This letter… it represented so much. It was the last remaining piece of the only person I ever loved.
“Hey,” Holt said softly, running his hand over the back of my hair.
“Can I keep this?” I asked, looking at Mr. Goddard.
“Yes.” Then he slid the packet of papers—a will—over toward me. “I know this must be incredibly difficult to hear. Tony Diesel… well, if I may be frank?”
“Please,” I said, still gazing at the letter as a single tear tracked over my cheek.
“Tony Diesel was a brilliant musician. He never missed a show, loved his fans, and worked hard at his job.”
“I sense a but coming on,” Holt said.
“But he was also selfish, a drug addict, and could be a real bastard.”
“And?” I prompted.
“And, so he ignored your mother and this letter completely. He never acknowledged you as his daughter until he came into my offices with that letter a couple years ago and said he wanted to leave the bulk of his estate to you.”
“Why would he do that?”
“My guess? Because he didn’t have any other family and the friends he had were all very wealthy.” He paused. “And because he liked to cause a stir. He likely wanted to shock people one final time.”
“Well, I’m definitely shocked.”
“I brought the documents with me for you to sign.”
“What if I’m not really his daughter?”
The lawyer paused and looked up. “I’m afraid that with him and your mother gone, you might not ever know for sure. But it really doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t?” Holt asked, sitting forward.
“No. Legally this money is yours.”
“And you think this is the reason someone wants to kill me?”
“I think it’s quite possible.”
“How much money are you talking about here?” Holt asked.
“Forty million dollars.”
Holt whistled between his teeth and sat back against the cushions. “That’s a pretty legit motive for murder.”
I couldn’t even comprehend that amount of money. It was more than any one person could ever need. “What if I don’t want it?” I said, the thought blurting from my mouth.
“Well, you could donate it all to charity.”
I nodded. I could do that. I could sign it all away and then never have to think about any of this ever again.
“Miss Parker, take some time to think about it. This isn’t something that needs to be decided overnight. The money can sit in the bank until you know for sure what you want to do.”
“Did he have a home? Cars?” Holt asked.
“Yes, he had several homes. All of them but one will be put up for sale. That money is yours as well.”
“What will happen to the one that isn’t for sale?”
“He actually left that to someone else.”
“I thought you said he didn’t have any other family.”
“He doesn’t. He left it to his latest ex-wife. She lived there briefly, so I suppose he felt it was partly hers.”
“How long were they married?” I asked.
“Only a year. They divorced two years ago.”
We all sat there in awkward silence for several long moments before Mr. Goddard cleared his throat. “I’m going to leave a copy of the will and testament and several other documents for you to look over. My flight back to California isn’t until the day after tomorrow. Take a night to sleep on it, and we can meet again tomorrow.”
He piled some papers on the center of the couch and then closed up his briefcase. He stood, stared at me, then sat back down.
“Is there something else?” Holt said, leaning forward again.
“I feel I should warn you,” he began.
“About?” I questioned.
“I wasn’t your fath—Tony’s lawyer. I didn’t handle any of his legal issues except this will. As I said, he came to me a few years ago with that letter and he asked me to draw up a new will, which I did.”
“What about his other lawyer?”
“He is an associate at my firm. His name is William Courtland and he worked with Tony for twenty years. He was on retainer and handled all of Tony’s personal and professional business. They were friends as well. I always told him mixing friendship with business was a bad idea, but he maintained that it wasn’t a problem.”
“And he didn’t know Tony came to you to change his will?”
“I don’t think so. I never told him, and it seems to me if Tony wanted him to know about the changes, he would have had William make them.” As he spoke, a fine sheen of sweat broke out across his upper lip and he swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. I couldn’t figure out why this would make him so anxious. But then he continued.
“We haven’t spoken to William in over two weeks. The last meeting we had, he was preparing the documents to fly them out here to notify you and get your signatures. I’m assuming he never arrived?”
“No.”
He frowned, his thoughts turning inward. It was obvious this man’s disappearance bothered him.
“Has he ever done anything like this before?” Holt asked.
“No.” Then he shrugged. “Well, yes, but he was usually with Tony and he always called in to notify us.” Then he looked Holt directly in the eye. “It feels different this time.”
Holt nodded slowly.
“Different how?” I asked, frustrated that they seemed to be having some sort of unspoken conversation.
“William was angry when found out the bulk of Tony’s estate was left to you. He felt after twenty years of loyal friendship, of being on call for Tony twenty-four hours a day, he deserved some sort of compensation.”
“Tony didn’t leave him anything?” I asked, thinking how terrible that was.
“He did. Several million dollars. But William didn’t seem to think that was enough.” Again, he looked at Holt.
“Why would you ask him to bring the documents if he was angry?”
Again, Mr. Goddard wiped at his brow. “Because he seemed to accept the will after a few days. He went to the private funeral. He came to work every day. When I had an important client meeting, he offered to bring the documents. He said it could be his last official case for Tony.”
So basically, what he was saying was out there somewhere—somewhere likely nearby—was a man who felt betrayed and shoved aside and all of that anger was directed at me.
Forty million dollars didn’t seem like a good enough reason for me to die.
“Thank you for coming by,” Holt said, standing up. Mr. Goddard did the same and the two men walked over to the door.
I followed but stopped beside the couch, needing some space. “I’m sorry about having you arrested. And for your eye,” I said. I still wasn’t sorry for the way I acted. I felt threatened; I had a right to feel that way, and I was just reacting to my situation.
“You have my sincere apologies, Miss Parker. I truly did not mean to scare you.”
He pulled a business card out of the inside of his jacket and extended it to Holt. “Here’s my card. You can reach me by my cell phone. I’m staying at the Hampton Inn here in Wilmington. Call me tomorrow to arrange a time for us to meet again.”
Holt replied and then showed him out. I stood there numbly staring at my toes. My mind was going in so many different directions; I couldn’t really settle on any single thought. Instead, the inside of my brain sounded like there were a hundred different people all whispering, all trying to talk at once.
I made my way around the side of the couch and sat down, letting my hands fall between my knees. The walls of this house felt like they were caving in, like there was this pressure pushing me from all sides.
I had a father.
Maybe.
He was a drug addict.
He was dead.
He left me forty million dollars.
But the one thought that seemed to scream louder than most?
My mother never told me.
Holt stepped in front of me, holding out his hand for me to take. I looked up, leaving his hand suspended between us.
“Come on, you need to get out of here.”
“Where will we go?”
It was fully dark by the time we arrived at our destination. We rolled down the windows, and warm night air, heavy with the scent of salt and the sea, wafted into the cab and surrounded us.
I was surprised when he pulled into a very bright roadside store and disappeared inside for a few minutes before returning and driving a short distance to a public access spot on the beach.
“I hope you like the beach,” he said, seeming to suddenly second-guess his decision to bring me here.
“I love the beach.”
He smiled and reached into a brown paper sack. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a popsicle, one of the classic kinds shaped like a rocket ship with layers of red, white, and blue.
“It’s not ice cream, but…” Even if I hated popsicles, I would have taken it and enjoyed it just because of the look on his face. He looked like a little boy who was excited for Christmas morning, or a rat who’d outsmarted a trap and ran away with the cheese.
But I happened to love popsicles. So I didn’t have to pretend the squeal of delight I made while I unwrapped it and slid my lips around the icy, sweet top.
“Mmmm,” I said as I licked at the flavors.
He watched me, his eyes turning heated.
“Want some?” I held it out toward him. He leaned forward and wrapped his lips around it the same way I had just seconds before.
He stared at me intently as he drew back, sucking the sweetness as he went.
Pinpricks of desire raced along my skin. “Did you get one?” I asked, my voice taking on a throaty quality.
He reached into the sack and pulled out one identical to mine.
I snatched mine away. “Hey! Eat your own, then.”
He chuckled as we exited the truck with our icy treats and walked to the wooden stairs and long plank-like walkway that led down to the sand.
Even though it was dark, the ocean was still a gorgeous sight. We stood side-by-side just looking out at the sweeping view. It was an endless sea of dark waves capped with white that crashed along the shoreline and rushed toward the beach. White foam floated along the mysterious water, buoyant and free.
The moon had risen just above the water’s edge in the distance and it hung low, heavy, and full, shining a brilliant shade of gold. It reflected off the surface of the water, highlighting a section of the never-still ocean.
The wind blew off the water, and I closed my eyes and inhaled, feeling my hair lifting off my shoulders and dancing behind me as I took in the heady scent that only nature at its best could produce.
Holt slipped his fingers into mine, linking us together and easily leading me down the steps and onto the sand. I kicked off my flip-flops, eager to delve my toes into the gritty softness of the sand. It was still slightly warm from the day’s sun.
I loved the way it crowded around my toes and buried the tops of my feet. Holt took off his sandals too and we placed them on the bottom step and wandered closer to the water’s edge.
We didn’t say anything as we strolled, hand in hand, down the lonely stretch of beach. The sound of the surf filled the silence and the lack of people made me feel as if we were the only two people in the world.
I lifted my chin, gazing up at the millions of stars shining in the sky. Stars always looked more brilliant when standing on a beach. It was because the land here wasn’t interrupted by buildings and businesses, by lights and music. It was darker here, tranquil.
“I needed this,” I told him, catching the tail end of a falling star.
“The beach has a way of making a person feel small,” he replied.
He was exactly right. That’s exactly why I felt better. Because out here, staring out at this giant body of water, at the endless amount of sky, I did feel small—like there was so much more out there than I realized. At home earlier, all I could feel and think about were the problems, the way my life seemed to be caving in. Things seemed so large and insurmountable. I felt like I might never get out from under them.
But not here.
Here I felt like I could breathe. I felt like the wind coming off the waves was carrying away the worst of my worries and the water was going to soak up the worst of my pain. Out here I didn’t feel like my entire world was crumbling. It was here I realized how lucky I was just to…
be.
“Your popsicle’s going to melt,” Holt said, leaning down to whisper in my ear.
A large wave crashed against the shore and rushed forward, soaking our feet and making me laugh. “It’s cold!” I squealed, trying to get out of its way and failing.
Holt released my hand to wrap an arm around my waist and lift me up so my feet dangled above the water.
My chest was pressed against his as he towed me along, backtracking out of the waves. I clung to him, laughing, afraid he would drop me and I would plunge into the chilly inch of water.
When we were farther up on the dry sand, he stopped, staring into my eyes while my stomach somersaulted. He closed the mere inches between us, pressing his voluptuous lips against mine in a warm and lingering kiss.
Then he released me to sit in the sand, spreading his legs wide and motioning for me to sit between them. I did, pressing my back to his front and stretching my legs out along with his. I giggled when I saw that my feet only made it to his mid-calves.
I hadn’t realized how cold my skin had turned until he wrapped both arms around me. It was like stepping into a ray of sun on a cold and windy day. His chin rested on the crown of my head and I could feel thin strands of my hair stick to the scruffy area of his jaw.
I concentrated on the dripping treat in my hand, trying not to slurp it too loudly, but then finally giving up and just digging in. When it was gone, I used the stick to trace uneven patterns in the sand between our legs.
“Katie, will you tell me about you?” He spoke closely into my ear so the wind wouldn’t carry away his words before I could hear them.
I leaned into him a little farther, enjoying the feeling of being completely surrounded by him, and tilted my head back, angling it so my words were directed toward him.
“It was just me and my mom for most of my life,” I began, feeling a little awkward because this was the very first time I ever told anyone about my past.
“She never told me who my father was, only that he wasn’t interested in being a father and that I was better off without him anyway. When I was fifteen years old, she was killed in a car accident.” Holt’s embrace tightened around me, but he didn’t say anything or interrupt my words.
“We didn’t have any other family. My entire life had been just her and me. So when she died, I was sent into the system, into foster care. I tried to get emancipated, but the judge said I was too young to live on my own.”
I paused to glance back out at the rolling waves, still using the stick to trace in the sand.
“I moved a lot, usually at least once a year. Sometimes three times a year. There were a couple nice foster families, but the rest seemed like they were tired and wrung out from the system. I don’t know why they continued to foster kids when they clearly were so tired of it. I guess it was for the money, or maybe they just didn’t know how to tell the government they were tired of babysitting. It seemed like every time I moved, I had to give up more and more of my life before Mom died. Keeping all my possessions became a pain to move around and lots of times I didn’t have my own room to keep them in anyway.”
“That sounds like it was hard.”
“It wasn’t the material possessions that were hard to give, but the memories that were attached to them.”
I felt him nod against my head and I continued. “I was shuffled around, lost in the system for three years. I worked everywhere I went. I took on as many hours as I could. I read constantly. Books were my greatest companion and stories my greatest distraction. I saved every penny I had, hoping one day I would be able to have my own life, my own house, somewhere that no one could ever take it away.”
“The day I turned eighteen, I walked out of my final foster home with a couple suitcases to my name. I went to college on a scholarship and lived in a tiny apartment, still working and trying to save. I didn’t bother to get close to people or make any friends. But I love books, I love literature, and I love the quietness of the inside of a library, so I became a librarian.”
“You didn’t make any friends? Not even one?”
“Not even one,” I replied, tilting my head back to look up at him.
“My father never wanted to know me and my mother left me. I know she hadn’t wanted to leave me that way, but it still left a gaping hole in my life. The people in the foster system always sort of looked
through
me instead of
at
me. And so I decided I would rather spend my time with fictional characters than real-life ones.”
“That sounds real lonely, Freckles.”
I loved the way his chest rumbled when he talked. It vibrated against my back.
“I was happy,” I said with a small shrug. “I had built a pretty good savings by the time I graduated college. And with the money my mother left me when she died, I was able to buy my house.” I smiled a little to myself. “It was a nice house. Yellow siding and flowers in the yard. It even had a pool.” I looked up at him. “You remember the pool? It was the one you threw me in.”
He laughed.
“Anyway, I finally had somewhere that was mine that no one could take away.” I fell silent, thinking about the charred remains there today.
“But someone did,” Holt said, a hard edge coming into his voice.
“Yeah.”
“So what do you think about Tony Diesel?” As he spoke, he rubbed his palm along my bare arm, almost as if his touch would make his words easier to hear.
It did.
“I don’t know what to think. I suppose it’s possible. I mean, Mr. Goddard said he wasn’t interested in being a father and that’s exactly what my mother told me.”
“He left you a hell of a pile of money.”
“I can’t understand why. Is it some sort of apology for ignoring me my entire life? Was it because he felt guilty? If I take the money, then it would be like saying the way he behaved was okay.”
“What else?” he asked, inviting me to spill more.
“Why wouldn’t she tell me?” I whispered, the words ripping from the deepest part of me. That’s the part that hurt the most. Feeling like my mother lied, like she withheld information that I deserved to know. She was my best friend; she was the one person I trusted over everyone else.
“Maybe she thought if she did, you would only be hurt.”
“He’s not even listed on my birth certificate,” I said. Sadness and anger fought within me. Anger for not knowing if any of this was true and for being kept in the dark. But sadness, too, because I didn’t want to feel this way. I didn’t want to think negative thoughts about a woman who spent her whole life taking care of me and then died far too soon. Her memory deserved more than my anger.