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I get a glimpse of the other brothers, too. They’re older than Ulysses.
All of them have the same translucent green eyes and expertly styled hair.
Weirdly, there’s not much about the eldest son, Vaughn—just a few hints at scandal and him separating from his family. He’s a dignified-looking Silicon Valley billionaire, large and imposing, not built like his trim, elegant brothers.
The next, Xavier, apparently works in overseas agriculture focused on making palm and coconut cultivation more sustainable. At a glance, he’s dashing with hollow cheekbones and haunted eyes.
Then Aleksander. I’m not surprised he works in fashion, as lithe and pretty as he is. A little more surprised he’s got a rotten reputation for hooking up with everything in a skirt, usually supermodels and—
Wait.
Didn’t Lucas say Emma Santos was an Instagram model?
But that wouldn’t line up, would it?
Unless Aleksander Arrendell snuck into Redhaven with her, then skipped town the night before I arrived, leaving her body behind. I wonder if there’s any way I can ask Ulysses without being obvious.
But do I really think his brother committed a murder? I’ve never even met the man.
That’s a hell of a leap and probably wildly wrong.
Still, I can’t get over it.
I can’t let it go when I’m haunted.
Every part of me wants answers when the drug overdose story feels too neat, too easily wrapped up. I’m obsessing over what really goes on in that big old house on the hill behind its perfect façade of fairy-tale royalty.
Especially when I remember what Lucas said about Montero Arrendell.
The patriarch and his tastes.
I shudder.
Do those tastes include murdering dark-haired young women in cold blood?
I know what it’s like, Lucas said. Feeling a bond with family you haven’t seen in years.
What did he really mean?
Sad, restless thoughts drag me deeper.
I guess it comes with the territory when you bring yourself off to a strange, handsome man who’s on your mind constantly.
Okay, Lucas.
Who haven’t you seen in years?
And is that why you hate the Arrendells so much?
Google can’t give me any answers to that.
But I wonder if this idyllic little town is just like everything else that’s too good to be true.
How big and nasty and deep is Redhaven’s dark side?
10
Red Flags (Lucas)
Shit.
I think I might be in the running for biggest creep on the face of the planet.
Here’s Delilah, fresh off dealing with a stalker asshole ex who may have followed her to Redhaven.
And here I am, following her around like another obsessive weirdo who’s too fucked in the head to quit.
I can tell myself I’m not a threat to her.
That it’s for her own protection, when there’s just some deep-seated instinct that says she’s in danger, and besides—it’s a small town. I’m a cop, so I’m gonna patrol and I’m gonna run across her.
That doesn’t change the fact that she’s probably sick of catching me out of the corner of her eye every time she turns around.
This isn’t Celeste again, I tell myself.
It’s not another dark-haired, starry-eyed, pretty young woman getting pulled into the Arrendells’ orbit, seduced by their wealth and flashy bullshit. She’s not falling under Montero Arrendells’ black magic spell.
I have good reason to worry. As he’s gotten older, Montero’s had to be more subtle.
More cautious.
He lets others do more of his dirty work.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a saint with how squeaky clean he’s been the last ten years or so.
That doesn’t mean he ain’t doing shit.
Just means he’s gotten sneakier, better at keeping the blood off his hands, throwing up a dozen proxies who’ll take the fall for him if there’s ever a little slip.
It fits right in with his pattern, considering how many people believe Ethan Sanderson had something to do with my sister’s disappearance. Ethan was just a local boy who was in love with Celeste, and once Captain Faircross’ best friend.
I know the rumors.
I still hear ’em being whispered around town, every time I walk past and people think I don’t hear them mention 'that poor Graves girl.'
And I know they’re dead wrong.
Old Ethan wouldn’t whack a mosquito, wherever he’s gone.
I kick the heel of my boot against the leg of the captain’s desk as I flip through a folder. Technically, it isn’t a case file, even though I store it among the files when I’m not using it.
It’s just a mess of old newspaper clippings.
Mostly stuff from the tabloids and a few old internet rumors printed out, shit you can’t really trust. Though sometimes the best way to hide the most outlandish truth is to put it out there and let people laugh it off as sordid rumors from the lunatic fringe. Whatever feeds people’s hunger for scandal and intrigue.
There’s sure as hell plenty of scandal swirling around the Arrendells, going back years.
All old, though. Montero’s era and before.
In the age of social media, they’ve been scrubbed squeaky clean and polished by reputation managers till they’re damn near sporting halos.
