The Spanish-style mansion, set behind a front lawn big enough to host a polo match, had a 1920s glamour. Through countless renovations Max had heard about countless times, Grant and Jill had maintained the original integrity of the house, whatever the hell that meant. All Max knew was that he’d gotten lost once trying to find the powder room.
Crickets sawed away in the lush landscape rimming the grass, an ominous trill vibrating the night air. Behind the curtains of the big front room, Max could see shadows moving around, the bustle of a household fresh in mourning. He heard the voice of Michelle, the oldest, home from Tufts law school. She was a second-year now. She appeared to be comforting her mother. Even over the crickets, Max could hear Jill’s choked sobs.
He couldn’t imagine her without her husband, and he doubted she could either.
Pausing on the walk, Max checked the street behind him once more in case he’d been followed. An image flashed through his mind—the Terror savaging his mattress with that big knife—and he had to remind himself to take long, even breaths.
Stepping up onto the broad porch, he rang the bell.
Chimes sounded musically in the vast foyer, ringing off the high ceiling.
A moment later Michelle pulled open the architectural door, her face red and puffy. She wore a fluttery sweater the length of a duster, clipped at the front. At the sight of him, she lightened. “Mighty Max,” she said, her breath hitching, and then she hugged him. “I’m glad you’re here. Mom’s losing her shit over the funeral arrangements. Like, who cares if we have a lily wreath on the coffin? And no one wants to talk about just being sad. And, like, missing him, you know? I mean, given everything, I know I’m super emotional, but that doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
He shot another glance at the dark street and closed the door behind them. Then he looked her in the eye. “Don’t let anyone else tell you how you’re supposed to feel, okay?”
Her voice came out little-girl small. “Okay.”
Jill’s voice echoed in crisply from the other room. “Who’s that?”
Max walked past the grand staircase and into the immense front room. He wasn’t sure what it was called—a sitting room? a parlor?—but there Jill was, propped on one of the immense couches, her nose rimmed red, a cluster of broken blood vessels etching a fragile pattern beneath one eye. To her side a crystal vase the size of a trash can was home to a clutch of curly willow branches that resembled fingernails.
One of the house staff passed through the swinging door into the kitchen. As it waved open, Max heard voices—a family get-together he’d not been told about. Michelle hovered at the edge of the big room, arms crossed, nibbling her bottom lip.
Before he could offer his condolences, Jill waved a wrung-out tissue in his direction. “Why can’t anyone do anything? I mean, he was scared for days. And you know Grant—he didn’t get scared.”
Max felt as though he’d walked in mid-monologue. From what Michelle had told him, maybe he had.
“That’s why he was heading to the cabin in Big Bear,” Jill continued. “To keep us safe. Because someone was after him.”
Max’s throat felt suddenly parched. “Who?”
“He didn’t tell me. He’d never discuss specifics like that with us.” Jill eyed Max pointedly. “He always put his family first.”
An accusation.
Even so, she was right. Max knew that Grant would never bring anything explosive near his home, and it seemed the Terror had surmised the same.
“Yes, he did.” Max took in a breath. “So you think it was a work thing?”
“Of course it was work-related.” She snatched up a notepad, scribbled something else on her to-do list, and tossed it back onto the glass coffee table.
“Why didn’t he go to the cops?”
At this she gave a nasty little laugh. “The cops. Right. You’d think they’d be some help. I mean, you’d imagine that they could swing in and … and … But it’s amazing how helpless we actually are. When there’s a real threat? The police are useless. Can you imagine, what with who Grant was in the community? Think of everything he did over the years for their investigations, for their cases. But he said they only offered the usual bureaucratic nonsense. Fill out a report. A cruiser by the house twice a night.” She rubbed her eyes hard, smearing the lids in circles. “It’s not like I expected them to whisk him off into witness protection, but something. And then this. Jesus God. I mean, they said it was a professional hit. A professional hit. On Grant. Our Grant. And they don’t know.… They still don’t know anything.”
She sobbed quietly for a time.
Dread had taken up residence in Max’s belly, lead-heavy and dense. If the cops weren’t willing to help Grant Merriweather, what recourse would he have?
He took an awkward step toward her. “Jill, listen, is there anything I can do?”
Stifling a sob, she snatched up the notepad again. “There’s really not. I mean, who’s gonna know who to put on the guest list? And how many passed plates at the reception? And which suit … which suit of his…”
She dipped her face again into her tissue-wielding fist, her chin wrinkled above her knuckles, freckles pronounced on her blanched face. From the kitchen Max heard one of the high-schoolers—Terel or Ross—crack a joke and then the sound of muffled laughter. He wondered who else was in there.
He put his hand in his pocket, felt his fingertips brush against the folded DO NOT OPEN envelope. “Jill, I need to know if Grant … um, if he might have left any instructions for me.”
She froze, her features hardening. When she looked up, her eyes held such intense disdain that he flinched. “You mean like in a will?”
“No,” Max said. “No, that’s not what I mean at all.”
But she kept on. “As in, did he leave you anything? Not a good time to ask for money, Maxwell. I mean, the body’s not even cold.”
He wilted. “How could you think I’d…?”
“Because everyone is, Max. You should see them crawling out of the woodwork already.”
“I understand,” he said. “But I’m not.”
Michelle rushed forward. “Mom,” she said. “Stop it. Just stop it.”
But Jill ignored her, her glare boring through Max. “Then what are you asking for, Max? Why would Grant leave instructions for you?” And then, abruptly, her brow furled and she snapped to her feet. “Wait a minute. Is this something you got him into?”
“What?”
“Of course, that’s why you’re here. You needed his help, dragged him into something shady. You were always the fuckup, Max. What did you do?”
“No, Jill. Listen—” His voice had risen. Realizing he was arguing with a woman who’d been widowed for less than twenty-four hours, he clamped his mouth shut.
But she drove toward him, her face a mask of aggression. “How dare you. How dare you come here.”
Frustration rushed through his blood, congealing into anger. His next words were just taking shape when he caught sight of Michelle. She was standing behind her mother, eyes welling, the flanges of her nostrils red. Her sweater had come unclasped in the front, swaying open, revealing a soft gray T-shirt rounded over her belly. Her words came back to Max: Given everything, I know I’m super emotional.
She saw him notice her pregnant bulge, gave a soft smile, and clipped her sweater again over it.
“So tell me, Max,” Jill sneered. “Tell me the real story of why you’re here.”
He heard Grant’s voice, edged with worry: My wife’s not exactly a safe distance removed from me. Or my family. The thing with you is, no one will ever know. I mean, no one would ever think of you.
The minute Grant handed Max that envelope, he’d put a target on his head. And now Max had to choose whether he wanted to put Jill into the crosshairs with him. He looked at Michelle, still verging on tears, the slope of her stomach. He thought about the boys in the other room. This well-built house and all the life in it, such a contrast with his run-down apartment. There was so much more to wreck here.
“Forget it,” Max said. “You’re right. I’m an asshole. Sorry.”
She studied him a moment, her features slack with disgust. Then she tensed.
He couldn’t process what was happening in real time, not until she plowed into him, hammering at his chest with her fists, clawing at his face. “Get out! Right now! Get out of my house!”
He wrangled her arms as best he could. Michelle was shouting. The kitchen door swung open, and a stream of people poured through, both boys, all four uncles, a slew of cousins, his grandmother, the chef and the cleaning lady, and an assortment of well-heeled neighbors clutching plastic hors d’oeuvre plates.
Jill was twisting in Max’s grip now, cursing and sobbing, and he let her go and stepped back. Before she could launch herself at him again, Michelle wrapped her up from behind. “Stop it, Mom! Calm down. Max didn’t do anything. Just calm down.”
Jill finally stopped struggling. She shook her daughter off, snatched up her notepad, and strode out of sight down the rear hall.
All eyes shifted to Max. In the rear of the pack, he caught sight of his father, his rugged face flushed. He seemed to be caught off guard as much as Max was.
Max felt a familiar gravity pulling him toward a familiar hope—that his dad might step up and say something in his defense.
But Terry just looked ashamed. In his pained expression, Max saw a reflection of his own original sin. That he’d come into the world a disappointment and would be one so long as his father was alive to lay eyes on him. That had it not been for Max, his mother would be around, laughing and pretty, warming every room.
That he wasn’t worth the terrible cost that had been paid to create him.
Max was unable to find what words should come next. And unable to look away from his father. At last Terry broke off eye contact.
“Omigod,” Michelle said, cutting in on the muddle of Max’s thoughts. “You’re bleeding.”
His left cheek burned even over the heat that had risen beneath his face. He touched his fingertips to the spot, and they came away red. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
His grandmother edged forward. Dementia had made her fragmented and erratic, though she’d been none too pleasant before. She jabbed a crooked finger at him, her mottled face twisted. “It should’ve been you.”
The words arrowed straight through him—clean entry, clean exit—leaving him winded. Once again his stare found his father, but Terry just took another swig of beer and looked away. Pouches had risen beneath his eyes, where emotion gathered for his dad and where it stopped.
Michelle said, “Fuck you, Grandma.”
A few gasps. The ring of keen silence. The boys glanced at each other, suppressing grins. Only Grandma looked unfazed, picking at the edge of an empanada on her plate.
“It’s okay, Michelle,” Max said. “Show Nona respect.”
Terry squeezed Ross’s and Terel’s necks, steering them toward the kitchen. “C’mon, boys. You don’t need to see this.”
The door flapped, and then silence reasserted itself once more.
One of the neighbors cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should go.”
Max nodded. As he turned for the door, the envelope crinkled in his pocket. Feeling it dig into his thigh, he hesitated.
The others were already drifting back into the kitchen, but he called after Michelle. “Do you mind if I just clean this up a little before I go?” He touched his cheek.
“Of course, Uncle Max.” She pointed to the hall opposite the one her mom had vanished down. “Third door on the left.”
He started up the tile corridor for the powder room, glancing through the open doorways on either side as he passed. Guest room. Library. And then—as he vaguely remembered—Grant’s office.
He ducked in, his shoes sinking into the plush carpet, and scanned the oak furnishings. A laptop was open on the leather blotter, family photos bouncing around on a screen saver. Max nudged the mouse pad, and the desktop came up.
He hovered the cursor over Contacts and clicked.
The “A” surnames sprang up first, important city officials and heads of industry, personal numbers and addresses listed alongside their work info. In the Notes section, Grant or his assistant had even typed in the names of spouses and children.
Holding his breath, Max scrolled down the alphabet, searching for Lorraine Lennox. Sure enough, there was her card, featuring the phone number at the Los Angeles Times he’d been calling. Her office address was listed and there—bingo—a cell number and home address as well.
Max had hoped for as much. That given whatever explosive information was at stake, Grant and Lennox had worked out unofficial channels of communication.
The sound of movement deep in the house straightened Max’s spine. Several sets of footsteps tapped into the foyer, voices carrying up the hall.
Max jotted down Lennox’s info on a pad featuring the Merriweather Accountancy logo, tore off the sheet, and crossed to the doorway. Peering out, he saw Michelle edge into view, seeing the neighbors out. Her gaze swept in his direction, and he jerked back out of sight.
When he heard the front door close, he swung out into the hall and walked toward the foyer.
Michelle turned as he neared. “I’m sorry. Like I said, she’s out of her head right now.”
Max said, “How could she not be?”
Michelle gave a sad smile. She caught him noticing her belly again, took his hand, and moved to rest it on her bump. He pulled his hand back more sharply than he intended, an instinctive recoil he instantly regretted. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“I get it,” she said. “Just … don’t be a stranger. You’re the only one in this family I actually like.”
He felt his breath tangle in his throat. He blinked hard and turned quickly away.
She shut the door behind him, ratcheting out the bright light of the foyer. He stepped off the porch, enfolded by the darkness, with an address in his pocket and little else.