Page 17 of My Beautiful Sin

I nod. “And there’s another entry I found from right before she died. Peter was upset with her. I need to skim back to see if I can find out why, but my guess—”

“—is that she was prodding her brother to get the fuck away from The Wolf.”

I grimace and nod. “Or out of the business. I don’t know if she ever knew specifically about The Wolf.” I pause on the sidewalk, forcing Lamar to take a step backward.

“What?”

“It just doesn’t make sense. My mom had a great family. Small, yeah. And her parents died young, but still great.” All of my grandparents are gone, actually, taken by various illnesses instead of the unexpected tragedy of my mom and dad, but leaving me just as alone. “I mean, Peter was comfortable. And I know he had decent money because he and Mom both inherited when their dad died. So why shift out of that comfortable world into the dangerous life that killed him?”

“Can’t answer that, but I see it all the time. Maybe it started as thrill seeking and he got in over his head. Maybe he felt helpless and wanted power. Maybe he was simply wired wrong.”

I shake my head. “Not the last. He was good to me. Solid. He had to put up with a grieving teenager, and he rose to the task. He loved me, but he still did all that stuff. And I’m afraid—”

“What?”

“I’m afraid of the way I’m going to feel about him once I know the whole truth.”

He takes my hand and squeezes it. “No matter what, he was still a man who loved you. Flawed, maybe. Screwed up, probably. But he was there when you needed him.”

And that, I think, is what I have to hold on to.

Chapter Seven

The SeaSide Inn sits on the Pacific Coast Highway almost directly across from where the Devlin Saint Foundation now stands. Back when Uncle Peter used to own the Inn, the DSF’s location was a weed-covered vacant lot that folks used for illegal beach parking.

Peter and I often walked here from his house, one of the few in Laguna Cortez that is on the ocean side of the highway. I even helped him fix up the Inn. Or, at least, I painted a few walls. Mostly, he was giving me busy work, as the actual contractors did the heavy lifting. But I remember feeling important, and I’ve always liked this cute little hotel.

The part that faces the highway isn’t anything particularly special. It’s welcoming, sure, but mostly functional with a circular driveway and a porte-cochere that allows guests to valet park without blocking traffic on the Coast Highway. Once inside though, the hotel has a charming Mediterranean vibe. It’s designed as a square, with the four sides comprising the halls leading to the various rooms.

The middle of the square is a sunny atrium, with a small pool, outdoor seating, and a full-service bar that draws both hotel guests and locals.

The reception desk is the first thing we see when we walk through the main glass doors. When I was young, the manager was a man named Taggart. I never knew his first name, and though I could have looked it up before making this trip, I didn’t bother. He’s not at the front desk right now, though it wouldn’t be unusual for him to still be working here. After Uncle Peter’s death, I learned that he bought the hotel, and I don’t see any reason why he would have sold it. After all, tourism in Laguna Cortez is still going strong.

It makes sense that he wouldn’t be at the front desk though. He’s the owner now not the manager, and the woman I see there is about my age. I glance at Lamar, who takes the hint and approaches first. After all, he’s deliciously good-looking, and I’m all for smoothing the way with a witness. She looks up as we approach and smiles in greeting.

“Are you checking in?” She has deep set eyes, light brown skin, and a hint of an accent. Central Mexico, I think, though I’m not positive. She wears a white shirt under a blue blazer with a gold nametag that says, Reggie. Her hair brushes her shoulders. It’s completely straight, dark brown accented with streaks of cobalt blue. She has a wide and friendly smile and I notice that she wears no rings. Single then. Maybe the Lamar move will turn out to be the right one.

“We were hoping to speak to Mr. Taggart,” Lamar says. “He’s the owner, I believe?”

“Is there a problem? I’m the manager.”

“No problem. We were hoping to ask him a few questions about the man he bought the hotel from.”

Her attention shifts from Lamar to me, and I can’t help but think that her reaction is surprise. “Oh,” she says. “Mateo Taggart is my father. But he’s not here. He had a stroke about three years ago. He lives in a nursing home now.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Lamar says. “Do you think we could visit him there?”

“You could. But I’m afraid he’s not himself. The odds that he would remember anything from that long ago—or for that matter be able to carry on a coherent conversation with you—are slim.”

She blinks, and I get the impression she is trying to keep herself together. I wonder about her relationship with her dad. About whether or not it hurts worse to lose a parent in that way, slowly through illness or a failure of mental capacities, than it does to have them taken away from you completely at a young age.

I take a step closer, struck by the fact that she seems so familiar. I wonder if we’ve seen each other before. “Did you go to high school in Laguna Cortez?”

Her eyes widen in surprise.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you look familiar.”

“Oh. No, I didn’t grow up here. My parents divorced when I was young. I lived with my mother. I moved here about six years ago to help my dad with the place.” She makes a face. “And because I couldn’t decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. Dad always said the hotel would be my inheritance, so I should learn to manage it.” She sighs. “Guess I got my inheritance early.”