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“It’s okay. I’ll do it. You need to rest. And heal.” She runs her hand along my arm, sucking in her bottom lip to hide the quiver in her chin.
Then she turns from me and slings her gym bag over her shoulder before making her way out of the house.
Once I’m alone, I shrug out of my suit jacket and fold it over the back of one of the barstools by the kitchen island. I loosen my tie and unfasten the top button of my shirt, kicking off my shoes as I trudge upstairs to decompress after the last few days.
And take a painkiller now that I’m no longer on the clock.
But as I’m about to slip inside my room, my eyes float to the door to Adam’s office. No one’s stepped foot inside it in years. Not after Rory had a meltdown when I tried to surprise her by hiring cleaners to help around the house, and she saw them walk into Adam’s office. After that, it became an unspoken understanding that the door was to remain closed.
I never questioned it. And we never spoke about it again.
Truthfully, I had no desire to surround myself with memories of how I treated my brother the last time we spoke. All I wanted was to put the past behind me and move forward.
But I can’t stop thinking about Esme’s dream.
I tell myself it was only a dream. Hayes Barlow is responsible for Adam’s death. Charles Thacker attempted to kill Esme. Both traumatic, but completely isolated events.
That doesn’t quiet the voice in the back of my mind, though.
So instead of continuing into my room, I approach the door and place my hand on the knob.
When I open it, a strange eeriness washes over me. While the rest of the house has been updated, this room hasn’t. It’s frozen in time. In the moment of Adam’s death.
Dust swirls around me, the sliver of sun coming in through the blinds illuminating it. A mustiness clings to the air from years of neglect, a coffee cup still on the desk with a few stains along the rim.
I push down the lump forming in my throat from all the memories being in here brings forward. Especially when I see the framed photo of the two of us as kids placed prominently on the filing cabinet.
Further proof of the love he had for his family.
For me.
Despite wanting to leave and never step foot in this place again, I continue farther inside, albeit with laden feet, and lower myself into the chair behind his desk. His laptop sits on the surface, sticky notes with his barely legible scrawl beside it. Reminders of Rory’s prenatal appointments. A few measurements, probably for the nursery they were in the middle of renovating that I finished. Then a list of dates.
I furrow my brow, trying to figure out the significance of them. Birthdays or anniversaries, perhaps?
But none of them seem familiar.
Could it be related to Hayes Barlow? Adamwaslooking into him in the days before his death.
Or am I hoping to see something that’s not there?
I know what the physical evidence says. And every single piece of physical evidence uncovered following my brother’s death points emphatically to Hayes Barlow having forced the SUV off the road and setting it on fire, leaving both my brother and Esme to die.
But what if the police got it wrong?
Sighing, I relax into the chair, squeezing the bridge of my nose, a tension headache starting to throb behind my eyes. If there was ever a time I wish Adam were still alive, it’s now. He was always practical. Always had a knack for seeing the truth through a mountain of lies.
Hell, he figured out the truth of what was going on between Esme and me. Granted, we were pretty careless toward the end, but he picked up on my attraction to her before we started sleeping together.
“What do you think I should do?” I ask, as if Adam were right next to me. “Do I listen to reason? Or do I follow my gut, regardless of how ridiculous it may be?”
The second the words leave me, I know exactly what he’d say. He’d remind me how easy it is to manipulate physical evidence. But one thing that can’t be manipulated is your instinct, your gut. Too many people don’t listen to their instincts, often to their own detriment.
And right now, my instinct is telling me there’s more to Adam’s death than just some race car driver being pissed off about losing his sponsorships. Like Esme mentioned this morning, Hayes Barlow had no history of violence until Callie Sloane disappeared and the police refused to do anything.
But if Hayes isn’t responsible, who is?
I stand and begin pacing Adam’s office, rewinding to those few weeks leading up to his death.
