Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CADEN
That could not have gone worse if I’d planned it that way.
Why did I say all that? What the fuck is wrong with me? But once I started talking, I couldn’t seem to stop. And it was all true—well, not the gold digger part. I’m kicking myself for letting my own pain, my own frustration at her choosing Luke, take over. I didn’t mean it. I know that would never be her motivation for marriage. I never should have said something so hurtful. I was just…lashing out. Another selfish act, like she said.
I can’t believe how badly I messed things up. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, at least I could have stayed in her life. Been her friend. Instead, I’ve been banished from her company for good.
I wait from the shadows of the dunes and watch until a car pulls up and Charlotte gets out. They embrace and then Isla gets in the car with her. As soon as they’ve sped off into the distance, I jump on the Ducati and drive. I don’t care where I’m going. I just want to leave these thoughts and feelings behind. I want to focus on the wind in my ears, dulling the world around me. I drive all the way out to Montauk, then turn around and head back. The sun is setting by the time I reach the mansion.
I’m in a black mood as I storm into the house and head straight to the blue study. But I’m brought up short when I see someone else is already in there.
Von sits on the desk next to the computer, legs crossed, scarlet heels dangling from her feet.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. I haven’t seen Von in weeks.
She hops off the desk. “What the hell is this ?”
She jerks her thumb at my murder board.
“My investigation,” I say.
“You know this makes you look like that crazy chick from Homeland, right?”
“Well, I got a lead,” I say. “I talked to Carl Fillion today.”
“The guy who embezzled from Everton?”
“The very same.”
Now she looks interested. “And?”
“His alibi was bullshit. But he claims he has another one. Noah is checking it out.”
Von folds her arms across her chest. “If the Keystone Cop finds something, the family deserves to know. You need to keep me in the loop. I have connections now, remember? I’m not some wide-eyed law student anymore.”
“You’re a corporate criminal defense lawyer,” I say dryly. “You work for the Dark Side.”
Her eyes narrow. I know that face. She isn’t going to let this go. And hell, maybe she can help. I’m no lawyer.
And I’ve lost my investigation partner. I try to swallow down the sting. It’s more of an ache really. Like I’ve reopened an old wound and now it’s infected.
“I’ll let you know when I hear back from Noah,” I say.
“Good,” she replies. She glances down at the wedding photo on the desk. “She’d be glad you’re back,” Von says quietly, staring at Mom’s smiling face. “The whole family together. That was always her thing.” She shoots me a tentative grin. “Even when you and I were butting heads.”
“Which was pretty much all the time,” I say.
She chuckles. “Yup.”
“I thought you’d be happy I left,” I say, more teasing than accusatory. “You always wanted my place in the hierarchy.”
“I didn’t want to be you ,” Von says. “I just wanted to be seen . All of us did. Dad only ever focused on one of his children.”
“Yeah, and it was suffocating,” I say. “I don’t get it. Dad told me if I didn’t accept his conditions, he would name you heir. So why didn’t he?”
“What conditions?” Von asks.
“Get married to whoever he chooses and pop out kids before I can inherit.”
Von raises one slender eyebrow. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“That does seem peak Dad.”
“Tell me about it.” I lean against the wall. “So why aren’t you the new heir of Everton?”
Von’s mouth twists. “Because I’m not you,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
She sighs. “Ask Dad yourself,” she says. “He’s home too.” Then she leaves.
She’s right.
I walk through the house in search of my father. I find him in the sunroom, reading the paper.
“Why didn’t you name Von the next heir to Everton when I left?” I say without preamble.
Dad slowly lowers the paper. “Excuse me?”
“You threatened to oust me from the business but you didn’t. I asked you once already—now I’m asking you again.”
Very slowly and meticulously, Dad begins to fold up the newspaper. “I do recall our discussion before the anniversary gala, Caden, as I recall all discussions I have had concerning the company. I would caution you to adjust your tone.”
“Or what?” I scoff. “You’ll take away my inheritance? You forget yourself, Dad. You don’t control me anymore. I don’t need your fucking money.”
“You used it to buy that…machine outside,” Dad says disdainfully.
“The Ducati?” I say. “Here.”
I take out the keys and toss them at him. Dad’s reflexes are surprisingly sharp, and he catches them.
“You can have it. I don’t want anything from you. I only ever wanted you to be my father. To treat me like a son.”
Dad’s dark eyes widen. “I have always treated you as my son.”
“You treated me like your employee,” I snap. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”
Dad studies me carefully. “I wouldn’t think it would matter to you who inherits the company,” he says. “Since you are no longer a part of it, as you keep insisting.”
I clench my teeth. He’ll never give me a straight answer. I don’t know why I bother talking to him at all. “Fine,” I say, and turn on my heel.
“I suppose you no longer wish to present your sustainability idea to the board then,” Dad says.
I stop in my tracks. “What?” I ask, turning back to him.
“The meeting is set for Wednesday, at the office. I can cancel it.” He takes out his phone.
“No,” I say. “Wait.”
Goddamn him. Goddamn him for knowing there’s one thing that he can still hold over me. Not money, not my inheritance, but my dream for the future of the winery. And I’ve done all this work coming up with a solid business plan.
It’s a plan that would make my mother proud.
My throat tightens and my eyes burn.
“Fine,” I say again, but there’s no bite to it this time. “Wednesday.”
I stalk out of the room.
A couple of days later, I’m at the garage working on Isla’s booth for Magnolia Day.
It’s only two weeks away—when did that happen? When did July slip into August? When did time start to move so quickly? My time in town is drawing to a close.
I’m still waiting to hear from Noah about Carl’s new alibi, Isla has shut me out completely, and I spent hours yesterday on the phone with Sebastian, talking through my presentation to my father and the board. It feels like so much has happened since I’ve come back.
Now that I’ve acknowledged out loud that I’m in love with Isla, it’s all I can think about. I want her back and I’ve lost her again and it’s a constant, endless cycle in my mind. Sometimes I consider showing up at her house and begging her to forgive me, but I think that would have the opposite effect. I was such an asshole to her at the end of our conversation, I can’t blame her for not wanting to see me ever again. So instead, I take my frustration out on the dresser I’m sanding.
“Easy there, tiger,” Reggie says, coming over with a steaming mug of coffee. “You’re here early.”
“Gotta get this done,” I say. Isla’s is the last booth I have to finish. I need to make it perfect for her. I need to do something right.
My phone rings and it’s Noah. I almost drop it in my haste to answer. “Please tell me you have good news,” I say.
“Carl’s second alibi checks out,” Noah says and my heart sinks. “I talked to the bartender. Carl skipped out on his tab—probably why he used his wife as an alibi instead. The bartender remembered all these years later because he had to eat the cost of the bill. Still had the receipt. And Carl passed out in front of a church. I talked to the minister who found him at six o’clock that morning. The minister said he remembers that day because he added a prayer for Marion to the service.”
Six o’clock in the morning. No way Carl could have been at Everton to shoot Mom at six twenty-four.
“Don’t get discouraged,” Noah says and my temper flares.
“How can I not?” I snap. “I’ve only got a few weeks left then it’s case closed.”
“It’s never closed,” Noah says. “It’s just…not active.”
“Not helpful,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Well, like you said, you’ve still got some time. Don’t give up, Cade.”
I hang up and go back to sanding, with renewed fervor. Cody arrives for work half an hour later. I’ve started on the drawers when I hear a door slam outside. A few seconds later, Grace walks into the garage.
“Morning, Grace,” Cody says, looking up from beneath the hood of Mrs. Greerson’s car. Reggie messed with the cylinder again.
“Good morning,” Grace says solemnly. She plods over to me, her expression glum.
“Why the long face?” I ask.
“My facial dimensions haven’t changed,” Grace says.
“Right.” I’ve really enjoyed working with Grace this summer. She’s such a unique kid. And smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. “Why do you look so down?”
“Isla doesn’t want me to work on the booths with you anymore,” Grace says as I hand her a piece of sandpaper.
“Did she tell you that?”
“No. But I can tell.” She pulls out the second drawer of the dresser, sets it on the ground, then plops down next to it and starts to sand, just the way I’ve taught her.
My heart sinks. I should have seen this coming. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “It’s been really fun working with you.”
“Did you guys have a fight or something?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Yeah. Sort of.”
“About what?”
Cody has been wiping the same spot beneath the hood and I can tell his ears are tuned into this conversation. The last thing I need is for more gossip to be spread.
“Grownup stuff,” I say.
Grace purses her lips. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“No, you’re not.” I sigh. “I said some things I shouldn’t have,” I admit. “I said something hurtful. And untrue.”
“Can you take it back?”
“I want to—I said it in the heat of the moment, but that’s no excuse. Isla doesn’t want to talk to me, though.”
“So she’s mad at you for something you said that was mean but it was also a lie and now she won’t talk to you, which is the only way she would know you want to take it back?”
“That about sums it up.”
Grace rubs her nose. “I don’t understand people,” she says.
I don’t either, but I’m not sure it’s in the way Grace means.
“I don’t know why Isla doesn’t see what I see,” Grace says quietly.
I crouch down next to her and speak softly so Cody can’t hear. “What do you see?” I ask.
She leans in and whispers, “Luke isn’t the right shape.”
I blink. “Huh?”
“He doesn’t fit her. Isla’s got a different shape. Like a puzzle piece. But not an outside shape. It’s an inside shape. Isla’s too busy thinking about what everyone else wants to notice,” Grace says morosely. “Is that what grownups do all the time?”
“Actually, I think most grownups are up their own butts about what they want,” I say. “And they don’t give a crap about anyone else.”
Grace giggles. “You said butts and crap.”
I chuckle. “They felt appropriate.”
For a while, we sand the dresser drawers in silence. Cody heads into the office for lunch, and I’m just about to suggest we take a break when Grace pipes up again.
“You’re still investigating your mom’s murder, right?” she asks.
“Yeah. Well, to be honest, I just got some news that makes me feel like I’m at a dead end.”
Grace tilts her head. “Did you start with victimology?”
“Hm?”
“Like I told you at the library.”
That was weeks ago. My brain spins back to try and recall what she said. Mostly, I remember Isla, her hair spilling over one shoulder, the curve of her collarbone, her knee almost touching mine.
Grace huffs at my poor memory then explains it to me slowly. “You need to start by looking at the victim.”
“You think my mother was…what? Targeted? Specifically?”
Grace shrugs. “I don’t know. But I don’t think anyone ever looked at the case like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because all the papers talked about was a random burglar. Or you. But we know it wasn’t you.”
“You read the newspaper?”
“I read everything. Anyway, I don’t think it was a burglar because there are easier ways to get money.” She lifts the newly sanded drawer and slides it back into place. “Maybe your mom had a secret. Or maybe someone wanted something from her.”
“My mom didn’t have any secrets,” I say.
Grace stares up at me with those wise eyes. “The point of secrets is that no one knows about them.”
My thoughts suddenly flash back to the day I started my little murder board.
The locked drawer in the blue study. The study where Mom would write her correspondence.
Secrets.
“Grace, you’re a genius,” I say.
“I know,” Grace replies.
“I have to go,” I say. “Tell Reggie I left, okay? He or Cody can hang out with you here. Thanks. Thanks a million.”
And with that, I rush out of the garage.