Page 66 of The Unexpected

Stella starts to laugh again, but it’s broken, and then she’s crying—really crying, shoulders shaking, hands over her mouth to keep the sound in. Lachlan stands, comes over, and sits beside her on the couch. He doesn’t touch her, not yet, just sits close enough that she can feel the heat of him.

After a minute, she pulls herself together. “This is so fucking stupid,” she says, voice muffled by her hands. “I always knew I was a slut, but I had no idea just how slutty I am.”

“Don’t say that,” O’Toole says, gentle for the first time.

“Why not?” she snaps. “It’s true. I’m your niece. I’m your sister’s daughter. And I’m his niece too. I let both of you—” She stops, choked off by the depravity of it. “There’s a word for this. Several, actually.”

I reach out, peel her hands from her face, and hold them between my palms. They’re cold as ice. “You’re not a slut,” I say. “You’re a woman who knows what she wants, and you take it. That’s rare. That’s something most people never get. So, yeah, maybe the world wants to shit all over it, but I don’t. Lachlan doesn’t either. You belong to us, Stella, and that’s all that matters.”

She looks at me, searching my face for the lie, and when she doesn’t find it, her shoulders slump.

O’Toole leans in, voice low. “I meant what I said. I adore you, Stella. No matter what, and no matter how fucked up this situation is. You don’t have to say it back, or even feel it at this time, but I want you to know.”

I seize her hands, staring at her golden head, even if she won’t look at me. “Same goes for me, star girl. I’m not going anywhere no matter how fucked up the situation is.”

She wipes at her face, streaking the mascara even worse. “I love you both, too,” she says, so soft I almost don’t catch it. “But I can’t keep going like this. Too many secrets. Too many things I didn’t know.” She draws a shuddering breath. “I’m going to confront my dad. I have to. I have to know what else he’s hiding.”

I nod. “Whatever you need. We’ve got your back.”

O’Toole grins, lopsided. “Guess we’re in this together.”

We sit like that for a while, the three of us, the room gone quiet except for the low whistle of wind through the cracked window. There’s a church bell somewhere, the sound warped and distant. Maybe midnight. Maybe later.

Stella is the first to move. She stretches out on the couch, feet in O’Toole’s lap, head tilted so she’s looking up at the crucifix above us. “Is this what a happy family looks like?” she asks, and for once she’s almost smiling.

“Better than most,” I say, and Lachlan snorts.

The world outside is dark and cold and full of angry history. But in this room, with her between us, it feels—for a second—like the past can’t touch us at all.

And if it does, we’ll burn it down together.

23

THOMAS MORELAND, THE MASTERMIND

Stella

We go to my father’s house at a time when even the city is ready to shut its eyes. The walk up the front steps feels like a re-enactment, all three of us grim, drifting through the kind of chill that makes you want to punch your hands into your pockets and keep your head down. No one says a word. Hunter lets me go first; his hand at my lower back is heavy, like he wants to hold me in place but knows better than to try.

Inside, the house is too bright, the lights all on like someone is afraid of the dark. There’s the faint sound of NPR from the kitchen—always on, even at this hour, even if the only audience is the refrigerator. Andie’s voice is nowhere to be heard, and the only smell is the antiseptic tang of lemon cleaner and the sweet, old-lady perfume of the cleaning crew who finished up at five. We cross the entry hall, shoes thudding on the marble, and I notice a giant bouquet of flowers on the side table, listing sideways in its vase, tulips and lilies slumping like they’re too tired to keep up the charade.

The study is at the end of the main hall, door already cracked. Inside, the room is just like always: wood-paneled walls that suck in the light, leather armchairs that look like they’ve never been sat in, shelves of books that are less about reading and more about the weight of knowing. My father sits behind the desk, elbows on the blotter, one hand curled around a black pen and the other resting on a cut-glass tumbler of scotch. The amber in the glass looks like trapped fire. There’s a lamp on the far corner of the desk, shade drawn low, and everything outside its pool of light is shadows and edges.

He doesn’t look up when we enter. He doesn’t have to.

Hunter takes the armchair to the right, sprawling back like he owns it. Lachlan stands, awkward, in the doorway for a beat before settling in to the chair opposite. I stand dead center, the only place that feels neutral.

For a long moment, nothing moves except the second hand on the grandfather clock in the corner.

My father glances up, eyes sharp behind his readers. His gaze lands on me first, then on the men, then back again. “Stella,” he says, voice as cool as the lake in late autumn.

“Dad,” I say, and my voice is too loud, too fast. I clamp down on it. “We need to talk.”

A half-smile—almost clinical—ghosts across his face. “So talk.”

My chest tightens, and I realize I’m holding my purse like a weapon. I set it on the floor, flex my hands to get the feeling back. “Why didn’t you tell us about Lachlan?” The words come out brittle, splintered at the edges. “Why did you get him that job at Trinity? And why the secrecy?”

Hunter shifts in his seat, the leather creaking. Even Lachlan tenses, arms crossed over his chest, but he says nothing.