“I might let you taste it when I open it,” he taunts.
“I’ll gladly share a drink of anything the day you finally get smart and stop fucking the wrong women, like your ex.”
“She’s not my only fuck these days, and even if she was,I’mfuckingher.She’s not fucking me. We’re going to talk about how that plays out with you and Faith. I’ll be there in fifteen.” He hangs up and I stand up, taking the empty glass and bottle with me to the kitchen. I don’t refill that glass. I make an old fashioned pot of coffee, because I like the insulated pot right next to me while I work, and on quick pour.
I then sit down at the island, my stacks of work in front of me, my briefcase locked and to my right. I punch in the combination and open it, pulling out my father’s handwritten note to read it again, homing in on those poison words:Faith is dangerous.She was a threat. How? I grab a note pad and start writing down my thoughts:
—My father had to have been after the winery but why? Is it worth more than we think? It has to be. Actions needed:
—Get assessment done Monday.
—Beck needs to find out what might be beyond the obvious.
Moving on…next item:
—Why call Faith Dangerous? COVERED. He had to have felt she was dangerous to his plan.
—Seven to ten million wouldn’t motivate a man who was damn near a billionaire at that stage in his life. Would it? No. COVERED.
—Why pay Meredith Winter one million dollars in staggered payments? Down payment on the winery? But she couldn’t sell without Faith, is that why Faith was dangerous? She could stop the sale? Back to: Why is the winery more valuable than it appears?
—Autopsy results—WHEN?
—If someone killed my father and Faith’s mother, doesn’t that infer that my father and her mother were on the same side? Unless my father convinced Meredith Winter to be on his side. Or she convinced him to be on his side. Or they were both such players they were playing each other but either way they both ended up dead, by the same means. The same person had to have killed them. And that person was NOT Faith.
I move on to another key list, and one to discuss with Beck:
Suspects:
—Someone associated with the bank.
—Ask Faith for a meeting with Cameron Lemon, with her present so he will talk.
—Faith’s present-day attorney when she met me—he’s her father’s friend but it appears her father’s friends were usually her mother’s friends as well and in Meredith Winter’s case, that’s a problem.
—Faith’s uncle—enough said.
—Kasey, or another staff member at the winery, but Kasey would be the one who knows intimate details of the winery and family—sleeping with Meredith Winter?
—Any one of Meredith Winter’s lovers, with a focus on the long-term boyfriend right before my father which Beck has found.
—An unknown I have yet to identify or see a link to connect them to Meredith and my father.
My coffee finishes brewing and I fill a cup, bring the pot to the island, and ready it for future pours before reviewing my new list several times over. My focus on why my father would pay Meredith Winter a million dollars and in installments. Somewhere in that act is an answer to every question I have and some I probably don’t know to ask. Yet. I will.
The doorbell rings, which says the 25k bottle of booze has Abel showing some manners for once, and of course, he chooses now, while Faith is sleeping. Fully intending to soften his edges where she’s concerned, and before he meets her, I make fast tracks for the door. Abel doesn’t wait on my arrival. Clearly impatient, he’s used my back-up key, and is opening the door as I arrive. He steps inside the foyer, his typical designer suit, replaced with his weekend faded, ripped jeans, and a t-shirt that sports the Harley logo, and supports the man’s obsession with the brand and the bikes. “Take me to the wonderland of whiskey,” he says, shutting the door, and sliding his key back into his pocket. “Because I do have something to celebrate.” He runs his hand over his buzzed blond hair as he adds, “Remember that ex-Navy SEAL judge I buzzed my head to impress?” He doesn’t wait for my confirmation. “He dismissed my case, and I landed a six-figure pay check.”
I back up to give him space to pass down the hallway. “Not bad for a week’s work.”
“Not bad atall,” he agrees, heading down the hallway.
I follow him, his destination the island, or rather, long-ass bar that serves as the island, but he doesn’t stop there. He drops his briefcase on a seat, and heads to the bar. I walk back to my seat behind the island and face the living area, keeping the stairs that Faith would have to travel to join us, in view. While Abel’s view is on my many whiskey choices. “Was the client guilty or innocent?” I ask, thrumming my pen on the shiny, white granite counter.
“He says he was innocent,” he replies, walking toward me with a bottle of Scotch in hand, and two glasses. “I have to believe a client is innocent to take a case.” He stops at the end cap by the chair his bag has now claimed and sets the bottle and glasses down. “I have to believe, man.” He opens the bottle and fills one of the glasses. “You know that.”
I narrow my gaze on him, not so sure we’re celebrating after all. “But was he innocent?” I ask, waving off the pour he’s about to give me. “I’ve had my share today.” I lift my coffee cup. “I’ll stick to this.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, his tone impartial. He really doesn’t care. That’s one of the things that I like about Abel. He is what he is and I am what I am. We are night and day in some ways, especially when it comes to women, who he tends to allow replays with that I do not. Not until Faith, I add silently and quickly refocus on Abel and our similarities. We like control. We like to win and we hit hard. And considering we’ve known each other since law school, I know he has some baggage, as Faith calls one’s history, and like me, Abel trusts almost no one. Which means he won’t be quick to trust Faith.