“Lena Montgomery.”
Margaret’s eyes opened wide, and her lips came together.
I almost giggled. Either she was getting worse at hiding her thoughts, or I was picking up on each one of them. I shook my head. “I know who she is.”
“I’ve only met her once.”
“She’s Madison’s sister, and she and Van have a history.”
Margaret smiled. “I’m ecstatic that you know all that.”
“Well, there’s nothing like a near-death experience to expedite honesty and the sharing of secrets.”
“It seems a bit extreme,” she said, “but if it worked...”
“Could you please have two rooms ready for guests?”
“Ms. Montgomery is staying with you?”
“I don’t know. I think the thing to do is invite her. Whether she stays is up to her.” I grinned. “I know a good hotel in Ashland.”
Margaret nodded. “Two rooms. After I give Mom the good news.”
With the rooms Michael and Albert had been using, this home that had been empty was filling up. Together Margaret and I headed toward the staircase. At the bottom, Margaret went toward the kitchen, and I turned toward Van’s office. I was almost there when I heard him talking.
“I didn’t authorize that transaction, Oscar. You should know that.”
His voice bellowed in a deep, adamant tone.
“How were you not involved? What the fuck were you doing?”
Stepping toward the partially open door, I gently pushed on the barrier. Standing with his back toward me, Van was too involved in his conversation to notice my presence. His broad shoulders and neck were tense as he stared out the window toward the woods. From my perspective, I noticed that his dark mane was messier than usual. I wasn’t sure if he’d raked his fingers through it or if I was responsible during our distraction. Either way, the man standing at the window was so much more than I realized the first time we met.
Instead of hearing Van’s words, I listened to his tenor and the timbre, the sound of his deep voice. He was obviously displeased and didn’t mind letting Mr. Fields know. This was the man others feared, the one the Butlers were concerned about, and who my parents had heard about.
This was the man who bought and sold companies and futures with little regard for the lives of the employees. As he continued dressing down his attorney, I found myself fascinated with the man before me. The world saw a recluse and a take-no-prisoners investor, entrepreneur, and high-finance businessman.
While the world saw those definitions as the whole of Donovan Sherman, in the last month, I’d come to realize that what I was now seeing and hearing was but a small part of the man—of who he really was. The insight that he’d given me made me realize one of my goals that would never come to fruition.
I would never pen Van’s memoir.
I couldn’t possibly write about a sliver of the man he was, the small part that he wanted the world to see. I couldn’t write his story without sharing the other parts of him. Van didn’t want that. He didn’t want the world to know the man behind the name. That was why he never intended on getting to know the writer. His objective was for the publication to add a layer of gloss to the mask that he wore in front of the world.
I couldn’t do that, not now, not since I knew the real man.
Stepping through the threshold, I stilled.
Van turned.
His tense expression morphed, softening as our eyes met.
“Put a halt on everything. And I want you here when Lawson arrives.” Van nodded. “Tomorrow at nine.” Shaking his head, he disconnected the call.
“You want your attorney present when you talk to the police officer?”
“Yes. What else did you hear?”
“You were mad. I wasn’t listening to your words.”