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“He’s been ducking me.”
“Do you blame him?” Jesus, the guy wasn’t taking a hint and Paige was nervous. She glanced over her shoulder to the windows of the den where her father had been watching television. “You’re dredging up a lot of pain for him. I would think you would have the decency to let everything be.”
“I just want the truth.”
“So you can profit from it,” she said, raising a disdainful eyebrow. “Don’t try to elevate this from anything more than what it is, one person making money off another person’s tragedy.”
“You think that’s what I’m doing?” One side of his mouth lifted into a sexy smile, the same kind of grin she remembered from her youth, before she’d lost twenty pounds, before the braces had come off, before she’d learned how to color her hair and have it layered into a flattering style, before she’d discovered the magic of makeup. It was the same knowing grin that Weston’s friends had bestowed upon her as they’d teased her so mercilessly.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Me?” she asked, breaking out into a nervous sweat. “Nothing.”
“Then let me see Neal. Hear what he has to say.”
“No, not now, you’ll only upset him.”
“Would he prefer to be served with a summons?” Kane asked, his smile disappearing, the glint in his eyes hard determination. “Because that’s my next step. I think I have enough evidence to prove that your brother was murdered and that it was done by someone who knew him. I’d think you, and your father, would want that information. I’m sure the police will. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, you know, and if you’ll recall, three men died that summer. Three young men. Harley was just one of them. I think they’re all connected and the most common thread is that they all worked for dear old dad. Now either I talk to him right here, right now, or I show the DA what I’ve found and Neal can talk to a homicide detective.”
“He already has, dozens of times.” She sounded forceful, but her palms were damp and it was all she could do not to rub them down the front of her khakis.
“Well, that was just a warm-up for the main event,” Kane said and, from the corner of her eye, she saw the blinds of the den move, fingertips pushing the slats down, old eyes behind glasses peering through. Oh, God, it was all unraveling.
“Just go home and leave us alone.”
“Can’t do it.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. She and Moran turned toward the window. Her father drew the blinds open and waved them both inside. Paige’s heart dropped like a stone. She shook her head but Neal scowled and motioned more violently.
“Looks like he wants to chat,” Kane observed and walked past her toward the door. She grabbed hold of his arm.
“I don’t know what you found, but I think I should talk with you first.”
“Something you want to get off your chest?”
She licked her lips. Her head was pounding with the truth. Images of the night Harley had died. Brutal pictures. Dark memories. It had been so dark aside from the lights of the marina. The sailboat had been rocking on its moorings, its masts jutting upward, lights glowing from inside. In the distance Paige heard a party going on and some music drifting over the water. There were people on the deck of the sailboat, a tall man she recognized as Harley and a woman with blond hair and something in her hand. A weapon.
Paige shivered now. Even though she’d been far away and it had been dark, Paige remembered how the woman had struck Harley from behind. Fiercely. Angrily. Hard enough that the sound, the sickening crush of bones had echoed over the water. Paige, standing in the shadows had gasped and dropped her gun, the gun she’d intended to use to scare Harley into wising up, into realizing that Kendall was the woman he loved, but now . . . now some blond—Kendall?—was in a rage, intent on bashing Harley’s face in. Paige had dropped her mother’s gun. It had slid across the deck and into the water with a loud plop. Paige didn’t wait to be discovered. She’d turned and run as fast as her legs could carry her to her bike, hidden between the parked cars. And then she pedaled away as fast as she could before Kendall saw her, before Kendall, sweet, beautiful Kendall had realized that Paige had witnessed her crime.
You should have stayed. You should have called for help. You should have done something to save your brother’s life, even if it meant incriminating the only girl who had treated you with any grain of dignity, but instead you ran, refusing to let anyone see you, leaving the gun, leaving Harley to drown. There was a chance you could have saved him. He didn’t die from the blow, but because he drowned and you knew how to swim, had been on the swim team . . . Guilt tore through her and she realized that she was crying, tears drizzling down her cheeks as Kane Moran stared at her. It was over. All the lies were at last being uncovered.
“Yeah,” she finally said, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. There was no reason to try and protect Kendall any longer. And some of Paige’s infatuation with her friend had worn thin over the years . . . how could Kendall have ever married Weston? Harley had been weak, but Weston . . . he was just plain cruel. “Maybe you’re right,” she admitted. “But there are some things I want to tell you without my father hearing.” She opened the door and led him into the den where her father was about to learn that his daughter-in-law, the mother of his grandchild, had killed his son.
She walked him into the den where her father sat in his motorized wheelchair. He looked Kane up one side and down the other, then motioned Paige to the bar. “Get our guest something to drink.”
“I’m fine,” Kane said, shaking his head.
“Well, I’m not. I’ll have a scotch and soda”
Paige hesitated. “But the doctor said—”
“To hell with that old sawbones. Get me a drink. What more damage can it do? Put me in a damned wheelchair?” he demanded. Paige knew there was no talking to him. He was in one of his moods. Fine. Then she’d pour him a double—no, maybe a triple. He didn’t seem to mind as she handed him the glass and he took a long swallow. “Now why the hell are you here? For that damned book you’re writing.”
“That’s the main reason.”
“So tell me, who killed my son?”
