39. Slade
SLADE
“She’s getting better. Kids bounce back remarkably fast,” Sullivan says, fixing me with a stern look as I struggle to keep still.
I curl my hands around the edge of the kitchen counter as Molly sits on the living area rug, rocking a doll in her arms. I have to physically hold myself here so I don’t walk over there and scan her tiny body, searching for little red patches, looking for signs of returning illness.
She already looked at me funny when I did it earlier.
But I can’t help it. Sullivan said she had a bad fever and a rash, which turned out to be nothing serious.
But the way he stormed out of Jude’s place yesterday, and I was left guessing if she was going to be okay, was like a sucker punch to my gut.
I stare at her.
She’s mine.
Only, she’s not. She’s Sullivan’s.
My heart knows that. I see it every time she looks at him with complete trust and love.
And every time my usually stiff brother softens, gazing at her like she’s his reason for living.
And she is. He had a baby left on his doorstep and he stepped up.
If things were as easy as they used to be between us, then I’d pull him into a hug and tell him how damn proud I am to be his brother.
Sullivan’s the best father Molly could have.
He was ready to discuss what was best for her the moment I came back.
But I see it clearer than I’ve ever seen anything.
This is best for Molly. Sullivan’s her daddy.
Not me. It doesn’t stop me feeling fiercely protective over her, though.
It doesn’t stop me wanting to get to know every tiny thing about her.
My shoulders soften as I watch her play, oblivious to everything that has exploded around her.
The past twenty-four hours have been… strange.
My family has continued to field the press, offering no explanation about my reappearance.
But it’s only a matter of time before they have to say something.
They have, however, given Jude and me some breathing space while we figure things out.
She’s had to go into work today to check on things.
She’s been gone three hours and I’m missing her like crazy.
Which is how I found myself turning up at my brother’s door.
I’ve watched Tate bake cookies with Molly, listening to her giggle and watching her eyes light up when they came out of the oven. I’ve soaked it all in, trying to make up for three years of missed memories like this.
“Daddy?” Molly calls.
My heart seizes as bright blue eyes look in our direction.
“Yes, Sweetheart?” Sullivan calls.
I swallow. Sullivan still won’t talk about the day of the fire with me.
But he has spoken about Molly, insisting me being her father isn’t a secret we can keep from her forever.
But while she’s this young, I don’t want to burden her with it.
I want her to keep the innocence she has.
I want her to have a happy, carefree childhood. Like we all did.
“Uncle Shade play?” she asks hopefully.
My brother looks at me, quirking an eyebrow. Tate’s gone to visit her dad—I think she wanted to give us space—and Molly has been playing alone for the past ten minutes.
“I’d love to.”
“This one yours,” she says, pushing a baby wearing no clothes into my arms.
“Who’s this?” I ask.
“Baby,” she says seriously, her lower lip poking out. “She needs clothes.”
Something is thrust toward me and I take it and unscrew it. “Baby wants to wear her duck T-shirt today, huh? Good choice.”
Molly giggles like I’ve said something funny, then watches me as I dress the baby, being careful like I would be if it were a real one.
“Now diaper,” she announces.
I peel off the pretend diaper the baby has on and pinch my nose. “I can’t.” I pretend to gag. “Oh, it’s awful. Smells like your daddy.”
Molly erupts into more giggles, her eyes darting to Sullivan who’s watching us intently with a hint of a smile.
I blow out my cheeks, holding my breath and fix the baby’s fresh diaper before hurling the other over my shoulder.
Molly giggles through the entire thing.
“You silly,” she says.
“Yeah? Well, you cute.” I wink at her.
She sighs through her giggle, and I grin at her, one of the cracks in my heart that appeared three years ago gluing back together.
“People are staring,” Jude whispers in my ear.
I squeeze her hand underneath the table. “It’s okay.”
But as Jude shifts uncomfortably in her seat, my body remains tense. My father clears his throat, trying to keep the conversation around the table flowing.
We’re out at dinner with everyone, attempting to put on a united front.
Uncle Mal, Dad, and Sullivan have been talking about how Beaufort Diamonds is doing, and how successful the launch of the most recent designs has been.
Halliday, Tate, and Aunt Trudy have been asking lots of questions.
And Sinclair’s been coloring with Molly while Molly sits on Denver’s knee beside her.
Jude’s been drawn into conversation at every opportunity.
My father’s taken a great interest in her work, and even Sullivan’s been asking a lot about the administration systems she’s responsible for creating.
An easier topic than asking me why I murdered Mom.
The only person who’s mentioned Cape Town is Uncle Mal, who asked me whether I’d stayed there this entire time or moved around.
Then he asked where I’d been living, and the conversation died when I told him it was on a boat.
Far too close to actually talking about the truth.
Jude flexes her fingers, and I realize I’ve been gripping her hand too tightly.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Do you want to leave?”
“No. We’re almost finished. It’ll look weird if we leave now.”
Jude nods and glances at a table of people looking in our direction and whispering. My father requested the table we’re sitting at, partially blocked from view by a display of indoor trees. But a few tables can still see us, and everyone’s heads turned when we arrived.
I grit my teeth, choosing to have a drink of water before I do something stupid like stand and announce to the entire restaurant that yes, I am that rich guy back from the dead.
And no, I didn’t have fucking amnesia, despite that being what my family seems happy to let the press keep speculating over.
When are they going to actually fucking talk about what happened?
My jaw hurts from the amount of tension in it by the time my father settles the bill and we leave. A trail of whispers follows us as we exit the restaurant, people gaping in our direction.
We step outside and my father curses as a collection of press waits with cameras poised.
Killian and Jenson sweep in to escort us to the cars, clearing a path through the thrusting microphones.
Denver shields Sinclair and Molly using his giant frame, and I yank Jude into my side, glaring at a guy who angles his camera toward us.
“Sterling? You must be happy to have your son back?”
“Slade? Have all your memories returned yet?”
“When will an identification be made public over the body on your yacht?”
The last question is the only one that causes my father to pause. He keeps Halliday protected from the reporter as he turns in their direction.
“We’re still waiting for that to be confirmed. But rest assured, it’s something we are committed to finding out as soon as possible.”
I stiffen, staring at my father.
“Keep walking, Son,” he says calmly. “That’s all we’re giving them for now.”
We slide into the waiting cars. Sullivan, Tate, and Molly get in the one behind ours with Killian. Uncle Mal brought his own, so Denver escorts him with Sinclair and Aunt Trudy, and Jude and I join my father and Halliday, with Jenson getting in behind the wheel.
We pull out, leaving the reporters behind us.
“They’ll find something else to talk about soon,” my father says. But despite his calm confidence, his forehead is marred with deep lines as he stares out of the window.
I continue studying him as we all sit in silence. Halliday has her hand threaded through his, and her other one resting over her bump. After a few minutes, he turns, smiling at her and places his free hand on her bump as well. He whispers something softly to her and she nods.
He’s acting like this is all perfectly normal. But that reporter’s question is ringing in my head.
The news reports after the fire said my mother and I had both been onboard but that the fire was so severe they were unable to gather much evidence. I assumed my family paid a lot of money to keep as much of it out of the press as they could.
But there was another body.
And if it wasn’t me, then who the hell was it?
“Here’s one,” Jude says, turning her laptop screen toward me.
“What does it say?”
“The same as the rest. That the yacht was destroyed in the explosion when the fire reached the fuel tank.”
I drag my hands through my hair, gritting my teeth.
“We’re not getting anywhere. Fuck.”
Jude wraps her arms around me and squeezes. “Let’s keep looking.”
“What’s the point?” I snap.
We’ve been sitting in my place, trawling the internet and old news sites since we got back from dinner.
We decided to stay here instead of at Jude’s because my building’s security team is better at keeping the press from sneaking in.
It’s 3 a.m., and we haven’t found anything.
Not a single thing. The lack of press coverage at the time of the accident is suspicious.
There are articles about my family once they returned to New York.
Long lens images of them standing in the cemetery the day they buried my mother…
and supposedly me. And there’s the press conference in Cape Town the day after the fire.
But that’s all.
It’s like my father said about people finding something else to talk about pretty quickly. It seems the same happened three years ago. The only articles we’ve found state my mother and I were both killed that day. But none go into detail. None provide answers.
“We’re not going to find anything.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could give you answers.” Jude rubs my back, but nothing can ease the taut muscles.
“I don’t know how much longer I can play along with this weird fucking denial of theirs. I thought we’d fight about it. I thought they’d hate me and yell at me and do something! I thought they’d fucking do something!”
I grab my old laptop and hurl it as hard as I can across the room.
Jude flinches as it hits a lamp and both crash to the floor.
“They’re acting like it never happened. It’s worse.” My voice cracks. “You’re my reason for staying, Jude. And Molly too now. But I… I don’t know how I’m supposed to fucking do this anymore.”
She pulls me into her as a sob breaks through. I’ve held them back. Been strong for her. I didn’t want her to worry. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing hurt in her eyes caused by me and the situation I’ve gotten her into.
It’s all my fault. I came back and caused all this.
And I hate myself for the worry in her eyes. But I don’t have answers for her. I can’t make my family react any other way. It’s like they’re strangers to me.
“Jude…” I choke.
“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere,” she says softly, cradling my head as I sink into her chest and cry.
I fall apart in her arms.
“I’ve got you,” she soothes. “And I love you so much.”