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“He killed her murderer.” Winston spoke as if he’d announced what we were having for dinner.
“How do you know?” Beau’s eyes rounded.
“Because I helped him dispose of the body.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Beau
I’d been beggingfor answers my entire life.
And with every one I got, three more questions formed.
“I assume we’ll keep that among friends.” Winston kept that stoic look on his face, but he wasn’t unfeeling.
“Who killed her?” Lincoln asked hoarsely. "Who was she?"
“A woman who was infatuated with your father. She engaged him with an appealing business deal, which he accepted. They worked closely together on it, but your father was very focused on work. He didn’t notice her advances until it was too late.”
Winston took a sip of tea.
“He was enraged someone would dare interfere with his marriage. Samuel wasn’t an affectionate man, but he loved your mother to the point it was unhealthy.” He turned wistful. “She had a way of handling him. He was a different person when he was with her.”
“He had an affair?” Teague sounded as baffled as I felt.
We didn’t understand our father because he’d never allowed us to. All we knew was the cold, calloused man who seemed unfeeling.
“Absolutely not. She attempted to get physical, and he went on a tirade. He immediately ended their business dealings and she lost her company.” He pulled the blanket around his shoulders as if chilled. “Jealousy and rage cause actions one would not normally take.”
Like murder.
“Why did you help him cover it up?” I whispered.
“Because your mother was a kind and spirited woman who brought much joy to my life as well as many others. She deserved justice, not to become tabloid fodder. Fortunately, in those days, information wasn’t so accessible the second it happened. News organizations were much more willing to overlook things for a generous donation. As was the police department.”
He didn’t sound sorry. And when he put it that way, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing her murder remained a mystery to the public. She was long forgotten . . . except to us and the charitable contributions made in her honor.
“I always felt it wasn’t my place to interfere in your upbringing. But I knew what your mother would’ve wanted, and Samuel wasn’t giving you that. I tried in my own way to instill pieces of her in each of you.” He took my hand. I didn’t think he’d ever done that. “He went too far. I’d allowed that for too long. But this”—he brushed my forehead with his thumb—“and the way he attempted to sabotage all of your happiness . . . I couldn’t let that stand.”
I kissed his cheek and he closed his eyes, almost as if in pain.
“I regret I didn’t interfere sooner.”
“Don’t.” Lincoln placed a hand on his arm. “And you don’t have to hold back with our children.”
“We expect you to interfere.” Teague squeezed Winston’s shoulder.
His eyes glassed over. “I wrote each of you a letter when I thought I wasn’t . . . I’d appreciate if you wait until my passing to read them.”
“You’d better not go anywhere,” I warned. “And if you don’t want to live with Lincoln on Central Park, you could always move to the Bronx. When we find somewhere.” I looked at Cal. He flicked his chin in a promise that we’d find our perfect house.
“Tribeca’s not so bad. And as soon as all these people get out of here, we’ll have plenty of room,” Teague said hopefully.
“I’ve always wanted to experience new parts of the city. Perhaps I’ll try my hand at all three locations.”
Hope planted its seed deep inside me. We were no longer under Samuel Hollingsworth’s dark cloud. We were free to show our feelings and love each other and be the family we were always meant to be.
Lincoln scowled at his phone when it vibrated.
