Daniel doesn’t waste his breath on explanations. For once, he doesn’t ply me with compliments or beautiful, little lies. He lets the silence linger between us, and the hum of his engine reveals more than words ever could.
So much for the powerful union of Hollings-Ellingston. He doesn’t even walk me to my door. It’s as if guilt and shame keep him rooted in the driver’s seat of his shiny sports car, the only object he lusted after more than Sloane.
“I’m sorry, Snowy,” I think I hear him whisper, but the squealing of tires drowns him out as I race up the driveway of the manor.
Alone, I enter my house, surprised when no one answers the door for me. The halls sound suspiciously quiet. Perhaps everyone’s huddled in the breakroom downstairs, avidly watching the fallout of our ruin play out across the television.
I’m exhausted by it all. The need for sleep draws me upstairs and into my bedroom, where I fall across the mattress wearing only my underwear. It’s here that Brandt continues to haunt me, luring me into the past.
“Your mother’s lost, Snow,” he said while pensively staring out my window.
It was one of those lazy, boring winter days when I’d pestered him into playing board games with me. Our brief sessions never lasted, and we always wound up sprawled in various positions, talking for hours about anything and everything. I had been in the middle of sorting Monopoly money, confused by his sudden seriousness.
“What?”
“Lost people do strange things,” he said as a lock of black hair fell across his brooding expression.
I frowned, unable to decide if the assessment was a compliment or an insult. My mother was one of the rare people Brandt never mentioned.
“Is your mom ‘lost’?” I snottily countered.
He sighed. “She’s blind.”
Considering that Roseanna Lloyd was an accomplished pianist who’d played a symphony only the week prior, I doubted he meant in the literal sense.
“Mommy not pay you enough attention?” I snickered.
“She pays me too much attention,” he muttered before devolving into a brooding silence.
Poor little rich boy, his mother loved him too much. But the fact just brought up another topic I didn’t dare mention. We never spoke of his father.
And I never spoke of mine.
Forrest Hollings demanded silence and obedience over love. He ruled this home with an iron fist, and even now, no one ever enters his study. No one.
I could always hear every footfall echo in that room from here. Every sigh and rustle of papers. Every illicit deal Papa made or enforced under the cover of moonlight.
But the purposeful steps echoing through my pillow now don’t sound like him. And Hunter couldn’t march so heavily, even if he were stomping…
Alarmed, I climb out of bed and tiptoe to my wardrobe. I grab a robe and tie it around me before creeping into the hallway. Papa’s study is right off the main foyer toward the back of the house. This time of night, the hall is empty, the lights dimmed—the perfect environment for old memories to thrive in. Like the ones of a younger, teary-eyed Snowy racing down this corridor after school and sneaking into her father’s stuffy, foreboding study—the one place no one would ever think to look.
My favorite hiding place was the small space under the desk by the window. I’d squeeze myself there with a notebook and write down every emotion and childish thought in my head until my ears picked up a familiar sound. Like always, I’d been wrong; one person always knew where to find me.
And it’s his ghost I find when I finally round the corner and peek past the open door of the study. Tall, imposing, and engrossed in a book. Brandt Lloyd was never afraid of my father. Apparently, he has no fear of his memory, either. He braces one hand against that infamous desk as though he belongs here, lording over Hollings Estate.
And then he turns to face me and the resemblance fractures.
Alarm, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, grips my heart in a vise. “W-what are you doing here?”
Blake Lorenz frowns into the pages of one of my father’s books. He closes it slowly, pinning me in place with a single jab of his chilling eyes. “A better question would be: What are you doing here?”
I clutch at the edges of my robe as I struggle to convince myself that I’m not hallucinating. A covert pinch on my wrist doesn’t snap me awake. “I live here.”
“But do you?” He cocks his head and shrugs. His wry scowl almost conveys pity. “Hunter is still keeping secrets, I see.”
Still? I’ll obsess over the word choice later. I can sense without even running to his upstairs suite that Hunter isn’t home. Neither is Ronan. And the servants? I stare down the branch of the hall that leads to the back staircase. Even at this late hour, I’ve never seen it so dark.
“What do you mean?” I ask him when he remains silent. He lights only one of the many lamps in the room, leaving swaths of shadow that drape the bookshelves. “Why the hell are you in my house?”
“This is my house,” he says simply. “Or at least it will be once it’s out of escrow.”
“Escrow?” My heart sinks to my feet, crushed underfoot as I’m drawn forward a hesitant few steps. He’s lying. I tell myself that, even as a part of me admits that his slow appraisal of my father’s study is far too smug. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m sure they already handed over the notices,” he mutters, frowning. “I guess they didn’t bother changing the locks—”
“What are you talking about?” I can’t seem to catch enough air. My hand flies out, grasping the door frame for stability. Suddenly dizzy, I cling to it. “Stop talking in riddles and just say it—”
“The house, and everything in it, belongs to me,” Mr. Lorenz says coldly. “Everything. Your brother made some foolish gambles. I even own your father’s club.”
I blink. In this instant, neither of my brothers have ever come close to embodying the spirit of my father like this man. Wrathful. Vengeful. Terrifying.
“You’re lying.”
He chuckles at my pathetic whisper. “Am I? I suppose we should ask Hunter.” He makes a show of glancing around the room. “Though, where is he? The last I heard, friends of ours wanted to ask him some questions—”
“You did this.” It’s a childish accusation to make. As if one man could be responsible for so much hardship striking all at once. But the look in his eye… It’s pure hatred, searing my skin beneath its blistering heat. Flickers of it are visible whenever he speaks of my brothers, but nothing compares to the bright flames in his gaze whenever he looks at me. “Why are you doing this?”
“Enjoy tonight, Ms. Hollings,” Blake Lorenz says as he heads for the doorway. “I’ll let you have that much.” He pushes past me without hesitation, continuing his slow advance toward the foyer.
Pain bubbles up, warring with common sense, as a cry rips from my throat. “Brandt!”
He goes rigid, stopping dead in his tracks. “Don’t ever call me by that name,” he warns in a tone so chilling that my teeth begin chattering. “I’ve heard all about what your family did to Brandt Lloyd. What you did to him.” He looks back over his shoulder. “You killed him.”
My knees fail, and I wind up sliding to the floor. Footsteps drift off, and the door opens and closes, but I don’t have the strength to stand and see for myself if he’s gone.
So I wait, huddled in the hallway, a child once again, waiting for a friend who will never return.