much about his past. I knew he grew up in L.A.
, spending every minute he could surfing off the coast of Malibu.
He’d gone to college at UCLA and had gotten a business degree.
He’d tried corporate life, but had decided he’d rather be at the beach doing what he loved, so he’d moved here.
But his behavior tonight begged the question—how much did I really know about him?
No, that was ridiculous. I spent more time with him than anyone but my kids.
He might not talk a lot about his past, but, then, neither did I.
Grady might be a mainstream type of man, but he was steady and loyal, even if he lived in a hut on the beach.
I brushed my teeth and washed my face, convinced that he had some connection to one of the victims. Maybe Robbie could help me figure out if that were true. I’d ask him in the morning, I decided, as I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, Madison was already up when I wandered into the kitchen, cereal box open on the counter, her tablet propped against the coffee maker. Robbie shuffled in a minute later, hair sticking up in the back, blinking like a mole surfacing from its underground home.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning,” Robbie mumbled as he headed for the fridge to pull out the orange juice. Same routine every morning. That was my boy.
I started a pot of coffee and leaned against the counter while it brewed, my thoughts looping back to the night before. The way Grady had gone pale beneath his tan. His lie about the shop and the abrupt way he’d left.
“Robbie,” I said.
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something … delicate?”
That got his attention. “Define delicate.”
“Something I don’t want to blow out of proportion.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
I took a breath. “Pull up what you can find on Hollywood producer, Sean Hale. He died last night.”
“Sure. Give me a second.” He opened his laptop and typed for a moment. His expression changed from curious to disgusted. He read at superhuman speed. “Okay, so this was a terrible man. Now he’s dead. What does that have to do with us?”
“Not us,” I said. “But maybe Grady.”
His eyes widened, and for once he had nothing to say.
“He acted weird when the news of his death came on the news last night,” I said. “After you went to bed. He charged out of here afterward.”
“That is odd.” Robbie’s brow crinkled. “You were having wine. And doing that thing where you act like a married couple.”
I flinched but nodded. “That’s right.”
“Which means he usually stays for approximately two more hours,” Robbie said. “Based on previous visits.”
It was true. Grady and I spent several nights a week watching television together after the kids went to bed. Or spent hours talking, depending on our moods.
“Agree,” I said. “I thought we were hanging out—and suddenly he was gone. He’s never done that before.”
Robbie nodded. “Yes, it’s contrary to his behavior before you got home.
He kept looking at his watch. I don’t know how many times exactly.
But he asked me four times if I thought you should be home by now.
Furthermore, he mumbled under his breath three times about how he hoped you were safe with this guy and that he couldn’t wait for you to get home. ”
“Which means something about the news upset him,” I said. “And I want to know what it is.”
“I, too, want to know.” Robbie returned his attention to his laptop. “Give me a moment to see if I can find any connection.”
“I think he knew one of the victims, and it really hit him hard,” I said. “My guess anyway.”
“That’s a possibility.” Robbie glanced up, that impatient glint in his eyes that meant he wanted me to be quiet so he could do his thing.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, and made some scrambled eggs, so Madison would have something in her stomach besides bran flakes before she left for school.
Fifteen minutes passed. I got Madison ready, braiding her hair, supervising toothbrushing.
On Fridays, Robbie’s STEM high school started two hours later than Madison’s elementary school, so I left him to his work on the computer and walked her to the bus stop on the corner.
When I returned, Robbie was still on the computer, but he looked up at me.
“Mother, I believe I’ve found the connection. You should sit. This is going to come as a shock.”
I didn’t argue. I pulled out the chair and sat, my second cup of coffee untouched. “Okay.”
Robbie turned the laptop toward me. “I started with older articles. Not the recent ones. Before the arrest. Before the exposé. Back when the coverage was still sycophants discussing the brilliance of his studio’s films, etcetera.”
My stomach tightened. “Go ahead.”
“There wasn’t much there, until I found an article about the death of his wife,” Robbie said. “Celeste Hale. Died seventeen years ago of cancer. They had two children. A son and a daughter, ages sixteen and fourteen at the time of their mother’s death. Jefferson Hale and Mara Hale.”
I leaned closer. “I vaguely recall that he had a family, but they didn’t talk about that much when all of it came out about the women.”
“Yes, it got buried under everything else that came later.”
Another click as Robbie pulled up something else.
“His wife’s maiden name was Nash.”
“Nash,” I repeated. “Like Grady?”
Robbie nodded. “That’s what caught my attention. One might assume coincidence, but that would be a lazy explanation and thought process. So I kept looking, and I found this.”
He turned the screen toward me again.
The image was grainy, taken from a distance, but clearly a cemetery. A crowd dressed in black for a graveside service huddled together in front of the coffin. And just off to the side was a teenage boy.
I sucked in a breath. It was Grady.
Younger, with a fuller face.. His jaw was set hard, his shoulders squared as if holding himself upright took every ounce of effort he had.
Beside him stood a younger girl, her face turned into his shoulder. The sister. Mara.
The caption beneath the photo read: Sean Hale with son Jefferson and daughter Mara at the funeral of Celeste Hale.
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding, mind tumbling, searching for something that made sense.
Robbie clicked again. “Three years ago, right after the trial, Jefferson Hale legally changed his name to Grady Nash. He dropped his first name. Kept his middle name. Took his mother’s maiden name.”
The room felt suddenly very quiet. A few pieces of ice shifted in the freezer.
“Three years ago,” I repeated. “That’s when he came to Willet Cove.”
“Yes, which suggests he did so in order to escape from the stigma of his father. He doesn’t want anyone to know who he really is.”
I leaned back in my chair, the pieces sliding together in a way that made my stomach ache. “Including me.” Why that hurt me as much as it did felt very selfish, but there it was anyway. I looked once more at the image of a grieving teenage boy holding his sister’s hand.
“He wanted to start fresh,” I said. “And then, right there on the television screen, he learned of his father’s death.”
“There’s more. He worked as an agent at a prestigious talent agency before he changed his name.”
“He was an agent?” I asked, stunned.
“One of the best, apparently,” Robbie said. “Very well paid.”
“He left his job. And his identity. And started over.”
“It appears that way.”
“I can’t believe this. He’s not just our Grady, the fun surf shack owner. He had this whole other life.”
“A life he no longer wanted, I guess,” Robbie said. “And who could blame him for that?”
“Not me.” Yes, it was understandable. However, the truth was this. He’d not told me who he was. Not a single hint. How had I thought we were close? Everything I knew about him was a lie.
And I had no earthly idea what to think. Or do.