I once told Faith that I don’t do guilt. I make decisions. I own them. I move on. But as I leave her in her studio to paint, just beyond our talk about sex clubs and that bastard Macom, guilt is gutting me. It’s like I’m in a horror movie with some slasher sicko slicing and dicing me, and coming back for more. I fast-step down the stairs toward the living room, reminding myself that I told Faith all that I dared. I cannot risk sending her running for the hills and pushing me into the dog house. Not when it appears that someone wants the winery, or something connected to the winery, and that they most likely killed her mother and my father to get it. And Faith is the only person standing in their way.
Clearing the last step, I cross the living room, grab my briefcase in the kitchen, and then make my way to my office. Once inside, I shut the door under the pretense of the client conference call I told Faith I’d scheduled. A lie to hide lies. Jaw clenching at that idea, I drop my briefcase on my heavy mahogany desk, and then walk toward the bookshelf-enclosed sitting area at the far end of the room. Claiming a spot in the center of the brown leather couch facing the door, I mentally prioritize the gaggle of fucked up shit in my head right now. My focus is on Faith’s safety, which means keeping her close. Which means containing any threat that could push or pull her away from me. That means dealing with Sara Merit.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans, and since I don’t have Sara’s number, I dial Chris. He answers on the first ring. “You’re afraid Sara is going to tell Faith about the club. And I can tell you right now. She would not do that.”
“You certainly know how to get right to the point.”
“Then let me do it again. You have to tell her.”
“I told her I was a member, with graphic detail,” I say, and aware Chris has a bit of a history himself, I add, “She knows the world. It’s not been kind to her.”
“And living the lifestyle versus owning a club that says you can’t live without the lifestyle are two different things.”
“Exactly. And I never really wanted the damn thing. Mark owned it. Mark was a client and a friend, and I picked it up.”
“You’re known. Someone could tell her you owned it and even if that never happens, you really don’t want that unspoken truth between you.”
“I’ll tell her at the same time that I tell her I dumped the damn thing.”
“Smart move in my book,” he says. “Do you have a buyer?”
“You interested?”
“Not a chance in hell, my man. But we both know money isn’t an issue to you. Kurt Seaver runs that place from sun-up to sun-down. Give it to him.”
“You read my mind. That’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“Good move. Good move.” There’s a voice in the background. “I’m actually walking into a meeting with a donor for my charity. Sara’s with me. I’ll fill in the holes she missed.” He ends the call.
I pull up my text screen and Kurt Seaver’s contact information, shooting him a message:Ten o’clock in my office tomorrow.
I move on to the next situation. I remove the money clip from my pocket, set it on the dark wood of the rectangular coffee table, and shoot a photo I then text to Beck. My superhero PI who had better start acting like a superhero. I punch his auto-dial and he answers on the first ring. “How’s the black widow?”
“Since you’re supposed to be an ex-CIA agent/ hacker, who I now pay one hell of a lot of money to do PI work, I’d think you’d know how to google “black widow” and find the meaning. She’s never been married. She hasn’t killed her non-existent husband or any lovers.”
“Unless she was fucking your father right along with her mother.”
My teeth clench. “Don’t push me, Beck. You might be in high demand, but I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money to do your job. And that job now includes protecting Faith, not attacking her.”
“Relax, man. I was just pushing your buttons. Faith isn’t a killer, but considering that note you found, she was clearly fucking with your father’s head. And I sent a gift to your inbox.”
“Which is what?”
“That attorney she hired to go after her mother had a file on her that included correspondence with your father.”
“How did you get that?”
“Don’t ask what you don’t want to deny later.”
My jaw clenches. “Save me time. Summarize the findings.”
“Validation of her story. She went after her mother. Your father nickel-and-dimed her into giving up. The interesting part of this to me is that your father was paying Meredith Winter while acting as her attorney. If he wasn’t fucking her, I’d swear she was blackmailing him.”
“I told you. My father wouldn’t tolerate blackmail. He’d act on his own behalf and viciously. He was after the winery.”
“Here’s the thing. There are no dots connecting. I can’t find Meredith’s money. I can’t find your father’s money. This tells me that someone as good as me made it go away. I need to put feelers out in my underground circles and find out who, but that means two things: We need to offer cash in exchange for information. And we risk spooking someone into doing something we might regret.”
“Do we have other options?”