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“What are you doing?” my mom asked, coming into the room where I sat.
“Work.”
“I thought you took a leave of absence.”
“I did. I still have some case reports to finish up.”
“Are you hungry?”
I was, now that she mentioned it. “Would you like me to make you something to eat?” Not that I’d looked to see if there was any food in the kitchen.
“I can do it.”
I set my laptop on the coffee table and joined her, stunned to see the refrigerator and pantry were both loaded with fresh fruit, vegetables, tortillas, what looked like already grilled chicken and carne asada, as well as several other ingredients.
My mother and I took a plate of tacos out to the porch along with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.
“Mom, I want to ask you something about Dad.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you know if he filed any patents on his wine blends?”
“I’m certain he did not.”
Which meant, on the outside chance she was right about Hewitt Ridge stealing my father’s formulas, there was no legal means to pursue such a claim.
“Did Dad tell you Hewitt stole them?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t need to.”
“What does that mean?”
“I figured it out on my own.”
I decided to be as relentless as she was. “How?”
“I did. That’s all you need to know.”
“No, Mom, answer the question. How did you figure it out?”
When she stood to leave, I got up too. “You can run away, but you won’t get far, Mom.”
“You’re not funny, Seraphina.”
“I’m not trying to be. Noah Ridge has done nothing but try to help us. You should be thanking him rather than shooting him nasty looks.”
“I don’t shoot nasty looks.”
“No? The next time you do it, I’ll take a photo so you can see for yourself.”
“He’s not innocent, Seraphina.”
I wanted to pull my hair out. “What does that mean?”
“The Ridges act like white knights, coming in to save the day, but they’re not. They’re the villains.”
“Have you spun this into a fairy tale where Dad, who drove drunk and killed an entire family, is the hero? And Hewitt Ridge—along with his son, apparently—are the evil landowners who forced him to do it? I call bullshit, Mom. Even if Hewitt was at the bar the night of the accident, he didn’t pour the liquor down my father’s throat.”
