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Chapter Nineteen
I openand close my mouth several times before I can get the words out. "B-Bobo was yours?"
Nate attempts a smile but looks pained instead. "His name wasn't Bobo at the time, but yes, he used to be mine. I named him Sir Denton, after my grandfather."
Something clicks, and my eyes widen. "You’re named after your grandfather."
"Both, actually." Nate smirks. "Denton was my mother's father: Denton John Altman II," he clarifies, then adds, "Last I remember, the bear was in some keepsake box. Mom would save all the things she was sentimentally attached to. She probably never noticed that it was gone."
He doesn’t elaborate on his other middle name, and I decide to ignore it as well. It’s not important for the current topic.
"Why would anyone want that stuffed bear?" Rhys's question comes through the speaker, and I turn back to the screen.
I wrack my brain. "There was nothing special about him. Was there?" I peer at Nate, who shrugs in confirmation.
"Not that I remember."
"This shit is getting too fucking weird." Rhys rubs a hand over his mouth.
"Language," George barks from the chair next to me, and I roll my eyes.
"So, we finally understand why Tristen wired the house like a high-security prison. He wanted to be able to trace this person's every move—if she ever came back," I summarize.
Whoever this she was.
"Yup." Rhys pops the P in a bored manner. He moved to his desk, the phone propped up, and his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back in his chair.
"And they said for sure it was a she? That would mean Turner is out." I tap my index finger against my chin.
"We have not confirmed that he works alone." George stomps on my theory like one would crush a nasty bug under a shoe. "Everything I learned about Francis Turner, and what Nate was able to find, points toward him not having the intellect to mastermind all this."
"Well, who then?" Rhys’s frustration is audible.
"I'll start digging more into his past," Nate informs Rhys of what he already told me on the plane. "But at the same time, I'm still trying to trace the money our father paid to that shell account. I'll work as fast as possible, but I have to make an appearance in the office tomorrow and Saturday since I missed two days this week. Hank is up my ass already, and Margot set up a lunch date with Julian and Cece for Sunday."
"You need to keep up with your life, Nate. You’ve been cutting it too close already. You"—George levels us with a stern face—"are not ready."
Guilt constricts my chest. Nate has to take responsibility for his actions. Between Turner and the shower attack, I refuse to go there. My brother will go to prison. Pulling my lips between my teeth, I stare at the desk, unable to make eye contact with any of them.
"You should talk to Mom and Dad." My eyes fly back to the screen.
"What?" I squeak. The tightness in my chest is replaced by an out of control beating heart.
"They deserve to hear from you. Face to face. Not just a text message that says, I'm fine." Looking past the camera, Rhys sighs. "I'm not their biggest fan either, and I probably would shut them out. Hell, I did for years. But you're a better person. There are too many fucking secrets."
"I agree with Rhys. Though, you need to keep it brief. Don't give details that could compromise you."
I shift my attention to George. When he doesn’t say anything else, I glance at Nate, who just lifts a shoulder.
What am I supposed to say to them? Everything could potentially compromise where I am or who Nate is. I struggle to get my rapid pulse under control; it's of no use. The overflow of saliva combined with nausea steadily building tells me what's about to happen.
"Well, okay then. I take that as my cue to go back to cooking dinner. George, I want you to be in the room in case Lilly needs anything. Just...stay out of the picture, or Heather might have a heart attack, seeing your scary mug and all." My brother stands up, and his words snap me out of the oncoming panic attack.
Latching onto his arm, my nails dig into his flesh. I must’ve somehow agreed to it. Did I nod my head? Shit, I have no idea. "You want me to talk to them now?" I’m on the verge of being hysterical.
Nate levels me with an unidentifiable look. "Get it over with, little sis. It'll help you as much as it'll help them. Trust me."
What?
