The news settled quietly.
No one said a word.
Smoke curled to the ceiling from the cigarette momentarily forgotten in Tessa’s hand.
Claire could barely breathe. An election? Complete with staff, reporters, and voters examining every minute of Dutch’s life—his children’s lives? Prying into any rumor, any bit of gossip? Oh, no, not now . . .
“This has been coming for quite a while. Several people want me to run and are willing to back me. I’ve only held off because . . . well, frankly, I’m not sure what I’m up against—not my opponent, you understand, but what kind of a toll an election will take on the family, on you girls, on your mother, and on me. But that’s not really what’s stopping me. It’s the scandal that worries me.”
Miranda, perched stiffly in an overstuffed chair asked, “What scandal?”
Claire swallowed hard and focused on her older sister. Don’t do this! She shook her head slightly, barely moving, just enough to get Miranda’s attention and silently beg her not to push the issue. Clearing her throat, Tessa stared off into the distance, as if looking through the sun-glazed windows, but was, Claire suspected, lost in her own memories—her own private hell.
Dutch sighed. “You know what scandal,” he said. “Look, I’m not lily-white myself—got a few skeletons in my own closet, but nothing like the one you girls have been hiding for the last sixteen years.”
Claire’s blood turned to ice. So this was it. Her palms began to sweat.
Dutch settled back into his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. “Like it or not, the whole sordid mess is going to come out. Besides, I have personal enemies who will do anything in their power to see that I fail in my run for governor: enemies like Weston Taggert. There’s another problem. His name is Kane Moran—you all probably remember him.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but Claire’s heart already pumping fast, began an irregular cadence fed by fear. Kane? What could he have to do with anything? This was getting worse by the minute.
“Anyway, Mr. Moran is kind of a drifter, used to live around here as a kid. His dad was a mean son of a bitch who worked for me a long time ago and had an accident that put him in a wheelchair. The kid scraped by somehow, became a hotshot freelance journalist who’s been all over the world, reporting on hot spots. He quit that kind of work last year after he was wounded and nearly killed in Bosnia, I think it was. So he’s back.”
“Here?” Claire asked, barely breathing.
“Now he’s taken it upon himself to become a—” he waved impatiently. “Well, I’d call him a novelist because sure as I’m standing here he’s going to be creating fiction, but he seems to
deem our family important enough to write about. His book is gonna be one of those unauthorized exposé types.”
“On us?” Miranda clarified.
“Well, yes, but specifically on the death of Harley Taggert.”
Claire nearly swooned. She gripped the back of the couch for support. Thunder pounded in her ears.
Dutch’s face lost all trace of humor. Lines of strain gouged the skin around his eyes as he settled back into his recliner. “So I don’t want to be caught off guard, if you know what I mean. I’ve got to know what I’m up against here.”
Don’t lose it, Claire. Not now. Not after all these years. She swallowed hard. “I—we—don’t know what you’re talking about.” She forced her gaze to meet her father’s steadily even though inside she was withering like a vine deprived of water. Silently she cursed herself for never having learned the art of lying, a characteristic that would have come in handy over the years.
Dutch rubbed his chin. “I wish to God I could believe you, but I can’t.”
Here it comes. Claire braced herself, met her father’s condemning stare, and forced herself to breathe.
Dutch gazed at each of his daughters in turn, as if looking long and hard enough, he could crack through the veneer of their innocence and see the ugly truth. “I want to know what happened on the night the Taggert kid died.”
God help us. Sweet, trusting Harley.
“I think one of you girls was involved.”
Claire let out a whimper of protest. “No—”
Dutch loosened his tie, but his gaze was fixed steadily upon his middle daughter. “You were going to marry him, weren’t you?”
“What’s the point of this?” Miranda cut in.
“Shit.” Tessa drew on her cigarette. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this crap.” Hauling herself to her feet, she grabbed her purse, flung the butt of her Virginia Slims into the fireplace, and started for the door.
“Sit down, Tessa. We’re all in this together.” Dutch’s jaw was rock-hard. “All I’m talking about now is damage control. I was hoping you girls would finally be straight with me, but I suspected you might not be, so I hired someone to help.”
“What?” Miranda froze and Claire saw the fear on her sister’s face. Miranda had worked so hard to protect them all. She’d come up with the story, the lies. Claire swallowed hard. Surely her private father couldn’t have, wouldn’t have brought an outsider in on this . . . oh, God . . . all of her hard-fought plans, all of the desperate nights, all of the tightly wound lies. They would all be found out and then . . . Oh, God, she couldn’t think what would happen if the truth, so dark and murky, would ever see the light of day.