Chapter Eight:
Six Words
Julian read the message again. Then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something kinder.
Is he there? Don’t let him leave with anything.
“She knew I’d come,” he said.
“She hoped you wouldn’t.” Nora took the phone back. “She said if you showed up in Portland, it meant you’d figured out something on your own, and that would be the first good sign. Or it meant somebody had pointed you here, and that would be the worst.”
“Nobody pointed me here.”
“Isabelle did.”
“Isabelle didn’t mean to.” He caught himself. “She didn’t tell anyone. I read her courier log.”
Nora looked at him for a moment, then almost laughed. “Wow. Okay.”
“What does she mean, leave with anything?”
“The package. Or photographs. Or…” She shrugged. “She’s not thinking about you stealing something, if that’s what you’re picturing. She’s thinking about what you’d carry back without knowing it. Bugs, trackers, a bag someone else packed. She’s been paranoid about your car for a month.”
“My car.”
“Company car. Company phone. Company everything.” Nora’s thumbs were already moving on the screen. “She asked me to check your shoes, honestly. I said no. That’s too much, even for me.”
He stared at her. Then, slowly, he sat down on the bottom stair beside the dog.
“You’re texting her.”
“I’m telling her you’re here and that you didn’t take anything. She’ll want to know.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“She won’t.”
“Then let me write something.”
Nora hesitated. It was the first time he’d seen her uncertain. Then she held the phone out, screen up, with the message field empty.
“One message,” she said. “She’ll read it. She might not answer.”
Julian took the phone. His thumbs felt clumsy. He typed, deleted, typed again. He had written a thousand emails to men who could ruin him, and none of them had been this hard.
I told Dad in March. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.
He looked at it. It was short and plain and it wasn’t enough. He added, I’m not asking you to come back. I’m asking you to tell me what to do.
He handed the phone back without sending it.
Nora read it. Something in her face softened by a degree. She pressed send.
They waited. The dog snored. Outside, a car passed, then another. Julian tried not to watch the screen and failed.
Four minutes. Five.
The phone buzzed.
Nora read it and gave a little exhale through her nose. “Huh.”
“What?”
She turned it toward him.
I know you didn’t know. That’s not the same as it not mattering.
It was so exactly Elena that his chest ached. He could hear her saying it, quietly, in the study doorway, in that even voice she used when she was hurt and refused to show it.
“Can I answer?” he asked.
“You can dictate.”
“Tell her she’s right.”
Nora typed. A pause, then the phone buzzed again.
Where did you hear about Kestrel Bay?
Julian frowned. “I didn’t.”
“She’s asking a question, not accusing you.”
“I’ve never heard of it.” He said it slowly. “What is it? A place?”
Nora’s face had gone still. She looked at the message for a long moment, then typed something. A reply arrived almost at once. Nora read it, then turned the phone face-down against her leg.
“What did she say?”
“She said…” Nora chose her words with visible effort. “She says if you truly don’t know that name, then that’s the most important thing you’ve told her in five years. And she needs to think.”
“Think about what?”
“About whether you can be trusted with the rest.”
He wanted to grab the phone. He wanted to type Elena, please, I’m right here. He kept his hands flat on his knees.
“Ask her about Larkspur Holdings,” he said instead.
Nora’s eyes widened. “Where did you hear that?”
“A man named Lucian Ashby said it to me in an elevator yesterday. He told me to ask Victor Crane what it was. I did not ask Victor.” He met her gaze. “I’ve been trying to decide whether to.”
Nora typed it out. This time the reply was quick, and it made her wince.
She read it aloud, slowly. “‘Ashby isn’t safe either. He wants Victor, but he’d burn the whole company to get him. Don’t let him use you.'”
“Who is safe?” Julian said, with a laugh that had nothing in it.
“That’s the question, isn’t it.” Nora’s phone buzzed again. She read it, and her mouth pressed tight. “There’s more.”
“Tell me.”
“She says, ‘Tell J. to go home. Don’t call Marcus. Don’t tell anyone he was in Maine.'”
Julian’s head came up. “Marcus?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Why not Marcus?”
Nora typed. Waited. The phone buzzed. Julian watched her read it and saw her lips move slightly, as though she were checking each word.
“She says to ask you who recommended him.”
“Nobody recommended him. I hired him.”
“Right. And who introduced you?”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
It was six years ago. He’d been thirty-one, freshly named CEO, drowning in the paperwork of his own life, prenuptial questions, trust structures, an ugly dispute with a former partner. He had needed someone he could call at midnight. Victor had said, almost in passing, I know a young man at Harlan & Pryce who’d suit you. Sharp. Discreet. Don’t waste your time.
Marcus Bell had been at Harlan & Pryce for two years before that. He had left, with Victor’s blessing, to go independent. And he had spent six years as Julian’s closest confidant, and Julian had never once asked why a top corporate firm would let a promising associate walk out with its most important family’s personal business.
He’d thought it was loyalty. He’d thought Marcus liked him.
“Victor,” he said hoarsely.
“That’s what she thinks.” Nora’s voice was quiet. “She doesn’t know for sure. She didn’t want to say it to your face until she did.”
The house seemed very still. A faint smell of toast drifted from the kitchen where Nora had left the bread out.
Julian stood up too fast, and the dog lifted its head. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eye.
“Marcus knows about the petition. He knows about the signature. I told him last night. He told me not to call the police.” His voice was flat. “He told me not to call Harlan & Pryce. Nora, he sat in my apartment and gave me advice, and every piece of it was to do nothing.”
“Then you know what to do about that.”
“Do nothing back.”
“Smart man,” she said. It was almost a compliment.
He took his coat from the peg. At the door he turned. “Tell her thank you. Tell her I’ll be careful.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“And tell her the envelope,” he said. “The one she left with the doorman. Tell her I never got it.”
Nora’s brow creased. “What envelope?”
“She left one for me at the desk. Owen Kessler took it before I came home. I don’t know what was in it.”
Nora looked at him for a long, strange moment.
Then, very carefully, she picked up the phone, typed the words, and sent them.
The reply came in under ten seconds.
She read it once and lowered the phone. Her face had drained of color.
“What?” Julian said.
“She says,” Nora whispered, “that envelope wasn’t for you.”
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