“Thank you for dinner.” I drop my napkin and get to my feet, earning a startled blink from Lucy. “I’ll handle dishes.”
“Absolutely not.” She pokes her daughter’s shoulder. “Dish duty falls on this one.”
“Moooooom.” Harper stands and starts stacking plates. “Mrs. Sinclair will be here in ten minutes, and I haven’t packed yet.”
“Packed?” Lucy smacks her forehead. “Ugh! I completely forgot the damn field trip.”
A horn beeps outside, and Harper yelps. “They’re early! Mommy, I don’t have time to—”
“Go! Grab your things.” She’s shaking her head as Harper bounds up the stairs.
Lucy gets up with a sigh and gathers the dishes in a pile. “Mom of the Year here.”
“What do you mean?” I take the plates and carry them to the sink. When she tries to grab the dish brush, I elbow her out of the way. “Sit your ass down and tell me why you’re a bad mom while I wash up.”
She looks like she wants to argue, then presses her lips together. “Thank you.”
I top off her wine as she sinks to a stool and types out a text message. “That’s the third time this month that I’ve spaced on Harper’s schedule.”
“You’re the keeper of a child’s social calendar?”
She lifts both brows but doesn’t look up. “While she’s underage and incapable of driving? Yes. That’s literally the job.”
Fair enough. “Has she missed anything important?”
Lucy shrugs. “I escaped catastrophe today when a friend’s mom dropped her off.” She’s still texting, presumably another parent. “I wasn’t as lucky two weeks ago when I made her late for piano lessons because a case ran long.”
“Case?” I’m still not clear on her dual job schedule. “With the bank or the bait shop?”
“Bank.” Her phone makes a swoopy sound as she sends the message, then shoves her phone aside. Harper sprints through with a pink bag over one shoulder, throwing her arms around Lucy.
“Bye, Mommy—I love you.”
“I love you, too. Behave.”
“Good idea.” Harper rounds the kitchen counter. “I was planning a riot before you said that.”
I turn to shake her hand, but Harper throws both arms around my middle. “Thank you for saving the bat. It’s nice to meet you.”
She squeezes hard, then lets go before I know what hit me. As she runs from the room, the horn beeps again. The front door slams, and then it’s silent. I look at Lucy. “Seems like a happy kid from where I stand.” I go back to scrubbing plates. There aren’t many, so I’ve almost got the dishwasher loaded. “You sure that Mom of the Year trophy didn’t get lost in the mail?”
“Pretty positive.” She sips her wine and stands to take the pot I’m drying. “You eliminated my bat and did my dishes. The least I owe you is another glass of wine before I send you on your way.”
There’s a bit left in the bottle, but I hesitate. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll ravish you on the sofa with your chaperone gone?”
I’m braced for indignation, but her eyes do a slow sweep of my torso. “I’ll take my chances.”
Unsure how to answer, I settle for draining the bottle into my glass. What is it about Lucy that keeps throwing me off my game? She’ll parry when I’m braced for retreat, thrusting when I least expect it, knocking the sword from my hands.
It’s unnerving.
Guarding my flank, I take a seat on the far end of the sofa. “So.” I sip my wine, savoring the earthy burn. “Does Harper know her father doesn’t pay child support?”
Lucy sputters in her glass. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because of what you said earlier. ‘I don’t keep secrets from my daughter.’”
Her eyes dart away. “She knows he doesn’t make time to see her more than a few times a year. That’s enough hurt to deal with.”
I can respect that. “Her father is Wyatt Lloyd the Third.”
She flinches like I’ve stepped on her foot. “Yes.” Blue eyes slide back to mine. “How did you know?”
“Private detectives have access to a startling array of information.” I let her sit with that, let her wonder what else I know. What I may have uncovered in the embarrassingly long amount of time I spent looking up Lucy Spencer-King, formerly Lucy Lloyd. “You were married less than eight years.” That slips out before I think it through.
Her eyes narrow. “Do you also know my blood type and what I had for breakfast?” She sips her wine and glares at me. “You’re being creepy.”
“What’s the name of my sister’s wildlife sanctuary?”
She blinks. “Why do you think I know?”
“Because you took your phone when you ran upstairs to grab a sweater.” It’s a wild guess, but the flush in her cheeks says I’m right. “Since I let that detail slip about Sam’s place, I figured you’d take that information and look her up. See what else you could learn about me.”
She doesn’t deny it. “Haven Creek Farm and Wildlife Rescue looks nice.”
Her grudging reply feels like a small victory. “Figured you couldn’t resist.” I may as well throw her a bone. “You’re smart and observant. Clever enough to take the little shreds I drop and make a whole fucking nest with it.”
“It’s also the only social media image I could find with you in the photo,” she points out. “Your sister tagged you.” Looking thoughtful, she sips her wine again. “She looks like you. Same eyes. Same nose.”
I nod and don’t respond. I know the photo. It shows Sam in profile, one side of her face out of view. My throat feels tight, and it takes a few swallows to unclog it. “You, on the other hand, have a more robust social media presence. Five brothers?”
“That’s right.” The lift of her chin dares me to say what else I learned from those photos.
Childhood pictures—the post of a random aunt—painted a fuller picture of her family. “Are you closest with Jake?” I name her oldest brother first, hoping she hears what I’m not saying.
I may be a snoop, but I’m not a transphobic asshole.
I’m also damn good at my job.
“Or are you closer to your twin, Mason?” I continue as her shoulders tense. “Or maybe Kaleb or Noah or Parker wins the prize for your best brother?”
“Creepy asshole.” She’s smiling as she says it, and her shoulders relax. “You got disbarred four years ago. You’ve only had a PI license two years. What did you do for those other two years?”
So she has done her homework. More than I expected.
“I don’t suppose you perused my bank accounts.” I don’t bank with her employer, but maybe she has access. There’s plenty of info about my net worth online, which must be where she got the ten-million figure.
“I’d never use Buxton Bank tools for personal use.” Her eyes narrow. “I draw the line at unethical practices.”
An accurate jab, but not one that stings. “But you’re aware that my financial portfolio is such that I don’t truly need to work.”
“You do anyway,” she says, and I nod.
“I need the stimulation.” Her pupils flare as I shift closer on the couch. “I get myself into trouble if I’m left with too much time on my hands.”
“Trouble?” she presses, and my cock responds to the breathiness in her voice.
Time to change the subject. “Did you ever want to return to college?”
Sipping her wine, she shrugs. “That ship has sailed. Speaking of which—you were on the crew team in college?”
And we’re back to me. “Dug up the online copies of my university newspaper, I see. Learn anything interesting?”
“Not really.” She sets down her wineglass and looks at me. “Let’s just cut to the chase, Peter. Are you here on a fishing expedition?”
Was that a bait shop reference? Doubtful. “You think I’m spending time with you to fish for information that will help with your uncle’s case?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Her jaw clenches. “For all I know, you came over tonight hoping to root out all my secrets.”
“Tempting,” I say, since I would like to know them. “I’ll remind you that you’re the one who called me.”
“I didn’t say it’s a sound theory.”
And I didn’t say she’s alone in feeling guarded. We’ve both got our suspicions. “Maybe you lured me here, hoping to trick me into telling you about the case.”
“By putting a bat in my daughter’s bedroom?” She tilts her head, and a dark wave of hair falls over one eye. “Pretty clever of me.”
“You got me here, didn’t you?”
She picks up her glass and watches me over the rim. “Would you have come if I’d just asked you to dinner?”
“Honey, I’d have turned up on your doorstep if you texted you were on fire and needed me to lick you from head to toe to put out the flames.” That sounded sexier in my head. “Just out of curiosity, what is it you want to know?”
Lucy looks at me a long time. “What made you take my uncle’s case?”
“Money.”
“Liar.”
I lift one eyebrow. “What else would it be?”
“You don’t need money, as you just said.” She swirls the wine in her glass. “Also, I read about you online. You had a reputation for taking on the toughest cases. They said you got off on it.” She pauses, licking her lips. “The Assassin?”
No surprise she found my old lawyer nickname. “That was a long time ago.”
“You were kind of a big deal.” She’s watching me now, waiting for me to crack. Willing me to share what she won’t find online.
I made sure of that.
“I don’t know why you got disbarred,” she admits, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “But you clearly had some skills as an attorney. I want to know what happened.”
“And I want a lot of things I can’t have.”
“Like what?” Her pupils flare again.
So many things. “You. Naked.”
“Ha.” She sips her wine. “Try again.”
The pink in her cheeks nearly steers me off course. “I want to know who burned down your grandparents’ cottage.”
“Let me save you some trouble.” There’s that chin tilt I’m growing to love. “My power-hungry, money-grubbing, asshole uncle did.”
“You seem awfully sure of yourself.” I’ve seen the reports. The case isn’t as cut and dried as she seems to believe.
Lucy rolls her eyes and I see where Harper gets it. “I assume you’ve seen the photo?”
What a clever way to gauge what I know. If I feign ignorance—which I’m contemplating—Lucy could claim she meant police photos of the burned shack.
But she said photo, singular. And we both know what she’s talking about.
“The image your brothers found in an old trunk.” Might as well lay my cards on the table. “A photograph allegedly showing your grandfather’s drawing of how he allegedly wanted his land divided among his heirs.”
Lucy rolls her eyes again. “There’s nothing alleged about it. That wall was the closest thing Pops had to a will. Our whole childhood, he kept adding to it, drawing details of what he wanted for the land when he passed. We grew up in that cottage, hearing him talk about it all the time. Showing us what he wanted with every fucking pen stroke on that wall.” Face flushed, she pauses for breath. “You don’t find it suspicious the house burned down right around the time he passed? That the drawing just—” she snaps, drawing my eyes to the slender line of her arm. “Poof! Gone.”
I certainly do find it suspicious, but that proves nothing. Not in a court of law. “Do I find it odd that a dilapidated wood cabin filled with flammable mid-century furniture and electrical code violations would happen to catch fire?” I watch as she flinches, feeling only a little guilty. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
“Then you’re a fool or a liar.” Her jaw clenches. “I’m not sure which I respect less.”
I wish I didn’t crave her respect. More than I crave the taste of her lips. “I’ll tell you what’s suspicious.” I lean close, needing her to hear this. Or maybe I need to feel the heat pulsing off her in waves. “That your brothers searched a condemned, burned-out shell of a home—a home that had already been searched a dozen times by authorities—and just happened to find a photograph of that wall? This was months after the fire marshal ruled it an accident. Months after Owen went ahead and developed the land, as was his legal right.” I know it’s not so simple, but she started this. I’ve never been one to back down from a fight. “That photo found by your brothers—that’s what’s suspicious to me.”
It’s the evidence that opened the case against Owen, and Lucy comes to life as I mention it. “What, you think we had that photo all along? That we waited for Owen to steal our land and develop half of it before we showed up with proof?”
That’s exactly what his attorneys hope to prove.
And they need my help to do it.
Steadying my voice, I stay the course with Lucy. “The land’s worth quite a bit more now than it was before Owen Spencer developed it. Funny how that photo just happened to appear?”
I’m baiting her, watching for fury to make her careless.
I’m not expecting the flicker of tears. “Fuck you, Peter.” She looks away, but not before I see glitter in her eyes. “If you actually believe that, get out of my house right now.”
I stay frozen on her couch. What just happened?
As I wait for her to collect herself, I consider the issue. Do I believe what I just suggested about the Spencer-Kings planting that photo? Maybe I did, before.
Before I met Lucy. Now?
“Hey.” I touch her arm and she flinches. “I’m not leaving, okay?”
Her eyes swing to mine, then narrow. “Which is not the same as saying you know your theory’s bogus.”
I can’t say that. “I’m doing my job, Lucy.”
She must get it because she softens a little. “Your job is fucking stupid.”
“Sometimes.” I’m softening too, which is risky. I throw out the question I shouldn’t. “How did the photo get there?” I watch her face, braced for more fury. I keep my voice low, calm. “What other explanation could there be? If you or your brothers weren’t hanging on to the picture all along, just waiting for a chance to plant it and pretend—”
“My mother, okay?” she shouts the words, then clamps her mouth shut.
Whoa.
“Lucy.” I paw slowly through my mental archives. I’ve done my due diligence. I know about her mom. “Explain.”
“No.” She’s looking away, shoulders stiff as she stares at the darkness. “Forget it.”
No way I can do that. Not with the bombshell she just dropped.
“Your mother passed away.” A lifetime of mental illness. Of self-medication. “I saw the report. Owen hired a PI to track down his sister. To get answers for the family after she disappeared.”
Even as I say it, I hear how the words sound. Private investigators can be bought. Reports can be fudged. I know that better than most.
“Just—never mind.” She keeps staring out the window, swiping her eyes when she thinks I can’t see. “Tell me about your—”
“Lucy.” I touch her arm again, and she doesn’t jerk this time. Sliding closer on the couch, I gentle my voice. “You’re saying you think your mother isn’t dead.” I have questions. “What do you think happened? Your brothers—”
“Don’t you dare tell them.” She whips back to face me, eyes blazing. “It’s just my theory, okay? They don’t believe it. Only me.”
The hope in her voice breaks my heart. Quite the feat, since I don’t have one. Not anymore.
“I can understand wanting to hope,” I say slowly. “But I’ve seen the report. Your mom wasn’t doing well.” Drugs, homelessness. Life on the streets isn’t kind to women facing the sort of mental illness Sarah Spencer fought. “The last time anyone saw her, she was lifeless with a needle in her arm.”
“That’s true. I’ve seen the report.” Her voice cracks as she faces me. “But I think I’d feel it. If she were really gone, I’d know.”
Steely fingers fold the lobes of my lungs. “That’s your proof? A hunch.” I thought it might be more.
Lucy shakes her head. “You won’t believe me anyway.”
“Try me.”
She takes a shaky breath. “It’s a series of little things. Kaleb finding a flyer that led him right to the foreclosed auto shop he bought. His dream he could never afford until he got some random ad hung right on his door.” Her voice gets steely as she speaks. “Mason, too—he got this unexpected tax refund in the mail the same week Old Man Lipman put up his building for lease. A building that turned out to be perfect for the brewery Mason always dreamed about.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, knowing better than to poke holes in her theory. Sounds like a lot of coincidence to me.
“Then there’s my house.”
“What about your house?” I might know already. I’ve seen the property records. “Your ex paid cash for it. Signed it over to you in the divorce.”
“I never loved this house,” she admits. “But Harper adores it. This is her home, from the moment she was born.”
I glance out the window at the slosh of dark ocean. It’s harder to see with the sun gone, but moonlight paints the waves with stripes of gold. “It’s a nice house,” I say. “Views of the ocean and the lake?” Worth loads of money, in other words. Odd that a father who won’t pay child support would just hand it over.
Lucy draws a long breath. “The split was hard on Harper already. All I wanted was to keep this one little thing the same for her. To give her a sense of security.” She swipes at her eyes, though she hasn’t let a single tear fall. “Wyatt was being a dick because—well, he’s Wyatt.” Enough said. “He fought me on everything. Then, at the last minute, he changed his mind. Said he got a letter in the mail. He wouldn’t tell me what it said, who it was from. But by the end of the week, he signed the house over to Harper. It’s held in a trust—with me as the guardian—until she turns twenty-five.”
Wow. “I didn’t find that in my records search.”
Good to know, though. Wyatt Lloyd the Third is susceptible to threats. Or blackmail or whatever the hell was in that letter Lucy presumably thinks her mother sent. I file that away as Lucy keeps talking.
“Wyatt’s good at keeping things off the record. Also how he avoids paying child support.” She gets up and grabs a tissue, blowing her nose as she reseats herself on the sofa. There’s less space between us now, both literally and figuratively. “I can tell you don’t believe me, and that’s fine. I don’t expect you to understand. When you’ve lost your mother, you feel things. I can’t explain it.”
I’m feeling things now and I hate it. Just like I hate the pain in Lucy’s eyes. Maybe that’s what makes me say it.
“I know.” My throat creaks and she looks up, startled.
“What do you mean, you know?”
“I lost my mom.” Why am I sharing this? “My father, too.”
Lucy’s jaw falls open. She stares at me like that for a year. Shuts her mouth and then opens it again. “When? How? Oh my God, Peter—I’m so sor—”
“Don’t.” I get up and start rinsing my wineglass in the sink. “I don’t like to talk about it, okay?” Never. I never talk about it. “I just thought you should know you’re not alone. I need to get going, but thanks for—”
“Peter, wait.” She scrambles off the couch, hustling to follow me. I’ve already dried the glass and grabbed my coat off the rack, not meeting her eyes. “Please, wait.”
“Thank you for dinner.” I can’t believe I shared that. The pity in her eyes, it’s the worst.
“Peter—”
“Glad I could help with the bat.” I fight for control. To reset the balance between Lucy and me. “If you need help with anything else—say, locating your g-spot—”
“Stop it right now.” She grabs my arm with enough force to jerk me back. Blue eyes blaze as her nails spike my elbow. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to, but you are not running away from me, Peter Marcus. I’m tired of you pretending you’re some sort of soulless monster. You’re better than that, asshole.”
It might be the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me. The fire in her voice, the flames in her eyes. I’ve never seen anyone like Lucy Spencer-King. My knees wilt with the urge to kiss her. Now’s not the time, but that doesn’t stop me from roping an arm around her waist.
I look deep in her eyes, searching for signs I should stop. I can count one million of them, but none show here in these hyacinth depths. “Tell me now if you don’t want me to kiss you.”
“Shut up,” she says as her mouth crashes into mine.
Our tongues tangle, clashing as I push her back against the wall. She’s fiery and fierce and alive in my arms as my hand slides up her thigh. One leg wraps around me, jerking me snug against her core. She’s grinding on me like she’ll die if she doesn’t find the friction she needs.
I know the feeling.
My hand moves like it knows a shortcut to her breast. As my thumb skims her nipple, she breaks the kiss.
“More,” she pants, and I give it to her.
I squeeze her through this sweater, my palm sweaty like I’m fumbling in the backseat of my teenage sedan. I’m drowning in Lucy, dizzy from something I’ve never felt before. My hip bumps the doorknob as I push against her heat. She groans and grabs at my belt.
“We should go upstairs.” Her lips part. “If I don’t have your clothes off in ten seconds, I’ll—” Her voice breaks as headlights slash the darkness. Someone’s barreling up the driveway.
“Harper,” I say, tuned to the rhythm of dating a single mom.
You’re not dating. And you don’t date moms.
My body’s not getting the message, but my brain registers the car braking by the mailbox. I jump back as Lucy peers through the window.
“It’s not Harper. What the fuck?”
“Luce?” The venom in her voice gets my guard up.
“It’s Harper’s dad. Wyatt. What the hell is he doing here?”
A damn good question. One I’m hoping he’ll answer as he strides up the steps in gray Armani.
What a douche, I think, before remembering what I wore the day I met Lucy.
He raps on the door, though we’re standing right next to it. The glass plane gives me my first glimpse at chiseled features, a square jaw, the smug mask of the man who called Lucy Spencer-King his wife.
“What the hell, Wyatt?” Lucy shoves me aside and jerks open the door. “Why are you here?”
“Classy as always, Luce.” He jerks his chin at me. “Who’s he?”
“Peter Marcus.” I stick out a hand to shake his, squeezing a little harder than necessary. “Pleasure to meet you.”
He scoffs and doesn’t respond. He’s looking at his watch, muttering like we’re the ones wrecking his night. “I know I’m late, so don’t get on my case about it. Just tell Harper I’m ready to go.”
“Harper’s not here.” Lucy folds her arms. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re supposed to run all plans through me. It’s spelled out clearly in our parenting agreement.”
Wyatt curses and pulls out his phone. “I texted her an hour ago. I flew in unexpectedly to deal with some business. Told her I was taking her out for steak dinner.”
I’m impressed by the restraint it’s taking Lucy not to kill him. “As I said, the parenting plan stipulates you should run all arrangements through me. If you had, I’d have let you know Harper has plans tonight. Also, she’s a vegetarian. Not that you care enough to know what your daughter is—”
“Don’t start with me, Lucy.” He sighs. “I’m here for a few days and I want her to meet Ashleigh.”
Lucy’s jaw clenches. “Who is Ashleigh?”
“My girlfriend, okay?” Wyatt taps his phone screen. “And I need to let her know you’ve changed the plan again.”
I can’t believe Lucy doesn’t kick him in the balls. She’s clearly had practice dealing with this bullshit.
That makes two of us. I step closer to Lucy, letting her know I’m in her court. Wyatt doesn’t look up from his phone as Lucy shoots me a grateful look.
“Tell Harper I stopped by.” He tucks his phone in a suit pocket. “I’ve rented a condo on the south end of the lake. I’m not sure how long business will hold me here, but I’d like to see her.”
Lucy forces a response through gritted teeth. “I’ll be sure to let Harper know.”
He takes a step back, surveying his ex-wife for the first time. “You’re looking good, Luce. Real good.”
This guy’s a dick. “Nice meeting you,” I say, since it’ll get him out of here faster than suggesting he fuck right off. “We’ll tell Harper hello for you.”
He looks at me and frowns. “Who’d you say you were again?”
“My lover.” Lucy grabs my arm, nails gripping the flesh above my elbow. “We had plans tonight, so the sooner you get on your way—”
“Right, yeah, message received.” He looks at me and shakes his head. “Good luck with that, buddy.”
I wedge myself between Lucy and her ex. I’ve got a good three inches on the guy, though I’m guessing both of us earned our muscles in pricey gyms instead of a hard day’s work. I’ve never been in a fist fight.
But I’d cheerfully pound Wyatt Lloyd the Third into the ground. “Drive safely.” I shut the door in his face, watching as he stomps back to his BMW. He pauses by my Corvette, shaking his head.
The feeling’s mutual, buddy.
“I hate him.” Lucy lets out a long breath. “For many reasons. But mostly for killing the mood.”
I start to reach for her, then stop. A thousand bucks says I could get the mood back in two minutes.
But this isn’t a game. Between what she shared about her mother and the confrontation with her ex, I know she’s in an awkward headspace. I need to respect that. “I should get going.” I glance through the door as Wyatt’s taillights flicker. “He won’t come back, will he?”
“God, no.” She gives a dry little laugh. “He hates seeing me as much as I hate seeing him. I’m surprised he had the balls to come by the house instead of expecting me to drive slowly past his condo and push Harper out.”
What a dick.
But I’m nothing if not understanding, so I settle for wrapping Lucy in my arms. “Thank you again for dinner. For the conversation. For—” I stop there, not wanting to wreck things by being crass.
Lucy looks up with light in her eyes. “For humping your leg like a dog in heat while you played with my tits?”
“Yeah. That.” God, she’s something else.
She touches my arm and electricity arcs through me. “You sure I can’t convince you to stay?”
“I’m certain you could.” It wouldn’t take much. “But we shouldn’t.”
With a sigh, she closes her eyes. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
I normally love being right. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Thank you.” She opens her eyes and takes a step back. “For making me forget you’re the enemy. For a few minutes, anyway.”
“Likewise.” I kiss her softly, then open the door and step out into brisk night air.
As I drive away, I wonder what she meant. Are we enemies still?
Or have I opened a new door to Lucy Spencer-King?
“Walk me through your alibi again.” I’m alone in the lakefront conference room with Owen Spencer. It’s two flights down from the spacious condo they’ve granted me while I’m here working on the case. Not a bad perk.
“My alibi.” Owen Spencer sips his water with a hangdog look. “I can’t believe I’m discussing alibis like a common criminal.”
“It’s all part of the process.” Now that I know Lucy, it’s tough not to notice they share the same deep blue eyes. “Where were you on the day your father’s cabin caught fire?”
Tears fill his eyes, and I could almost swear they’re real. “Give me a minute.” He clears his throat, then takes another drink of water. “Forgive me. I know it’s been a while since my father passed, but it still feels fresh.”
This guy was born to perform on the stand. “Take your time.” I hand him a box of tissues and try not to think of Lucy getting choked up the other night. “You were on vacation when the cabin burned, correct?”
“Checking on my investment properties in Mexico,” he adds, and I give props to his memory. Forcing a witness to recall details in different ways was a part of my strategy as an attorney.
“In Cabo,” I say, and he nods.
“I shared my receipts with police and my lawyers.” He pulls out his phone, toggling to the documents in question. “Would you like me to forward them to you?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Any asshole worth his salt can falsify those. “You stayed at the Hacienda del Rio, yes?”
“Yes.” He looks surprised, and I don’t blame him. He’s never shared this with me.
“I read the case files.” I flip open a folder and hand him a photo. “And I’ve procured a time-stamped picture of you in the lobby. It’s from the hotel’s security cameras on the afternoon of the fire. Proof you were two thousand miles away at the precise moment the flames took over and the roof caved in.”
Owen’s eyes widen as he takes the photo. He looks at it a long time as I watch his face. What’s it like to see your childhood home burn? To know there’s a chance someone took a match to it.
Does it hit you differently if you made it happen?
He hands back the photo and lets his shoulders slump. “That’s it, then. I’m in the clear?”
Not so fast. “The police aren’t just looking at whether you threw the match. They’ll investigate whether you hired out the job. If someone else could come forward, claiming you paid him to start the fire.”
Is it my imagination, or did his eyes just slide slightly to the left? Could be a tell, could be an urge to check the clock. He gathers himself and nods. “I understand. You won’t find anyone coming forward.”
That’s… ominous. Also not an outright denial.
“Let me ask you something.” I lean back in my chair, the epitome of casual indifference. “Did you know about your father’s drawing on the basement wall?”
He shakes his head, the mask of sadness back in place. “He was always drawing things. Imaginary maps of make-believe places. He’d draw ships and dragons and mark the spot where pirates put buried treasure.” He chuckles like we’re in on a joke together. “My father had a wild imagination. A real character.”
From all I’ve read about Silas Spencer, that tracks. But something in Owen’s voice doesn’t. He wants me to buy what he’s selling. “When he put you on the deed,” I say, steering us back on task, “back in nineteen-seventy—”
“—three,” he says, nodding once. “I was a freshman at Oregon State. Pops never trusted lawyers. Wouldn’t hear of creating a will. He got sick that summer, and it just made sense to have a plan. To make sure all those acres stayed in the family.”
“In the family, yes.” Not in Owen’s pocket, specifically.
He keeps going, building his case. “My sister—Sarah? She was twelve years younger than me. Just a kid, and already showing signs of mental health problems.” There’s pain in his eyes that might actually be real. “It didn’t make sense to put her on the deed. Just me. You understand.”
It’s a statement, not a question, so I don’t bother nodding. “And your family didn’t learn of this arrangement until after your father’s passing.”
He must hear my unspoken accusation. Cautious eyes search mine as he folds his hands on the table. “My family’s always been… complicated.” There’s something crafty in his expression as he studies my face. “You must know, Mr. Marcus. I understand you’ve been spending time with my niece?”
I’m not surprised he knows. It’s the only way I manage to keep my face fixed in bland boredom. “Lucy Spencer-King has a difference of opinion about your father’s wishes.”
“That she does.” He gives a dry little chuckle, so practiced I have to force myself not to snort. “Clever of you to get close to her. To find out what she knows.” He catches himself, but not quickly enough. “What she thinks she knows. Quite the imagination, that one. Just like my father.” He shakes his head, really warming up now. “Poor lamb, it broke her heart when I shared the circumstances of her mother’s death.”
“How did she pass?” I’ve seen the report, but I want Owen’s words.
“Drug overdose.” He dabs at his eyes, a brother in mourning. “The family searched for a long time after she left town. When I first found her alive—”
“Your investigator found her.” I wait for Owen to correct me. “Pretty deep into drugs by then.”
“That’s right.” He sniffs convincingly. “All her kids went straight to Eugene. That’s where she was living at the time. They thought they could save her.”
“And they weren’t successful?” I’m watching his face, wondering what he isn’t sharing.
“Sadly, no. They couldn’t even find her.” He takes a shuddery breath. “A week later, I put my guy on the case again. The news was worse by then.”
“Same PI as before?”
“That’s right.” He looks out the window, a brother overcome with pain. Or a man who knows more than he’s saying. “Lucy took it the hardest. When I told the kids their mother passed? Poor girl got married so young. Such a fragile thing. Never learned to stand on her own feet. Had a husband who did everything for her. She struggled so much after the divorce. Losing her mother—”
Owen breaks off, and it hits me. He means Lucy. Lucy’s fragile? Lucy never learned to stand on her own feet?
That’s not the woman I know.
You don’t know her at all.
I clear my throat. “You’re saying she took her mother’s death hard?”
“Absolutely.” He leans forward, a perfect performance. “I’m sure as you spend time with her, you’ll come to realize she’s a sweet, gentle soul. A good girl, our Lucy.” He shakes his head, willing me to buy this version of the story. “Just a little in her head sometimes, with the crazy theories. Hard not to worry there’s too much of her mama at play.”
The lilt at the end says he wants me to agree. To grab hold of this theory he’s feeding me.
Lucy’s crazy.
Lucy’s spinning false stories.
Lucy’s not to be believed.
I’ve known her two weeks, but my gut says that’s not true.
But my gut’s not the reason I got hired by Owen Spencer’s legal team. With a tight nod, I close the folder and rest my hands on it.
“That’s all for today.” I stand, conscious of Owen’s eyes on me. “I’ll keep digging.”
He presses his lips together, watching me gather my things. “Have you gotten a sense of the case yet?”
Of whether I’ll be able to clear him, he means. “I’m working on it.”
“I see.” He stands when I stand, smoothing his hands down his shirt. “It shouldn’t be difficult to prove I had nothing to do with the fire.”
“If you’re innocent, absolutely.” I let the words hang, watching his face for a reaction.
There’s nothing. Not a damn thing to show he feels guilt or remorse or the shame of having screwed his family.
It could mean he’s innocent. It could mean he’s a man without a conscience.
Time will tell.
Time, and the fact that I’m one hell of a good investigator. “I’ll be in touch.” I pause, searching Owen Spencer’s eyes. “And I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
I turn and stride from the room, leaving him hanging with my words.