Chapter Thirteen
THIRTEEN
The drive to the Coral Gables neighborhood should have taken an hour; with Fourth of July weekend traffic, it took closer to two. Shepherd had never been in the gated neighborhood where Ginny’s family lived.
To be fair, he’d only ever been in a gated community once, and that was during high school when he stayed over at a friend’s house without realizing said friend was rich. He wore affordable sneakers! The same sneakers Shepherd wore! How could he have known?
The gated community itself was a parade of wealth—expansive art deco mansions, vibrant palm trees lining the streets, wide canals with fishing boats that looked more like yachts docked every few dozen feet.
The Kent Manor, because that’s what it was—a freaking manor—sat on the corner lot at the end of the main street, sandwiched between two bodies of water—a large canal on one side, open bay on the other.
The manor was three stories tall and expanded further in either direction than he could see from his Toyota Camry.
There were so many cars parked inside the white stone fence of Ginny’s family home that Shepherd had to leave his across the street. Some of them were white-and-blue police cars, some were black SUVs, and a few, closer to the house, were Aston Martins.
Shepherd assumed those did not belong to anyone in law enforcement.
“Oh, great,” Ginny muttered, “Grandpa’s here.”
Just the word “Grandpa” conjured up an image of a bearded, smiling man, somewhat overweight, bearing gifts in Shepherd’s mind.
Santa. He was thinking of Santa Claus. But the way Ginny said the word “Grandpa” suggested that, perhaps, her family member was not quite as jolly as his imagination was hoping.
She laced her fingers through his as they walked up to the front door. Saltwater and sargassum filled the air, and even though he couldn’t see it, Shepherd knew there was a boat ready and waiting for a day of sport fishing out back.
A cop stood guard outside the door, and Ginny said hello but reached for the doorknob. The cop cleared his throat. “Identification, please.”
“What are you, a bouncer?” Shepherd asked.
The police officer did not think that was funny.
“That’s not funny, sir,” he said. “I have strict orders to only allow necessary people inside.”
What Shepherd wanted to say was, Huh, guess you aren’t a necessary person. But Ginny just pulled out her wallet and handed the cop her ID. “I’m Ginny Kent, Deandra’s daughter. This is my … fiancé. Shepherd.”
He’d been upgraded from pretend boyfriend to pretend fiancé? And without even a pretend ring?
The police officer waved them through, and Shepherd and Ginny entered the manor hand in hand.
He expected the sweeping staircase with decorative wrought-iron bars and the giant crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and dazzling visitors upon entry.
He expected the fresh-cut flowers and the marble flooring.
He expected the display of wealth in every sterile, perfectly clean, perfectly modern aesthetic touch.
But what caught him by surprise was the amount of activity.
People swarming from one room to another, talking to each other or on phones.
Strangers in suits going up and down the stairs.
The smell of coffee overpowered the rotten egg of the sargassum, and Shepherd took a deep, steadying breath, looking around for the nearest cup.
“Virginia!” a male voice called from somewhere on high.
Shepherd looked up, excepting to find God, or, at the very least, Santa.
Instead, there was an older man, with dulling auburn hair, thick black glasses, and pale, lightly wrinkled skin.
He was wearing gray slacks and a light-blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
On his feet were expensive-looking sneakers, which meant this was a shoes-on house.
Shepherd felt Ginny shuffle beside him, heard her soft inhale. “Dad,” she replied.
Ginny’s father raised a hand and beckoned them up the stairs with a wave of two fingers.
“Just keep your mouth shut,” Ginny whispered as they hurried up the grand staircase. “And if you have to say anything, agree with whatever I’ve said.”
“So, you’re my real lawyer as well as my fake girlfriend?”
Ginny shushed him. They reached the landing, and the older man approached, his dark eyes sweeping over Shepherd.
“Dad, this is my fiancé, Preston Shepherd. Shepherd, this my dad, Bradley Kent.”
“Fiancé?” Bradley Kent repeated, his gaze swooping over Shepherd a second time. “When did that happen?”
Ginny and Shepherd exchanged a look. “Recently,” she said.
“OK. Well.” Her dad finally looked away from him. “You were expected here about thirty minutes ago.”
Ginny squeezed his hand, and Shepherd realized his mouth was open. He closed it. “Sorry. Something came up.”
“Something came up?” Her dad crossed his arms. He was still pretty built, for a guy old enough to be his fake girlfriend’s father. “What could have possibly been more pressing than the kidnapping of your mother?”
She licked her lips. “We were …”
“We had to eat,” Shepherd’s mouth said without input from his brain. He grimaced, the heat of Ginny’s glare burning his cheek.
Mr. Kent clicked his tongue. “You discovered a dead body and were able to eat breakfast immediately after?”
“McDonald’s,” Shepherd said, helpfully.
The three of them stared at each other. None of them moved, none of them so much as even blinked—a perfect juxtaposition to the hubbub down the stairs.
Finally, Mr. Kent shrugged. “Yeah, OK. Come on; the family’s all waiting for you in the office.”
Shepherd’s shoes squeaked on the marble flooring of the upstairs hallway. He did not think about Mr. Martin’s blood on his soles. Or that guy’s head on his bat. Or the fire at his heels.
Definitely not the fire.
What Shepherd needed right then, more than at any other time in his life, was a drink. Specifically, a Key Lime Coolada, made for him by Noah, his best and only friend. Ginny was no longer a friend. He was pretty sure she was some kind of demon, and not even the fun, succubus kind.
There were family portraits on the walls. Not photographs, but real portraits, painted memorials of fake, smiling faces, small, pale bodies standing before a massive fire.
Not the fire. Think of anything but the fire.
Like his baseball bat, and that guy’s dented head. No, don’t think about those, either.
Ginny squeezed his hand, and when he looked down at her to see why, she was raising an eyebrow at him in question. “I’m OK,” he lied.
Mr. Kent opened a wide, mahogany door without knocking. It must’ve been soundproofed, because the instant it was open, voices came flooding out. They all shut up once Ginny dragged Shepherd inside.
He felt their eyes before he saw them. His nervous system reacted like a mouse does before a lion—skittering in terror, looking for a hole to hide in.
His heart tumbled into his lower stomach, and he clenched all of his muscles, certain he was going to have to jump out of a window to escape.
But Ginny squeezed his hand again, and he blinked, and her family weren’t lions at all.
It was worse. They were lawyers.