Paula shakes her head and gives him a polite smile. “I’m sorry, but something’s come up. I’ll have my assistant call your office and reschedule for next month.” She moves to shut the door, but Ben steps forward and jams his cane in the gap before she can.
“What are you doing?” she asks, looking down sharply, then up again, her expression turning grim.
“Look, Mrs. Nash, I’ll level with you. This is my sister, Bailey Nichols. Does that name ring a bell?”
Her eyes flick toward me and she studies me for an uncomfortable moment before her lips part with a soft gasp. “Oh.”
“As you can probably guess, we’re not really here about the kitchen,” Ben says. “May we come in?”
Paula appraises me for a moment longer, then steps back with a sigh. “Today of all days. Yes, I suppose. This way.”
The house unfolds around us like a castle as we trail after her. Everything is gleaming, the floor a river of polished hardwood. When we enter the living room, it steals my breath. A chandelier hangs from a sprawling ceiling thirty feet overhead, dripping with crystal. Expensive-looking pieces of art adorn the walls—landscapes painted in oils and pastels that look like they belong in a museum. A curving floor-to-ceiling sheet of glass across the room gives view to Lake Washington, the water glittering with dappled light.
“Please sit,” Paula says, waving us toward a large sectional couch and several accent chairs. “I’ll be right back.”
I settle onto the sofa as she breezes from the room. Ben chooses a chair.
I pop an eyebrow at him. “I can’t believe you.”
“What?” Ben says with a shrug. “We’re inside, aren’t we?”
I roll my eyes. Paula returns a minute later carrying three bottles of San Pellegrino. She hands a bottle to me and one to Ben and then uncaps hers and sits. “How can I help you?”
You can’t, I think bitterly.No one can.
Ben shifts next to me. “We’d like to talk about your daughter, Mrs. Nash.”
She crosses her legs. “Evelyn wasn’t my daughter.”
Which I know is true. Evelyn Nash’s mother, Donald Nash’s first wife, had returned to her home country, Russia, a couple of years after their divorce, when Evelyn was four. I’d seen several photos of the woman—severe-faced with cheeks splattered in rosacea. A starter wife before Donald minted his fortune and traded her in for a Ukrainian supermodel. That marriage didn’t last long, either. A couple of years maybe, before she cashed in and ran for the hills.
It explains Paula Nash, I guess. Attractive enough, but not ridiculously so. Intelligent. A worthy counterpart to someone like Donald. I know her type—someone who stands her ground when pushed. Ambitious but loyal. A woman who doesn’t take any shit. Women like her made partner in my old life. Hell, before the wreck, Iwasher.
“Be that as it may,” Ben continues, “I think it would help my sister and I find some closure if we understood her a little better. Is your husband home by chance? It would be nice if we could visit with him, too.”
Paula’s eyes dim. “Don’s dead.”
I straighten.Dead?Even as closed off from the world as I’ve been, the death of someone like Donald Nash would have wormed its way through my grief at some point. There’s no keeping that kind of news at bay. But I hadn’t heard a word about this.
“Dead?” Ben echoes, clearly as shocked as I am.
Paula picks a stray piece of lint from her pants and studies it for a moment then flutters her fingers. “Yes.”
“I wasn’t aware,” Ben says.
“No one is,” Paula says. “It happened a few days ago. We’ve had to keep it close to the vest. I’m sure you can appreciate what the death of someone like Don can do to a company if it isn’t properly managed.”
“So why are you telling us?” I ask.
“Because it’s confidential. Not that I expect you’ll run out and notify the press, but I’d like to keep it that way for now.”
Ben blows out a slow stream of air. “Wow. Can I ask what happened?”
Paula folds her hands and places them in her lap. A flicker of affection flashes across her face mixed with a slash of grief. Emotions I know all too well. “He had a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” I hear myself mutter, even though I’m not.
“Thank you,” Paula says. “But he’s … been dead for years.”
