“Because you’ve never heard her side of the story.”
“She’s dead, Ben. I can’t.”
He blinks. “That doesn’t change the fact you need closure.”
I sigh. “What are you suggesting?”
He raises his phone and scrolls, then holds up the screen and points at it, his fingertip coming to rest on a map—an address. “We pay the Nashes a visit.”
“Absolutely not.”
His gaze hardens. “We’re going. Right now. Get dressed.”
Chapter 20
BAILEY
“This is it,” Ben says, pulling up to the gate.
I sit in awe, staring at the house beyond that isn’t a house so much as a castle. Chimneys soar from a pitched clay-tile roof. The front is all stone and glass with an entryway that looks like it belongs on a luxury hotel. One we’ll never be able to reach. The gate blocking the drive is solid wrought-iron—no way to get through. The sight fills me with relief. I’m not even supposed to be here right now.
I’m supposed to be dead.
“Looks like this is as far as we go,” I say.
One corner of Ben’s mouth kicks up into a half-grin, and my relief bleeds away. I know that look. He has a plan. Healwayshas a plan.
“That’s where I come in.” He eases his Subaru Impreza forward and slides a white card from his pocket, rolls down the window, then presses the card to the electronic reader curving from the side of the road. The reader lights flash green, and I watch in shock as the gate retracts.
“How?” I ask, still staring at the now wide-open drive.
“Who do you think built the place?”
His architecture firm,I think.Vertex Group.Oh no.
“I have an appointment,” he continues. “Mrs.Nash wants to discuss a home renovation project.”
“But we won’t be doing that, will we?”
He shakes his head.
“Ben, you’ll get fired.”
“Yeah, probably. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I’ve plateaued there anyway.”
“No, you haven’t. You love your job.”
“I do,” he admits, chewing on his cheek in contemplation. “But not as much as I love you. Ready?”
I groan. “Not really.”
“Too bad.” With that, he pulls past the gate. The driveway is enormous. I can’t tell if it’s stamped tile or artisanal concrete. An expansive lawn skirts it, wrapping around the front of the home and descending toward a massive dock tethered in boats. Beyond it, Lake Washington sparkles with a surreal sort of light. It feels like I’m staring into a postcard.
We park near a perfectly sculpted bank of rhododendrons that fills the car with a sweet scent. It makes me sick.Beinghere makes me sick. The place reeks of money and excess. Every blade of grass is cut to the same exact height. The lawn is a ridiculous shade of green. The shrubs are expertly shaped everywhere I look, not a single stray branch out of place.
The home is worse—beyond opulent. Every inch of it looks custom built from the sprawling windows to the detailed brickwork. I turn my attention to the entryway and its gigantic oak doors. Donald and Paula Nash reside somewhere behind them. I’ve spent the last two years trying to scrub their faces from my brain. And now, here we are, about to pay them a visit like we’re old pals.
But it isn’t the prospect of talking to Paula that fills me with dread. She isn’t Evelyn’s mother. Paula Nash came along after Evelyn was mostly grown. Donald was the one who molded her into the kind of woman who got behind the wheel of a BMW so drunk she couldbarely drive. Donald is the man who raised the woman who killed my family. And it’s Donald who deserves the blame. Not that I have any idea what I’ll say to him if he’s actually home.Hi, I’m Bailey Nichols. My family’s dead because of your daughter. Mind if I come in?
