Delivered Page 9

I hesitate. My life will never be the same again and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “If you want JD to find someone else to tail you,” he says, matter-of-factly, “just say the word.”

  “We’re good.”

  “Your security detail is downstairs ready to take you wherever you like. Let me know if you have any issues.”

  He starts to leave.

  “Smith.”

  He stops and turns to face me.

  “I’m not sure what you know about my relationship with JD. But it’s not what you think.” I don’t know what JD has told him about our relationship, now or in the past, and I don’t know why I care. But I do.

  “No opinions. No judgments. I’m in charge of security, not the town gossip. Your relationship with JD is of little consequence to me as long as you don’t try to harm one another.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and rub my unbandaged hand over my arm.

  “I don’t think anything about your relationship with him. But I know plenty about it.”

  I frown at him.

  “I knew who you were the first time I laid eyes on you at the front gate. I didn’t even need you to tell me your name. I would have known you anywhere.”

  I tilt my head to the side, trying to figure out how that could be.

  “When we were in school, JD had hundreds of images of you on his laptop. He’d scroll through them when he thought nobody was looking, like a sad little puppy. He had it bad for you. Still does.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but press my lips together before the words come out. They were going to be flippant and dismissive, and all wrong. But I don’t know how to respond. So I don’t say anything. I just tuck Smith’s revelation away to dissect later. When it’s quiet, and I need to distract my mind from fires and funerals.

  “If it gets to be too difficult to stay here,” Smith says, “if you really need to get out before the carriage house is fixed up, you’re welcome to stay at my place. It has three bedrooms, and I’m rarely there. Just say the word.”

  11

  Julian

  I’ve been home since four-thirty, trying to work, but mostly distracted by every little noise this sprawling old house makes. I think every squeak, every footstep, is Gabrielle coming in.

  When I can’t stand it a second longer, I call Smith again. “She’s been gone all day,” I bark into the phone. “It’s almost six-thirty, where the fuck is she?”

  “Nothing’s changed since the last time you called. She’s out and she’s safe.”

  “Where? Where is she?”

  “I’m getting tired of repeating myself. It’s none of your damn business where she is and who she’s with. She’s not a detainee. I promised her I wouldn’t report her every move back to you.” He’s told me this a dozen times today, and I don’t like hearing it any better now than I did the first time he said it.

  “I was going to tell you this in person so I could enjoy your reaction, but you need to fix up one of the carriage houses out back for her,” he says, out of the fucking blue. “She needs some space to breathe. You’re a pain in the ass.”

  Asshole. “We fixed up a guest room for her. A whole suite. She’ll have all the breathing room she needs.”

  “Not going to be enough,” he says. “Just sayin’.”

  “It’ll have to be.”

  “You should know that I offered to let her move into my place until you fix up that cottage.”

  “What?” He’s fucking lucky he’s not standing here or I’d have my hands around his goddamn neck. “Tell me you did not just say that you invited Gabrielle to move in with you?” I can almost see the sonofabitch smirking through the phone.

  “She wants out, JD, and she’s leaving whether you like it or not. The security at Sweetgrass is tight. If I were you, I’d tell her that she can stay in the cottage, but then I’d drag my feet fixing it up. If she stays at my place, she won’t be all alone. She’s been through hell, and you know as well as I do it’s just the beginning.”

  I hear the front door shut. “We are not finished with this conversation.” I press end, toss the phone on my desk, and go in search of her.

  She’s looks worn out and pale, the dark circles under her eyes blacker than I’ve ever seen them. And she’s not wearing a damn coat.

  “Hey. You were gone a long time. Let me take those bags from you.”

  “I’ve got them,” she says, clinging to the plastic handles like there’s gold bullion inside the flimsy little bags.

  “What did you do today?” I ask carefully. I’m not accustomed to walking on eggshells, and I already hear the small cracks as the first words come out of my mouth.

  “The bank, the social security office. I went to see Wade. Bought a few things I need. I also talked with the police and the fire inspector.”

  “Without a lawyer?” Jesus. I curl my hands at my side so I don’t grab her to shake some sense into her.

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “No, you don’t, but it’s better not to be alone with the cops during an interview. I would’ve gone with you.”

  She lifts her chin. “I know it’s hard to believe, but somehow I managed my affairs up until now without your personal assistance.”

  But you’ve never talked to the fucking police about a hotel fire that killed a pregnant woman. She looks like she’s about to drop, so I ignore the sarcasm, and try to calm myself with the information the psychiatrist gave me about survivor’s guilt and pushing people away. “How about something to eat?”

  “I ate with Wade.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “About how you’d expect a man who just lost his wife, his baby, and the life they had planned together.”

  I know a little about losing someone you love, and the life you had planned. “Does he need anything?”

  “Money?” Her tone is mocking, but I don’t bite.

  “Anything.”

  She doesn’t answer, but she keeps glancing at the stairs like she’s about to make a run for it. “What’s in the bags?”

  “Some clothes I picked up. A black dress for the funeral, and a few other things.”

  “Those bags look like they came from Jay’s Variety, not from a department store.”

  “I’m tired. I spent the day doing one depressing thing after another. So stop with the raised eyebrow. Where I shop is of no concern to you.”

  My patience has worn thin. You will not push me away. I don’t give a shit how normal it is. I snatch a bag out of her hand and look inside. “These things are from a thrift store. Used clothing. Why would you do something like that? I had that woman from Jordan Jones call you. She would have brought over anything you needed. But she said you thanked her and told her it wasn’t necessary.” Gabrielle’s eyeing the stairs again, but I don’t stop. “Buying used crap that some stranger sweated all over, or maybe pissed in, is that to punish me? Is that your way of pushing me aside? If it is, it’s not going to work.” The eggshells I’ve been carefully treading on are now a fine powder.

  “Not everything is about you. Until I have some identification, I have limited access to my very limited bank account. And my job prospects are pretty slim right now. I like nice things, but I’ve always lived within my means, just like my parents taught me. I don’t plan on changing now.”

  “If you’re too damn stubborn to accept clothing from me as an outright gift, then you can borrow the money and pay me back when you’re on your feet again. Lisa Donnelly would be happy—” She puts up her hand to shush me.

  “What is it you have in mind?” she drawls, stepping closer. “For Lisa to bring me over a closetful of sexy clothing, that you’ve pre-approved, all of it fit for a whore? So I can become the ultimate kept woman?”

  My blood is at a full boil, but I’m trying to keep a lid on it. “My intention was to let you choose whatever you wanted. The kind of clothing you like to wear. The things that make you feel good. I don’t give a shit what you wear. Never have.” I
prefer you naked. I’m smart enough not to say that part.

  “I need some time alone, away from you, away from here. I need to begin to rebuild my life. I need to do it without you hovering and questioning every decision I make. I need space to think. And I can’t do it around you. I just can’t.” She shrugs. It’s a small torturous move, as though she doesn’t have the strength to lift her shoulders. “Smith said there are a few carriage houses on the property that are unoccupied. He thought one could be made habitable pretty quickly.”

  I’d like to wring Smith’s fucking tree-trunk neck. “I realize you need space. We fixed up a guest room for you upstairs. It’s a suite—actually, you’ll have an entire wing of the house to yourself.”

  She ignores my olive branch. Pretends I’m not standing here with my dick in my hand like a fucking pussy. “Would you consider letting me live in one of the houses out back?” she asks. “I’ll pay you rent as soon as I have access to my account. Is that okay?”

  No, and no. “What’s wrong with this place? You haven’t even seen what we set up for you.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. But my best friend just died, with her baby. She burned to death in a fire. In my hotel. Can you imagine what that must have been like for her? What her last minutes were like? How terrified she must have been when she couldn’t breathe?”

  Her eyes are wet and she’s chewing the skin off her top lip. I’m pissed as hell, but I still want to wrap her in my arms and hold her until her heart begins to heal.

  “I lost them,” she says. Her voice is trembling. “I lost a dream I spent years working toward, and the police questioned me this afternoon as though I might have had a hand in burning the place to the ground. And to top it all off, I’m not entirely sure that you and your secrets aren’t somehow tied up in all of it. And do you know why I don’t know?” She pounds an index finger into my chest, over and over. “Because you won’t tell me a damn thing. You don’t trust or respect me enough to share things with me. Things that impact me and the people I love.” She lets her hand fall to her side. “You can help me or not. But either way, I’m leaving.”

  She’s exhausted and grieving. The funeral has to be weighing heavily on her. Waiting to bury someone you love is hell. I remember it vividly. You’re stuck in limbo until after the final goodbye. I need to buy some time. “Let’s talk about this after the funeral. Stay here until then. It’s just a few more days. We’ll go to the funeral and the next day we can discuss it.”

  Gabrielle sits on the bottom step with the thrift store bags at her feet and gazes through the balusters, into the living room, as though there’s something fascinating happening in there. “You need to stay away from the funeral,” she says, flatly.

  “Did Wade ask you to tell me that?” My voice is edgier than I intend it to be. “He wasn’t man enough to pick up the phone and tell me himself?”

  She turns her head to look at me. “I’m sorry.” She’s full of shit. She’s not a damn bit sorry.

  “You are not going to that funeral alone.”

  “I won’t be alone.” She swallows twice before she speaks another word. “Georgie was petrified of you. When she first heard you were back in my life, all the blood drained from her face. I’ll never forget it. She said you’d bring nothing but trouble for me. I thought she’d come around, but she never did. Georgie was afraid, really afraid of you, of your whole family.” She winds her hair around her hand and drags it over a shoulder. “Out of respect for her, I’m asking you not to go to the funeral. Me, not Wade. And please pass the message along to your brothers in case they have any intention of showing up to pay their respects.”

  I am a whirlwind of emotion. Some of it’s sadness, but mostly it’s rage about how little control I have over any of this. Yeah, I could force her into doing things my way. It would take some doing, but nobody’s better than me at playing those games. But I don’t have the fucking stomach to bully a beaten woman into submission. Not today. I swallow the bitterness and try not to let her see the fury just shy of erupting all over the room. All over her. “What should I tell them?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “I’m not the enemy here,” I tell her pointedly.

  “No? Then who is? Tell me, JD, who is?”

  I don’t answer, because she’s right. This is my fault, and I can’t share any of it with her, regardless of what Smith thinks. Not without putting her in more danger.

  She stands and reaches for the cheap bags. I watch her climb the stairs, her shoulders slumped, like an old arthritic woman. I can’t stand it. “Gabrielle?” She stops with her hand on the rail but doesn’t turn around. “I’ll talk to my brothers, and I’ll make a call in the morning to get a carriage house fixed up for you.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but starts up the stairs slowly, each step posing a unique challenge. When she’s disappears, I go to the kitchen and splash some cold water on my face. It’s almost ten after seven. I’m late for Zack.

  12

  Julian

  When the doorbell chimes for the second time, it occurs to me that Lally’s at the hospital with her aunt, and Patrick is picking up paperwork for me from Sayle. I have to get off my ass and answer my own damn door.

  I don’t bother to look out the window, or check the peephole, it’s the FBI. Security called from the gate a few minutes ago to let me know they were paying a visit.

  When I open the front door, the agents immediately introduce themselves and flash their badges. Agent Gleason is stocky with a smugness about him, and Agent Alves is tall and completely bald. I introduce myself too, but it’s hardly necessary. They both know exactly who I am.

  “I’m sorry you made the trip out here, but Ms. Duval still isn’t up to rigorous questioning. If you leave a card, I’ll have her contact you when she’s feeling better.”

  “Actually, Mr. Wilder, we’re here to see you.”

  Really? I figured they would eventually want to talk to me, but I expected them to start with Gabrielle. “Then come in.” I lead them into my study, and motion to the chairs in front of the desk. “Have a seat.” I sit behind my desk. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  “We’re here about the Charleston fires,” Agent Alves responds. “The Gatehouse fire is our primary concern today.”

  “Do you think the warehouse and the hotel fires are connected?” I glance from one agent to the other.

  “We haven’t ruled out anything,” Agent Gleason says. “Do you mind if we record this interview?” Record the interview? He pulls a small device from his pocket before I agree to anything.

  “Record away. Although I highly doubt I have any information worth memorializing.” And if I did, I wouldn’t be sharing it with either of you.

  “Your father is the president,” Alves explains. “Protects all of us.”

  “I get it.” They both nod, and Gleason fiddles with the recorder. “Does my father know you’re here?”

  “I’m sure the Justice Department was given a heads-up, but I don’t believe President Wilder has been briefed at this stage, although I can’t make any promises. Briefing the president is well above my pay grade.”

  “At this stage? It sounds like I might be on your list of suspects. Do I need a lawyer?” I’m not calling a damn lawyer, I’m just gauging their reactions.

  “We’re just here to ask you a few questions,” Alves says. He doesn’t seem to be as big of a dick as Gleason. “But you’re welcome to have a lawyer with you at any time during the interview.”

  “I’m quite certain I don’t need a lawyer by my side to answer your questions, gentlemen. Let’s get started so we can all go about our business.”

  “What’s your relationship to Gabrielle Duval?”

  “We’re friends. We grew up together at Wilder Plantation. Her mother was our housekeeper and her father was a carpenter, essentially the resident jack of all trades. He fixed pretty much everything that needed to be fixed on the property
. Why are you interested in my relationship with Ms. Duval? For that matter, why is the FBI involved at all? I thought fires were a local matter?”

  “Her hotel was destroyed in the fire, and there was a death. She’s connected to you, and you’re connected to the president.”

  “Is the fire suspicious?” The fire inspector already told me they suspected arson, but I want to see their reactions. Besides, I don’t want to let on about how much I know.

  “We treat everything as suspicious,” Gleason responds. “We’ll answer all your questions at the end, Mr. Wilder, but we need to get a few things out of the way first. Have you ever made any financial contributions to Ms. Duval?”

  “Plain English,” I say to Gleason. “If you want me to answer your questions, you’ll have to be more specific.” He’s on a fishing expedition, casting a wide net that I have no intention getting trapped in. I might not be a lawyer, but I’m not a fucking moron.

  “Have you ever given her any money?”

  “I’m sure I have.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “No. Not really.”

  The agents are visibly uncomfortable. Even Gleason. My father’s the president and they have to be exceedingly careful around me. I intend on using the leverage to my full advantage.

  “Did you pay her tuition to Pratt Simmons School?”

  That information is not readily available. Someone did some serious digging. “I did.”

  “It sounds like she might have been more than just a friend,” Gleason says. Alves is busy taking copious notes. Since the interview is being recorded, he must be describing my demeanor and body language while they ask questions.

  “When my mother died, Gabrielle’s parents, especially her mother, stepped in and took care of us. My brothers were young, and my father was never a warm and fuzzy kind of guy. Vivian Duval doled out all the motherly love we were missing. Paying for boarding school was a way to repay her kindness.”

  “And Ms. Duval’s tuition at Cornell?”