Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“Carter Bingham’s family cut off his finances two years ago,” he replies, all business. “It seems the Bingham boy developed an allergy to work, and his family decided he needed to make his own way.”
None of this surprises me. “Connect the dots.”
“Céline got him hired on with her family’s company, probably the biggest mistake they could have made.”
The cold seeps through my sweater, so I start to pace to warm up. “Why?”
“He has full access to the financials. He’s been busy moving money around to different accounts for the past two years. I’m assuming they’re oblivious to the twenty million in an offshore account in the Bahamas and the ten million collecting interest in Switzerland.”
“Fuck.” I drop my head, spreading my clenched brow apart. “He’s embezzling from her family?”
“To a level that’s shocking. They must trust him something good for him to get away with it for this long and no one notice. Or,” he says, “they’re so dirty rich that they don’t miss thirty million from their bank accounts. It’s some nice money.”
“Sure is.”
“You might want to sit down for the next part.”
Looking back into the kitchen, I find Allison at the table. Tuesday’s mom has joined her with a cup of coffee. They’re sharing something funny because the laughter slips through the cracks of the door. “I’m standing. Hit me with it anyway.”
“Guess who’s listed as her beneficiary.”
“Better not be Carter fucking Bingham.”
“Bingo,” he says. “Sole beneficiary of the entire Schroder fortune.”
I look out over the grove, wondering how far they rode this morning. “She would have never agreed to that. Not as Tuesday or Céline. No fucking way.”
“He could have forged the signature and paid someone to notarize it. It’s easy to get it done for the right price.” There’s a slight pause before he exhales. “I wouldn’t leave them alone, though. No telling what he’d do.”
Fuck. “I have to go.” I hang up as I rush back inside, startling the women. “Where would they ride?”
Sofie asks, “What are you talking about?”
“Riding horses.”
Allison balks. “Who are you talking about?”
My patience thins as the words rush from my throat. “Carter and Tuesday—Céline. Whatever. Where do they go riding when they ride horses on the property?”
Allison’s face drains of color, and she stands, the chair left skidding behind her against the rustic floor tiles. “What are you talking about, Loch? She wouldn’t go riding.”
Alarmed panic infiltrates Sofie’s eyes as her hands tremble, the teacup chiming against the small plate. “Not after the accident.”
“What accident?” I grip the wood backing of the chair.
Her mom says, “She fell off a horse a few years ago and broke her arm. She’s not been on or near one since.”
Allison rushes to me. “She’s terrified of them.” Tears flood her eyes as she rests the back of her wrist to her forehead. With her back to me, she paces across the room. When she turns back, her eyes are wide as if she’s seen a ghost. “He knows she doesn’t remember.”
We hurry through the door and start down the hall. “Are you sure you didn’t tell him?” I ask.
“No, why would you ask that? I would never tell him anything.”
“He lied. Fuck. I knew I should have tried to stop her.”
Sofie catches up to us. “Here are the keys to the G-Wagon. They’d ride to the lake. It’s not frozen solid yet.” She tosses the keys to me and starts to cry. “Go. Go. Go. I’ll call the police.”
I run like my life depends on it. Because it does.
39
Tuesday
An hour earlier . . .
* * *
I’m going to die . . .
Terrified, I hold on for dear life.
Carter and I make it to the lake on the far side of the largest olive grove, the horse finally slowing down. I may have a wardrobe of riding clothes, but nothing about riding a horse feels natural or safe. Now that we’re here, I take a deep breath to calm my rattled nerves and adjust my helmet that’s lopsided on my head.
Fortunately, I survived, but I don’t think I have it in me to ride back to the château unless this horse knows how to walk instead of running like we’re being chased. My heart still races, but with Carter, I won’t let him see my fear. “It’s beautiful,” I say, trying to sound casual like I do this every day. Not sure I’m pulling off my best performance, so I stroke the horse’s mane and look out over the lake. The sun rises high enough to reflect off the thin layer of ice that’s formed, a soft shine in my eyes.
Adjusting on his saddle, he says, “You always loved riding so much.”
“Guess it’s been a while because I was a bit nervous.” Bit being a huge understatement.
“No need to be nervous,” he says. “Just like riding a bike, right?”