Chapter Thirty-Eight

“What the hell was that?” Michael asked Jessie. “You straight-up lied to that detective.”

In Sam’s kitchen, Jessie went through the motions of putting water on the stove for tea she didn’t want—because she couldn’t face Michael. She wished he hadn’t been there when Davenport questioned her. But then again, if he hadn’t given her the critical information about Ian and his suicide note, she wouldn’t have known what to say. She hated to risk alienating Michael, but her commitment to Sam came first.

“And you exploited the information I gave you in confidence,” Michael said.

She leaned against the cool granite countertop and crossed her arms. Yes, she had betrayed his confidence, but for reasons she thought he’d understand. “I was trying to protect Sam.”

He stood in front of her, looking taller than she remembered. “By telling Davenport she was having an affair that she never had? By making up bullshit about her and Ian taking party drugs?” Color rose in his face. “I hope you never decide to protect me like that.”

Jessie tensed, his sharp remark striking a nerve. “Don’t worry—I won’t.”

He pulled both chairs away from the table in the dining nook. “Come sit down.”

She hesitated, then walked over to one of the chairs and sat.

He did the same, leaning toward her, his elbows propped on his knees. “Tell me what you were thinking.” He closed his eyes for a second and exhaled. “I’m sure you had a good reason for saying those things.” He turned up his palms. “Help me understand.”

Jessie had rarely encountered a man who could manage his ego and his anger and sit still for an explanation he was likely to disagree with. “I don’t know whether Ian committed suicide or if someone killed him. Davenport probably doesn’t know yet, either. I wanted to tip the scales toward a believable suicide.”

“Why?”

“This could go one of two ways. The cops rule suicide and that likely keeps Ian’s note and all its claims under wraps. It may raise questions about Sam’s death, but the answers are right there in the note.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe that Ian and Sam were having an affair, and I don’t think he was with her the night she died. But I know I didn’t want the things I’ve found out about her to become public. If Ian’s death is ruled a homicide, they will.”

Michael stared out the French doors and nodded. “So that’s the other way it could go?”

“The worst way, yes. A homicide ruling will start an investigation, and Sam’s business will be spread out like a buffet before a grand jury.”

“And?” Michael asked.

“What do you mean, and?”

“And Ian’s affair with Elizabeth is exposed. And his use of Sam’s eggs as donor eggs. And his role storing the sperm for her Hope Campaign.”

“All of those things.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “Don’t you think a lot of that will come out when we find Sam’s murderer?”

Jessie’s heart clenched, and she squeezed her eyes closed. Why hadn’t she thought through all the scenarios to their logical conclusions? There hadn’t been time to think.

“If you’d told Davenport the truth,” Michael said after she opened her eyes, “you might’ve pushed him toward the idea of murder. Then they’d investigate Sam’s death. And yes, all the dirt might come out. But the rest of the players would fall—Helena, Elizabeth, Philippe, Talmont. They’d get what they deserve, and we might find our murderer.” He rested his hands on her knees and gripped them gently. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way to take down Sam’s killer and not take her down with him.”

Jessie buried her face in her hands. She’d imagined some kind of fairy tale where she would expose Sam’s murderer and he’d go quietly and not put up a fight. And the media would paint Sam as the victim and ignore her salacious story.

“What have I done?” she asked.

“If they decide that Ian was murdered, you’ve made yourself a suspect.”

She flinched. “What? That’s crazy.”

“Why do you think Davenport asked you about meeting with Ian yesterday? He wanted to see if you knew your way around his office. And what did you talk about with him while you were there?” He winced. “Sam.”

Jessie’s pulse thudded in her ears.

“Ian’s cleaning crew and I can place you at Ian’s office after hours last night. You don’t have to worry about me, but…” He lifted his shoulders.

There’s Elizabeth, too. Jessie had admitted to Elizabeth that she’d been in Ian’s practice last night. She’d blatantly shown her the button from her blouse to prove it.

The teapot squealed, and Jessie jumped.

Michael got up and turned off the stove. “What details did I give you about Ian’s suicide note?”

She tried to remember, but everything was becoming a blur. “He wrote that he was in love with Sam.”

“Yes.” Michael returned to his chair.

“And that he gave her Rohypnol,” she said. “And he was with her that night, and he couldn’t stand the guilt because he left her to die.”

“What you told Davenport made it look like you knew what Ian had written in his note. With a little extra drama added for effect. There’s a reason lawyers tell you to answer questions with the shortest possible answers.”

“You’re creating your own little drama right now.” She resented him making her nervous and defensive. “Mentioning things that are vaguely related to Ian’s suicide note wouldn’t make me a suspect. An authentic note would be in his handwriting and Helena could’ve verified that.”

“You’re right,” he said. “But there was one thing I forgot to tell you. Ian didn’t handwrite the note. It was typed.”

…

Michael knew what Jessie was thinking before she even said anything. The look in her eyes hardened and she pressed her lips into a tense, angry line.

“You set me up,” she said, her voice trembling.

He could see how she would think that, but was stung by her accusation anyway. “It was a detail. I didn’t leave it out on purpose. How could I have known that a detective would question you? And that you, the woman of few words, would talk yourself into a tight corner?”

“Let’s see.” She gave him a withering smile. “How would you have known that a detective would be questioning me? Who’s the one with the snitch who’s a detective with the MPD?”

She wasn’t the only one squeezed into a tight corner. He stood and paced the kitchen, away from her accusing eyes. Facing her and firing back would only escalate an already tense situation. He let her think about it for as long as he could keep it inside. But with her, that wasn’t long.

He stopped pacing and leaned against the counter. “Why would I do that to you?”

“I don’t know.” She swiped her hair away from her face. “I don’t know anyone here or why they do the things they do. I certainly don’t know your motivations.” She leveled her gaze on him. “And I don’t know you.” The pitch of her voice was low and resolved. She might as well have said The End.

Michael had no comeback. He couldn’t be honest without outing Croft. And even if he did admit he’d been working for her father, what would he gain? Once she found out he was Croft’s hired hand, she’d never forgive him for such a betrayal.

The truth settled in his mind like shrapnel.

…refrain from developing a relationship with my daughter…

That bastard Croft had known all along that he didn’t need a clause in the contract. The minute Michael had signed it, he’d signed away any possibility of a relationship with Jessie. That was Croft’s checkmate. He had won before the game even started.

Michael hated Croft. And he hated himself. “I think I should go.”

Jessie focused her eyes away from him and nodded.

He went into the living room, grabbed his coat, and left. Even though he wanted her to come after him, he knew she wasn’t the kind of woman who would.

And she didn’t.