CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

“Annabelle is dead,” Blake told his uncle with barely controlled anger. He threw the folded newspaper down on the desk in front of Russell. Then he paced back and forth in the office like a caged animal. “She’s not coming back. We need to move on to the next step. If HepZMax gets tied up in Annabelle’s estate, it will be years before you get it back. You have to file a lawsuit. Now. What’s the holdup?”

Russell felt as if he’d aged ten years in the past week. His eyes were bloodshot; the bags underneath them lay in dark folds visible even through his glasses. Deep lines had settled in furrows on his forehead and crevices had burrowed themselves between his nose and mouth. He couldn’t seem to change his expression from a perpetual scowl. He had hardly recognized the man in the mirror when he’d shaved this morning.

“You’re being a little premature, aren’t you? No one has identified this woman’s body as Annabelle James yet.” Russell was reluctant to argue with Blake. They argued constantly now. They hadn’t had a pleasant conversation in days.

Blake dismissed the suggestion with a swift slice of his hand. “Come on, Uncle Russell. She’s been gone for weeks, a body is found, about the right age. It has to be her. Who else could it be? We need to act before someone else acts first.” Blake’s tone rose with every sentence. His impatience and hostility were hard for Russell to take.

Patricia had warned Russell about Blake’s escalating anger. “He needs an evaluation and medication,” she’d said. But Blake was an adult. Russell couldn’t convince him to see a doctor voluntarily. Nor could he force Blake to go. Unless Blake became a danger to himself or others, Russell’s hands were tied.

“When are you going to wake up and smell the coffee?” Blake fairly shouted the question.

Russell studied his nephew with the practiced eye of a shrewd businessman. He put aside the fatherly affection with which he’d always tempered his judgment of Blake. Cold analysis had revealed that Blake was flawed, just as Blake’s father had been. Russell didn’t know why he’d never before admitted this to himself. Denial was no longer possible.

Russell wiped his face with his hands as he stood up from his desk and walked toward the door. “I have an appointment, Blake. We’ll talk about this when I come home. In the meantime, see what information you can get from the police. Start by calling Stuart Barnett. He’s got connections. Ask him to find out what they really know about this body.”

Blake began to say something more, but Russell ignored him. He had to get away. He needed to think. He needed to talk to Tyler.

“And Blake,” he turned to look directly into Blake’s wild eyes, “don’t do anything else until I specifically authorize it. This is still my company. Don’t you forget that.” Russell turned away from the hatred in Blake’s face, hatred that had been directed his way years before by Blake’s father.