“Sorry for all the pomp and circumstance.” Bennett’s gaze rose over the edge of his cocktail glass to meet Morgan’s as he sipped his Manhattan. The drink was a lurid color, like blood in the water. “You must think we’re some real grade-A snobbery.”
Morgan smiled down at the bar. She did think that. But, after spending the last six hours with the Reynolds clan, she’d decided that they were nice snobbery, at least. If anyone had thought less of her with her Target leggings and Honda Civic, they’d kept it to themselves or discussed it out of earshot. It was all a whir, from walking up the cobblestone drive to being here, now, at Beck’s Bar with Clive Reynolds’s youngest son, who, with his good bone structure, white teeth, and eyes the color of money, was what her mother would call “a fine piece of man candy.”
Christmas lights draped from the liquor case, bathing everything in a hellish red glow. Or a festive glow, depending on how you looked at it.
“It was quite the party.” Morgan envisioned downloading the photos onto her computer as soon as she got home, seeing all the bokeh and smiles, the details of the champagne flutes with silver filigree entwining the stems, the garland that sprawled down the staircase and the crystal chandeliers. How many had she counted—seven? “Even Santa showed up.”
“Who you seemed to have cast quite the spell on, by the way.”
“He gave me his business card.” As she stood from the old man’s lap, he’d reached into his robe and extracted a card on which his name and business address were embossed. Christopher Reynolds. CEO—Exos Labs. 101 Research Park Way, Suite 201. Morgan was vaguely familiar with the place. They made chemicals or something. She used to see it every time she drove from Chicago to Black Harbor, which wasn’t often, but the glass tower and never-ending campus made quite an impression. “My team’s been asking for updated headshots,” explained Christopher. “If you’re interested.”
Morgan had closed her fist over the card and held it to her chest as though she’d been given a golden ticket. Headshots for a company of that size could mean thousands of dollars. She’d have to buy some decent lights and new studio equipment, but for that kind of money … she could sell a kidney to get by in the meantime.
“I saw,” said Bennett. “He’s my uncle, you know.”
“I figured. Same last name and all.” Morgan took a drink of her Moscow mule. The ginger and vodka sparred on her tongue—the ginger prickling her taste buds as though urging her to retreat, while the vodka dared her to keep doing what she was doing. So far, the vodka was winning out. Some might call it flirting—leaning toward him with her elbow on the bar, her knees so close to his that the space between them felt charged. She bumped him gently and watched the light in his eyes intensify. “Were you watching me all night, or what?” She knew Bennett had witnessed the business card transaction, but there had been other times throughout the evening when she felt the weight of his stare. If she was being honest with herself, there was something exciting about it. Having inherited his father’s Hollywood good looks, his penchant for fast cars, and his money, Bennett Reynolds was Black Harbor’s most eligible bachelor. Not that that was saying a whole lot. A Black Harbor ten was a two anywhere else, and yet, here he was with her. Why? What were any of the Reynoldses doing with her, for that matter? She was not beautiful, even by Black Harbor’s abysmally low standards, and she had no status; her mother was unemployed, and her father was an operator for a factory that made garbage disposals. But under the bar, Bennett’s knee brushed hers.
“Not all night,” he replied. “There were twenty minutes or so when I had to manage a scavenger hunt.”
He didn’t play coy. She liked that. She leaned toward him some more, pushing her knee against his.
“So, what the hell are you doing here, Morgan Mori?”
“You made me come out for a drink with you, remember?”
He laughed. “I mean Black Harbor. You seem talented enough. Intelligent enough. Why waste yourself in this gutter?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Bennett Reynolds. What’s a guy who’s got the world by the balls doing in a Black Harbor dive bar with me?”
The skin by his eyes creased when he laughed. “You first.”
Morgan sighed. What the hell was she doing in Black Harbor? She must have asked herself the same question a thousand times since dragging her feet off the steps of the Amtrak. “It’s home.” Her voice caught on the second word. All roads lead back to home. “I got out for a while.” She talked about Black Harbor the way everyone who left and crawled back did, like she’d completed a prison sentence and come back for more. “I went to college in Chicago.”
“For photography?”
“Sociology.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I would have thought you’d have majored in photography, that’s all. Or art. Something … related.”
Morgan smiled to herself. If only he knew how related they were, she thought, because if sociology was the study of humans functioning as a society, then photography was the study of humans functioning as individuals. It was the best way to study people. To see who they really were, what lurked underneath. They welcomed her into their homes, their lives, to make sense of their world through her lens. And what had she concluded after her exploration of the Reynoldses’ estate? That they were, in fact, a normal family—as normal as being filthy rich allows—who simply happened to be enshrouded in morbid mystery? Or had she discovered something more, perhaps something sinister, in the realm of a suspicious look, or two unlikely confidants engaged in conversation. All would be revealed when she processed the photos.
She had to admit, she was fascinated by Carlisle and David, how they hugged the outskirts of the party, always together and apart from everyone else. She’d seen them hold hands, once, and when Carlisle noticed her staring, she’d simply stared back, daring Morgan to say something.
Bennett turned, the reflection of a red Christmas bulb gleaming in his pupil like a hot coal. “So, why sociology?”
Morgan shrugged. “Because it was interesting,” she said, playing his own word back to him. “And it seemed lucrative at the time.”
“But photography is more lucrative now? I mean, I get it. It’s a tough job market out there. You gotta make money whenever and however you can.”
Morgan chewed a piece of ice, felt the cold slipping down her throat. What could he know of the means she’d gone to to make money? She had been an avid photographer since high school, when she first picked up a film camera and developed the negatives herself. She could still remember the smell of the chemicals—the fixer and the stop bath—and the feeling of a moment long gone being resurrected before her eyes on a sheet of glossy paper. A moment that she’d captured, preserved, immortalized. It felt a little like playing God, and for a feeling like that, who wouldn’t come back for more? She’d lost sight of it in recent years, or perhaps not. Perhaps it was the pursuit of that feeling that set her on course for her latest venture. The one that had burned to the ground. Luckily for Morgan, she found photography to be a little like riding a bike. Once you knew how to chase light and bend shadows, it wasn’t something you readily forgot.
“Are you slamming my career choice, Mr. Reynolds?”
“Not at all. In fact, if it weren’t for you picking up that camera, you and I never would have met. So, I’d say that, to date, you’ve made all the right choices.”
“To date” was a strong phrase. Since her previous life had burned to the ground just a few months ago, she’d been trying to make the right choices. Help her parents. Drive her grandpa to the senior home twice a week. Swear less. Smile more. It was hard, particularly the swearing and smiling part.
“I’m trying,” she admitted.
Bennett touched his glass to hers and downed the last of his drink. He ordered another round for both of them.
As much as losing everything sucked, a part of her felt that she’d been reborn in that fire. A phoenix risen from the ashes and given a key to a new life. She hadn’t stuck around for the results of the investigation and knew only what she read online. The fire department determined the culprit to be a branding stove whose flames caught on a curtain or a piece of artwork. Morgan had shaken her head as she scrolled through the article on her phone. The branding stove had been kept in a corner, no less than six feet from the walls. There were no curtains; the windows were painted black. Which meant that either the fire department was wrong, or someone had crept in and made a spark.
“You know, you’re different without it.” Bennett’s voice punctured her reverie.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your camera. Not to sound critical—”
“—but you’re about to criticize me?”
He laughed, looking down at the bar. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Morgan scooted closer, her knee bumping his again. “Now, you have to tell me.”
Bennett sighed, leaned back. As he did so, Morgan’s eyes busied themselves with tracing the definition under his sweater. Whose stupid idea was it to make cable-knit sweaters so thick?
“It’s just, I don’t know how you do it. All those people at the party, how you pose them and take command of the scene.” He shrugged. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were almost an extrovert.”
Morgan snorted. The ginger beer burned the inside of her nose. She was a recluse. But she was a dead shot with a camera. And that was enough to make her fearless. “Only when I need to be,” she said. “With photography, it’s all about focus. There might be a million things going on at an event, but it’s okay. You just have to focus on taking the best picture you can of one thing at a time. So, I guess that makes it seem less … daunting.”
Bennett nodded. “Well, I’m impressed by you, is what I meant to say.”
Morgan felt blood rush to her cheeks. It was time to shift the conversation. She’d told him enough about herself. “So, what are you doing in the gutter, Mr. Reynolds?”
He laughed. “I’m in PE.”
The bartender slid two new drinks toward them on flimsy corkboard coasters. Some of Morgan’s slopped out of the mug and onto the counter.
“You’re a gym teacher?” she asked, struggling to peel her attention away from the spill. She should wipe it up, or if she had a straw, she could suck half of it up and deposit it on the other side of her coaster; then they would at least be symmetrical. But that would lead to questions. It would be easier to just eradicate the spill altogether. Her gaze found the bartender, a grungy towel tucked in his jeans pocket as he stood with his back turned to them, arms crossed and neck craned to stare up at the basketball game on TV.
“Private equity,” Bennett translated. “I’m the CEO of Reynolds Capital, my dad’s business. Our main office is in the Loop, down in Chicago, but I’ve got an investment property in the area.”
“Which one?”
“You know the old Burcowicz’s Furniture Store on Sixth Street?”
Morgan nodded. She knew the one. It had been vacant for years. She always thought it would be cool to wander inside and photograph all that abandoned furniture. Cobwebs on chandeliers. A blanket of dust on a tufted chaise lounge. “What’s it gonna be, a bank?” she asked.
The reluctant smile that spread across his face told her she’d hit the nail on the head. “How’d you know?”
She took another sip of her drink. “Because that’s the irony of Black Harbor. There’s a bank every square mile despite the fact that no one has any money.” She paused. “Well, present company excluded, I guess.”
Bennett laughed and she felt his knee press into hers again.
She didn’t lean away. “So, CEO, huh? You must have stepped in after…” She caught herself. Bennett would have only been about thirteen at the time of his father’s disappearance. Too young to run a company.
Bennett didn’t miss a beat. “Christopher. He took over the business for a good twelve years after my dad left. Then I graduated with my MBA…”
“… assumed the throne…” Morgan filled in.
“… and Christopher became president of our largest portfolio company.”
“Exos Labs.”
“That’s right.”
In Morgan’s mind, a battle raged. She imagined the Reynoldses as pieces on a chessboard. Christopher and Bennett made strategic moves while Clive, the king, sat in the corner.
But what about David, the eldest of the Reynolds children? Had he not wanted the multimillion-dollar enterprise? Or Cora? She seemed a capable career woman, being a psychologist and all. And why not Carlisle? She was younger than Bennett, but she could have gotten her foot in the family business by now, if she wanted. Morgan didn’t know a whole lot about chess, but what she did know was that if Clive was king, Eleanor was queen; and while the king might technically be the most important piece on the board, the queen was the most powerful.
She filed the information away for another time. Tonight, her sights were set only on Bennett. And that damn spill on the countertop. She wondered if she was too far away to lean over and “accidentally” wipe it up with her elbow. “So, what’s work like?” The question was a distraction. She didn’t really care about the ins and outs of private equity.
Bennett swirled his drink. “Sometimes I feel like I’m playing Zoo Tycoon. Remember that for PC? You gotta keep all the animals happy and the people happy and try not to lose all your money.”
“You make it sound exciting.”
“I don’t know if exciting is how I would describe it. Invigorating, maybe? See, there’s only one kind of deal for me: the one that’s gonna win me big. Coincidentally, it’s the same deal that could potentially knock me on my ass and demolish everything I’ve worked for. I don’t look at anything less than that.”
Morgan held back a smirk. What could he possibly know about being knocked on his ass? For him, rock bottom was still probably a high-rise apartment and a trust fund. “Ah, a go-big-or-go-home kinda guy,” she said. How ironic that the two of them were sitting side by side. Noting the expensive wristwatch, the sweater that probably cost more than everything in her closet, and the Porsche he’d parked across the street, Bennett Reynolds had obviously gone big. And she––well––she’d gone home. “You don’t mind the shitty reputation that comes with private equity?” she asked, even though she knew better. Reputations could be shed like snakeskin.
Her gaze returned to the spill. Reflections of Christmas bulbs glistened in it, taunting her. She felt her nails digging into the worn cushion of her stool.
“I make a fuck ton of money.” He said it like it should impress her. Suddenly, she envisioned him and his team tearing the guts out of a business, a pack of hyenas ripping at a carcass. Scavengers. “People come to us because they want to either sell the business that’s bleeding them dry, or they want to invest in something that’s gonna make a huge comeback and increase their investment tenfold.”
“You sell pipe dreams.”
If he took offense to her statement, he didn’t show it. “Someone’s got to. If you concern yourself with what others think about you, you’ll never get anywhere.” The bearded bartender walked past then, and Bennett flagged him over. “You got a towel?”
The bartender tugged at the terry cloth in his back pocket. He nodded.
“You know how to use it?”
When the man looked confused, Bennett pointed to the spill on the bar top, inches from where Morgan rested her hand. With one swipe, he cleaned it up. Morgan avoided eye contact with him and exhaled a sigh of relief. Things were even again. She could breathe. “So, you like what you do? Taming the zoo.”
He shrugged. “I get to live in a high-rise in the city and drive a fancy car. Not too many people who grew up in Black Harbor can say that.”
Morgan shrank a little, suddenly self-conscious about her rust-mobile parked outside. “You’ll go back to Chicago … after Christmas?” Today was the nineteenth. Anyone who was planning on leaving the city for the holidays would have dipped out earlier this week.
“After New Year’s, actually. It’s a whole … thing,” he started to explain when he noted her raised brows. “My family has a cabin up north. We used to go up there a lot, but, well, when my dad died, we stopped for a long time. Just locked the place up and didn’t return for years. In case you couldn’t tell, this two-week stretch of the holidays is my mom’s favorite time of the year. If coming home and shacking up in the guesthouse is all it takes to keep her happy, well.” He raised his glass to his lips, took a drink.
“She really goes all out,” observed Morgan. “The food, the decorations, the Santa…”
“Did you see the Clydesdales?”
“The Budweiser horses? Yeah,” she said, remembering the two chestnut-colored animals hitched to a white wagon with a horseshoe painted on the side. They were giving sleigh rides just as she and Bennett left the party.
“Christopher’s friend has a farm just on the other side of town. He parks his car there and drives the horses over every year.”
Morgan nodded, her brain stuck on what Bennett had said just a moment ago, about his family abandoning the cabin after his father … “You think he’s dead?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, I was just—” She hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but Clive Reynolds was Black Harbor’s most famous unsolved mystery. Curiosity mingled with the alcohol in her bloodstream, quelling her inhibitions. “Your dad. You said after he died…”
“Oh.” The shadow that had fallen over Bennett’s face lifted. He pressed his fingertip to the rim of his glass, slid it toward the edge of the counter like pushing a chess piece across the board. The cherry clung to the bottom. “He better be.”