Текст книги "The Singles"

Автор книги: Emily Snow

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Chapter 19

It wasn’t until my hand was on my bedroom door that I reexamined precisely what Oliver had just said to me.

“By the way, you look beautiful today, Gemma.”

Ice rushed down my spine, freezing me where I stood. I couldn’t have heard him correctly. With everything going on, my mind had officially started playing tricks on me, and I was hearing things—things I wasn’t prepared to listen to coming from Oliver’s mouth.

That was it, right?

Breathing in through my nose, I returned to the living room to find him leafing through the copy of Stardust I kept on the coffee table. Although he didn’t glance up, his self-assured grin instantly put my fears to rest, and I relaxed my shoulders.

“Thought you were getting dressed,” he said.

“I am.” Holding the nape of my neck in an effort to scrub away the uneasiness crawling over my flesh, I forced a laugh. “I’m just an exhausted mess and hearing things. Give me a few.”

“Wait.” He laid the book on the table and moved forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You weren’t hearing things, Lizzie. I called you Gemma.”

Someday, when I thought back on this moment, I’d immediately recall how I felt as if my heart had stopped, how we both seemed to be made of glass as his words flitted between us.

“Gemma,” he repeated, creating the first chink in my fragile armor.

I dug my fingernails into my skin. “Another ex-girlfriend, Oliver?”

“I know who you are. Gemma.” His words caused another crack, this one larger than the last, and I squared my shoulders.

“You should leave. It’s fucked up to come in here calling me another woman’s name.” But my voice faltered, and I had to fight every instinct in my body not to turn and go myself. “Leave!”

He drew himself to his full height. The closer he came to where I stood in the hallway, the harder my pulse throbbed, the clearer it was to see his grin was only a façade. The corners of his lips trembled. When he reached for me, pulling me to him so hard I couldn’t breathe, the rest of that glass encasing me shattered.

Suddenly, I felt my heart again, and I swore it was seconds from exploding.

Oliver knew, and everything was ending right now.

“We’re going to talk,” he said, his light blue eyes stabbing into mine. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

But I said it anyway. I said it, and I shook my head in denial. “No.”

With one swift motion, he scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing. A second later, I was on the couch. My stomach tightened as he knelt in front of me, trapping my legs with his upper body. I could feel his heart beating fitfully against my knees.

I clutched my hand over my own chest.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to hurt you,” he growled, dragging his hand over his tan face. “That’s not my intention.”

“Oliver—”

“And don’t open your mouth with lies.” Hauling his phone from his pocket, he typed in the security code before shoving the device in my direction. I looked down. And what I saw sent another tumultuous wave of emotion through me.

On the screen was a copy of my driver’s license and everything was there—my real date of birth, the address to my Vegas apartment, my name.

“I have everything else on you, if you need more convincing.”

From the way he said that, I knew he was aware of the phone sex and the escorting, but did he know why I was in L.A.? Because I didn’t know what would happen if I opened my mouth to ask, I chose silence, glaring at his phone as the waves of nausea held me under.

“I knew there was something about you, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.” His rough voice was the softest I’d ever heard it, and it terrified me.

“Even after you told me about that scar on your chest, and I remembered Greg mentioning his kid having to go to the hospital after something similar happened. Even after I heard some motherfucker propositioning you, calling you Alice in the middle of our date—I was still too stubborn to let myself believe you might be deceiving me.”

I finally discovered my voice, but when I murmured his name he shook his head.

“But the other night when Finley mentioned what your father used to tell you, I knew for sure. He said the same thing to me when I told him I was sorry for getting into his liquor stash when I was fourteen.” He touched his chest, fisting a handful of fabric. “I told you I wouldn’t have Easton look into you, but I couldn’t sleep beside you not knowing.”

“How long did it take him?”

“Two hours. In two hours he had everything, and I have no fucking clue how you’ve managed to fool Margaret this long.”

“You’ve already told her?” Raking my hands through my wet hair, I released a strangled noise. “You told her, and—”

“I haven’t.” When my head whipped up to look at him, he sneered. “I wanted to know why you were doing this before I said a word to anyone. Is it more money? Is it—”

Before I could stop myself, my fingers were on his shoulders. I tugged him closer to me, my world spinning uncontrollably. “What do you mean more money?”

“The money you’ve asked Margaret for over the years.”

I laughed, but it hurt. Everything about this moment hurt. “I’ve never taken anything from your mother other than the paycheck I earned from working.” Loosening my grip from his broad shoulders, I jabbed my finger to my chest. “I’ve never taken anything. She’s the one who’s taken everything from me!”

His nostrils flared, but his expression faltered. “What do you mean?” At my muteness, he held my chin in his hand and made me look at him. “I’m not going to let you say something like that just to back down.”

“Get out, Oliver.”

Even though he moved away from my body and stood, he didn’t head for the door like I hoped. Instead, he followed right behind me when I stumbled by him and into the foyer.

“Get out!” I repeated, pointing at the exit.

Planting his palm firmly against the door, he swallowed hard. “Not until you tell me what you have to gain from all this.”

It was all too much.

It had always been too much—I just hadn’t realized that before now.

Fury beating against my chest, I shouted, “Answers!” Lowering my head to the floor, I watched as the first tear fell to the laminate between our feet. “I don’t want any money that belongs to your mother, I just want answers. I wanted to know why I felt abandoned by my father for fourteen years and why the woman he married hated me so much to turn me away. I wanted all that.”

He sucked in a breath before he implored, “Then give me answers.”

When he framed my face with his large hands, it was to force my gaze to his. Staring up at the anger and disappointment in his blue irises, the tears started to run freely down my cheeks.

“Dammit.” As he backed away from me, dragging his hands through his light brown hair, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. “Why did you come here?”

“When are you telling Margaret?”

Realizing I wasn’t going to tell him why I came to L.A., he hunched forward and exhaled raggedly. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m giving you two weeks, Gemma—two weeks—to tell me everything.”

When he jerked my door open and stepped into the hall, I heard myself wheeze, “Why wouldn’t you do it now? Why two weeks?”

“Because if you’re here for answers, you’re not going anywhere.” He didn’t turn around, but I was glad he didn’t. Glad he couldn’t see the harsh emotions tearing through me. “Because the last two weeks have been the best of my fucking life.”

*

The next week floated by almost too quickly—a combination of working for a woman I couldn’t stand to even look at, and agonizing over the parting words of a man my chest ached for. Lies had backed me into a corner I wasn’t sure I could wiggle out of, and it was hell. With every day that passed, I knew I was drawing closer to the rest of my world crumbling around me.

I needed to help myself—finish what I started to stop that from happening.

“I didn’t want to give this to you yesterday because it was Thanksgiving,” Pen started ten minutes after we took a seat at a bar downtown on Friday night. “But I have a theory I thought you might want to hear.”

When she’d talked me into going out with her, I’d assumed she only wanted to get some alcohol in me to take my mind off Margaret and Oliver. Once she slid a piece of paper next to my beer, I realized she was mixing pleasure with business—business that probably wouldn’t have me dancing in excitement on the bar counter.

“What is it?” Running my tongue over my lips, I grabbed the printout and unfolded it carefully to reveal a photo of my father. He was with a blonde I didn’t recognize—no surprise there—and on the other side of them stood Michael Scott and a brunette woman. They were all grinning and holding champagne flutes. “Where’d you get this?”

“Old newspaper clippings.” Pen tapped her finger on the picture. “I’m not sure who the woman with your father is, but the lovely brunette hanging on Michael Scott’s douchebag arm is his ex-wife, Robin.”

“Finley’s mother,” I said, and she nodded.

Trailing her finger down the page, she stopped once she reached the center of the photo. “Look at this.”

The bar lighting was seedy at best, and I had to lean down until my nose practically grazed the paper to see that my dad’s arm was around Robin Scott’s waist. Snorting, I took a swig of my beer. “Nothing makes the holidays more festive than having your father’s hobag status blatantly pointed out to you,” I laughed unevenly. “W-when was this taken?”

“New Years Eve in Eighty-one.” Pen opened her mouth to say something else, but she hesitated.

“You’re about to tell me something that’s going to break me down, huh?”

“I’m sure as hell hoping it won’t.” She nibbled her bottom lip anxiously. “Do you want to hear it tonight?”

Shrugging, I sighed. “Go ahead. Give me everything.”

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with Robin for a few days—you never know if she might be a talker—but no luck so far.” Spreading her fingers on the bar counter, she blew out a slow breath. “I think Finley Scott might be your sister.”

My back straightened, and I blinked. Searching my best friend’s slate blue eyes closely, my heart dropped to my stomach. “You’re not joking, are you?” I eventually whispered, my voice hoarse.

“Afraid not.”

Over the last several days, I knew Pen had been working on figuring out the elusive Finley Scott, but I hadn’t stopped to consider she might reach a conclusion that would forever link Oliver’s ex-girlfriend to me.

I took another careful look at the photo, focusing my attention on my dad’s hand on Robin’s waist. It was a friendly enough gesture, but who the hell knew if it had eventually crossed into something more.  Refolding the paper, I returned it to Pen.

“Dammit,” I snapped.

Grabbing her glass, she held it between us like a shield. “Don’t take out the messenger!” She downed most of her wine and placed the glass on the middle of the counter. “Trust me, I don’t want it to be true. Still ... given when this picture was taken, it’s a possibility. Your dad might have hooked up with Finley’s mother and that might be why Margaret’s funneling money to her and Michael.”

“I guess it sort of makes sense.” As much as I hated to admit that, it was the most believable theory either of us had reached to date—even if it did curl my stomach and my chest into a series of knots. “But it still doesn’t explain why Margaret would give her money. If anything, I’d think she’d loathe Finley even more.”

Like she loathes me, I added silently.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Pen replied. When I started breathing heavily, she jerked my bottle off the counter and pressed it against my palms. “Drink.”

I didn’t argue. As soon as the beer was gone, I plunked the bottle on the countertop and signaled the bartender. “Linc will be here next week, right?”

She rolled her eyes and ruffled her brown hair. “Thank God. I still haven’t been able to get in touch with him, but my mom said he’ll be out of training soon.” When Pen had come home to find me sobbing uncontrollably last week, the first thing she suggested was that we get in touch with her brother and hand over everything we had on Margaret and the Scotts.

Linc, however, was nowhere to be found—we’d later discovered he was doing a training exercise—and I was still cursing myself for not talking to him earlier.

“Is it sad I’m ecstatic about admitting my fuck-ups to a federal agent?” Peeling the label off my empty bottle, I twirled it around my fingers. When I continued, I changed the subject because Finley was on my mind. “You’re not going to ask me to get a piece of her hair, are you?”

Choking on her wine, Pen shook her head hurriedly. “Unfortunately, my reach doesn’t extend into the DNA world. By time we got the results back it might be too late.”

Sighing, I covered my face with my hands. I was probably smearing my makeup all over the place, but tonight I didn’t care. “Since we’ve found so much in Margaret’s home office—do you think there might be anything else in there that might confirm whether or not she’s my ... sister?”

“Maybe. Do you think you can get back in there or is Oliver going to be an issue?”

So far, he’d kept his word. He hadn’t gone to Margaret or the authorities. But he also hadn’t spoken to me. Everything that had happened was a disaster of my own making, and I’d already started paying for my mistakes.

Setting my new beer in front of me, the pierced bartender winked encouragingly before shuffling over to another set of customers. Uninterested in his attention, I traced the letters on the cold bottle with my fingertip, coping with the harsh reality of Oliver’s departure and the idea that Finley Scott’s mother might have had an affair with my dad.

The idea that Finley might be my sister.

The hits kept coming, but to my relief this wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the others. I still had Margaret to deal with. And I had a week left before her son exposed me to the world.

Discovering I might have a bitchy sister who used to date the man I couldn’t get out my head seemed tame in comparison.

“Gem,” Pen began softly beside me, snapping my attention back to the present, “do you think he’ll give you any trouble?” she repeated.

Closing my eyes, I moved my head from side to side. “Not yet. I’ll get back into that office. I don’t know when, but I’ll get in.”

*

Finley had spared no expense on the thirtieth birthday bash Oliver wanted no part of. With the open bar and another celebrity DJ she claimed she was a close friend of, the large courtyard at my father’s Bel Air home was transformed into a winter wonderland. Plush black and white benches surrounded the center of the square, and every twenty minutes, a cleverly hidden machine tossed out a new whisper of snow.

After having spent some of my childhood years in wintry locales following my parents’ divorce, I had to admit it was breathtaking—even if it was simulated. Unfortunately, I wasn’t at Oliver’s soiree for the booze, dancing or fake snow. I was here to greet his guests with a warm smile and to direct them toward the party.

And once that was done, my goal was to get inside Margaret’s office while she and Finley were busy downstairs.

Sidling up to where I was studying the guest list on the iPad I’d been provided, Finley sighed dramatically. “You’re the most overdressed doorwoman I’ve ever met.”

Out the corner of my eye, I observed her outfit. Dressed in a gown that easily cost Margaret a small fortune, the slim brunette was admittedly stunning in a black, one-shoulder sheath dress.

Turning to the woman who might be the closest relative I had alive, I lifted my shoulders and pressed my lips into a line. “I liked the way it looked on me.”

“It’s the wrong color,” she pointed out in a saccharine voice, gesturing to my strapless bandage dress.

The party was a black and white affair—which wasn’t a surprise considering the seventh floor at Emerson & Taylor was a tribute to both colors. Taking the rebellious route, I’d selected the sexy watercolor Ombré number for its vividness. It reminded me of the Westley and Buttercup painting that hung in my Las Vegas apartment.

Always a romantic, I admonished myself, staring quietly ahead at the stars sprinkling the night sky. “Don’t you have a party to supervise?”

“I’m looking for our guest of honor,” she responded through clenched teeth.  Smoothing her bobbed hair, she readjusted the strap of her dress. “When he gets here, let me know. I’ve got to track down my little brother before he gets into the champagne.”

Fifteen minutes ago, I’d briefly spoken to Mason Scott when he walked out the front entrance with his earbuds and iPod in hand, but I wasn’t about to tell Finley that. The kid seemed like he wanted a break, and with nobody at the party paying attention to him, he deserved it.

Especially since Pen and I would be turning over all the documents we’d uncovered soon, implicating his father and sister right alongside my stepmother.

“Don’t forget to find me when he gets here,” Finley told me once more.

“Good luck with that search,” I said softly through my teeth as she stalked inside the house. The sound of footsteps drew my attention from the back of her dress to the task at hand—the exclusive guest list.

Plastering on a bright smile, I confirmed the newest partygoers—one of Oliver’s former teammates who’d gone pro and his wife and explained how to find the courtyard. “Once you go in, take a left as soon as you pass the staircase. The courtyard is at the end of that hall. Just look for the garden full of snow.”

If I gave those particular instructions one more time, I just might scream.

While it was uncharacteristically warm for a December night, the chill lingering in the air was enough to cover my bare shoulders and legs with goose bumps as I continued checking in his friends and associates. A few minutes after one of the last names on the guest list arrived, I had cause to shiver for an entirely new reason when the gleaming black Viper sped into Margaret’s crowded driveway.

I hadn’t seen him in nearly two weeks, and my body automatically angled toward his when he strode toward the front of the house. With his black suit and carelessly messy golden brown hair, he was every inch Mr. Sex-In-A-Business-Suit, and I felt my breath catch.

He was checking his watch as he jogged up the stairs, so when his gaze finally pierced mine, he froze on the top step.  For a long time, it was like were seeing each other for the first time. His blue eyes seeing my brown eyes.

His truth seeing my lies.

“Happy birthday,” I whispered.

“Lizzie,” he drawled, the name whispered sarcastically. He ascended the final step and didn’t stop moving until I backed against the stained-glass door. I could smell his cologne, and I held the tablet closely to my chest. “I hope you’re well.”

I hope you’re well.

It sounded so formal, but I found myself inclining my head. “I am.” I flicked my attention behind him. Part of me expected another woman to step out of his car at any moment, but the passenger door never opened.

“You’re late to your own party,” I mused.

He ran his thumb over his unshaven chin and smiled stiffly. “As I told you before, there are a million places I’d rather be tonight.” The words he left unspoken made my pulse jump.

I’d rather be with you.

Opening the front door for him, I moved aside on trembling legs. “Have a wonderful time.”

He walked inside, his eyes never breaking from mine. As he passed me by he grabbed the inside of my arm and lowered his lips to my ear. “Tomorrow is two weeks.”

“I know that,” I breathed.

“Then you know what I want for my birthday.”

Pressing my free hand to the front of my blue dress to quiet my racing heart, I bobbed my head and my loose blond curls drifted around my face. “Answers.”

He tilted away from me and trailed his fingers from my arm to my shoulder, stopping when the side of my face was cradled in his hand. I leaned into him, and the disappointment was crushing when he pulled away a few seconds later.

“Come into the party whenever you’re ready, Lizzie.”

Chapter 20

The birthday party was in full swing when I wandered to the courtyard just over a half hour later. Folding my thin arms over my chest to warm my skin, I looked up at the light dusting of fake snow that fell over the outdoor area, recalling memories of throwing snowballs in Central Park with my mom.

What would she think of the lengths I’d gone to find out more about my stepmother?

Would she be disappointed?

Telling myself I wouldn’t ask those questions tonight, I lowered my eyes to Oliver’s guests. They crowded the area, a glitzy display of black-and-white, and I felt out of place among them. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been to parties like this before—I had, and it was usually on the arm of some high roller, but this was different.

This time, I was in Margaret’s territory.

Gazing out at the bodies dancing in the center of the courtyard and mingling along the sides, there was only a handful I was interested in.

There was Margaret—she was brushing elbows with a model I’d immediately recognized when I let her in the house earlier. Finley was at the DJ booth, and her father—the man who’d helped Margaret deceive me—was engaged in a deep conversation with another man.

And then, I found Oliver. With his drink in hand, he was speaking to Dora and her husband, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling with laughter. He was beautiful, and I felt my chest tighten. I should have simply gone upstairs and used this opportunity to search Margaret’s office, but when he’d asked me to come—I couldn’t walk away.

Maybe that made me weak, but as his eyes met mine from across the yard, I no longer regretted coming out here. Not yet anyway, I thought, watching as he crossed the divide to be with me.

"Your guests will talk,” I said when I felt the side of his ripped body brush mine. He was warm. So warm I couldn’t resist wiggling a little closer to him. “Your mother will talk.”

He polished off his scotch, placing the empty glass on a tray when a server walked by. “You don’t give a shit what Margaret thinks, so don’t give me that excuse.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“No, I know everything about you,” he retorted. “I know your name, where you live, what you do for a living—”

Spinning toward him, strands of my blond hair flew into his face. “And you’re judging me for the way I put food on my table?”

“I could never judge you for that.” His words sent a burst of hope to my chest, which immediately dissipated seconds later when he added, “I’m judging you for lying.”

“I’m sorry I did that, but I couldn’t tell you.”

“I believe you.” But the frustration radiating from him was palpable, and I felt it too. I felt it because I’d hurt him. Because in hurting him, I’d only damaged myself. "I'm surprised you came at all tonight,” he said.

"And I'm shocked you came alone," I admitted, which made him turn until he was completely facing me.

“There was no other woman I wanted to be here with other than you.”

“Gemma or Lizzie?” I heard myself whisper, and he smiled sardonically.

“Both,” he told me, and every thing inside me melted. “Whoever you are tonight, I’m glad you’re here.”

Damn Oliver for making my heart twist, my thoughts turn, and my body curve whenever he stepped into the room. Wrapping the delicate silver chain of my necklace around my finger, I flicked my tongue over my teeth. "Your mother required I show up to serve as a doorman."

"Shame."

I lifted my palms up questioningly, closing my hands when I realized how badly my fingers shook. "Would you have preferred I told her no?”

"I would've preferred you came because you wanted to be here." Oliver caught my fingers in his, and my eyebrows creased together. He walked backwards, toward the rest of the bodies moving on the makeshift dance floor, drawing me along with him. “I would have rather you came on your own with answers.”

“You gave me until tomorrow.”

A smile touched his lips, reaching into my chest and giving my heart a rough squeeze. "That doesn’t mean I can’t hold you—can’t talk to you—tonight. I’m dancing with you, with whoever you are this evening, whether you like it or not.”

For the first time since he strode across the snowy courtyard to speak to me, I listened to the music, registering the song that was currently playing—Incubus' "Here In My Room."

Splaying his hand on the base of my spine, he pulled my body flush against his. “Are you going to tell me no on my birthday?”

Avoiding his question, I cleared my throat. “What are you planning to do if I don’t give you what you’re asking for tomorrow?”

He quickly countered with an inquiry of his own. “Do you want me? Or were you using me against Margaret?”

"Yes, I want you.” We moved together, our bodies possessing each other, our eyes locked. “And I’ve never used you to get to her.”

"I want you, too," he admitted, bending until our foreheads nearly touched. "It’s a struggle to keep my lips off your body. Do you know how fucking insane that makes me?”

Pain shot through my cheeks when I offered him a tight smile. "Your insanity will make everyone at this party talk.” Even now, I could feel eyes branding that awful word—IMPOSTOR—into my back.

He lifted a broad shoulder. "Nobody's paying attention to us. They're all more interested in the free booze."

"That almost sounds convincing if it weren’t for the fact every single woman out here wants to throw her panties at you.”

"Gemma," he murmured seriously, his voice low enough where only I could hear him. The intensity behind my name—my real name—startled me. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since I left your place.”

Didn’t he realize that it had been the same for me? That nearly every time I closed my eyes, I saw the heartbreak that wrecked his features the night he confronted me about who I was.

“Yeah, well ... I know how that feels,” I said at last.

“Tell me something.” His hand clenched on my back. There was something about his touch tonight—something that summed up every bit of longing going through me—and fists rammed against my ribcage.

“Yes?”

“How long were you planning to keep up this charade?”

When I didn’t reply, his hand moved from my back, finding my face. His knuckles stroked my high cheekbone. "Not going to answer me?” I shook my head, and he said, “All I can think about is ripping this dress right down the middle."

Even though I knew he was probably telling me that to get a rise out of me, a visible shiver coursed my body, spreading like wildfire.

Dear God, I needed an intervention because all he had to do was murmur a few words and I was ready to tear the dress off for him. Pleased to have elicited the response from me he wanted, Oliver said, "But since that’s not possible and since you’re being evasive, right now I’ll just hold you.”

“And tomorrow?”

His fingers moved from my chin, to the column of my throat, and finally to my collarbone. His touch was fire and ice on my skin—a bittersweet echo that pulsed through my body—and I fluttered my lashes together.

“If you’re not going to answer me, why would I tell you?”

“Asshole,” I whispered.

Although my eyes were still closed, I felt his heavy sigh. It rumbled against my chest, through my body, and I wanted to melt into this man. Wanted to wrap myself around him, and feel him everywhere—beneath my fingertips, on my tongue, inside my body.

But most importantly, I wanted the man himself.

And because of that, because I knew what he was expecting from me the next day, when the song ended thirty seconds later, I left the courtyard.

*

“Margaret’s looking for you,” Oliver informed me ten minutes later, and the manila folder I was gripping fell from my hands. Closing the office door behind him, he locked it. “Don’t worry, she won’t come up here because she assumes you’re gone, but I figured this might be where I’d find you.”

Trembling, I grabbed the folder from the floor and snapped it shut. Not only had found nothing that might help me solve the last few pieces of the puzzle, the man I’d let down so horribly had discovered me in yet another compromising position. His eyes studied me carefully as I returned the folder to its rightful spot, and I slammed the drawer shut.

Standing upright, I came around to the side of the desk. “I can’t imagine the awful things you must be thinking about me,” I said, my movements jerky as I threw my phone inside the blue satin clutch that matched my dress. He glanced at my gloved hands and then to my face. “But I’m not a bad person.”

Your mother is.

He paced the office, trailing his fingertips along the various white furnishings. “You said you never took a penny from Margaret.”

“I didn’t. After my mom died when I was sixteen, I came to Los Angeles to ask Margaret for help. I came here stupidly thinking she’d take me in, and we’d be this big happy family.”

“And what happened when you arrived?”

“She sent Michael Scott to meet with me. She sent him to tell me that my father’s will was solid and that I didn’t have the power to contest it. He offered me a settlement—I don’t know how much it was for—but I didn’t take it.”

Gripping the edges of the desk, I let out a rough noise. “Pride can be a vicious, vicious thing.”

“Yes it can.” Focusing on the wall of bookshelves at the left of the room, one corner of his mouth moved in a grim smile. “But what I want to know is what changed for you? What made you decide to come here pretending to be someone else to get close to my mother if you’re not after money.”

Supporting my weight against the desk, I glared at the floor and shook my head. “I can’t do this,” I whispered, and I heard him move closer to me. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” I could nearly taste the scotch when he moved his face inches from mine. As he got rid of what little space was left between our bodies, he held my face between his hands. “I want to hear what changed for you.”

I dragged a breath through my nose and replayed the call that had started this mess in my mind. I rehashed every truth—every disappointment—I’d faced since that call. And I broke.

“Six months ago I received a call from a man who told me I didn’t know everything about my father—that there was more to his death than I thought I knew. He didn’t block his number, so I called him back. The call came from Emerson & Taylor headquarters.”