I blow out my cheeks, holding my breath and fix the baby’s fresh diaper before hurling the other over my shoulder.
Molly giggles through the entire thing.
“You silly,” she says.
“Yeah? Well, you cute.” I wink at her.
She sighs through her giggle, and I grin at her, one of the cracks in my heart that appeared three years ago gluing back together.
“People are staring,” Jude whispers in my ear.
I squeeze her hand underneath the table. “It’s okay.”
But as Jude shifts uncomfortably in her seat, my body remains tense. My father clears his throat, trying to keep the conversation around the table flowing.
We’re out at dinner with everyone, attempting to put on a united front. Uncle Mal, Dad, and Sullivan have been talking about how Beaufort Diamonds is doing, and how successful the launch of the most recent designs has been. Halliday, Tate, and Aunt Trudy have been asking lots of questions. And Sinclair’s been coloring with Molly while Molly sits on Denver’s knee beside her.
Jude’s been drawn into conversation at every opportunity. My father’s taken a great interest in her work, and even Sullivan’s been asking a lot about the administration systems she’s responsible for creating. An easier topic than asking me why I murdered Mom. The only person who’s mentioned Cape Town is Uncle Mal, who asked me whether I’d stayed there this entire time or moved around. Then he asked where I’d been living, and the conversation died when I told him it was on a boat.
Far too close to actually talking about the truth.
Jude flexes her fingers, and I realize I’ve been gripping her hand too tightly.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Do you want to leave?”
“No. We’re almost finished. It’ll look weird if we leave now.”
Jude nods and glances at a table of people looking in our direction and whispering. My father requested the table we’re sitting at, partially blocked from view by a display of indoor trees. But a few tables can still see us, and everyone’s heads turned when we arrived.
I grit my teeth, choosing to have a drink of water before I do something stupid like stand and announce to the entire restaurant that yes, I am that rich guy back from the dead. And no, I didn’t have fucking amnesia, despite that being what my family seems happy to let the press keep speculating over.
When are they going to actually fucking talk about what happened?
My jaw hurts from the amount of tension in it by the time my father settles the bill and we leave. A trail of whispers follows us as we exit the restaurant, people gaping in our direction.
We step outside and my father curses as a collection of press waits with cameras poised. Killian and Jenson sweep in to escort us to the cars, clearing a path through the thrusting microphones. Denver shields Sinclair and Molly using his giant frame, and I yank Jude into my side, glaring at a guy who angles his camera toward us.
“Sterling? You must be happy to have your son back?”
“Slade? Have all your memories returned yet?”
“When will an identification be made public over the body on your yacht?”
The last question is the only one that causes my father to pause. He keeps Halliday protected from the reporter as he turns in their direction.
“We’re still waiting for that to be confirmed. But rest assured, it’s something we are committed to finding out as soon as possible.”
I stiffen, staring at my father.
“Keep walking, Son,” he says calmly. “That’s all we’re giving them for now.”
We slide into the waiting cars. Sullivan, Tate, and Molly get in the one behind ours with Killian. Uncle Mal brought his own, so Denver escorts him with Sinclair and Aunt Trudy, and Jude and I join my father and Halliday, with Jenson getting in behind the wheel.
We pull out, leaving the reporters behind us.
“They’ll find something else to talk about soon,” my father says. But despite his calm confidence, his forehead is marred with deep lines as he stares out of the window.
