Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
She nods, and we start walking, passing through the restaurant and stepping outside. “I’ve never seen him,” she says. “He must be a tourist. Maybe from San Francisco?”
“Maybe,” I say, opening her door for her and pulling out my phone.
I round the trunk and text Beck: If the guy at the corner table isn’t your guy, find out who he is. He has a flag tattoo.
Once we’re on the road, stopping at FedEx and then the grocery store, the trend of a waxing and waning feeling of being watched continues, as do the references to Faith’s dead mother. By the time we arrive back at the house, there is no denying the relief I feel when we step inside and shut the door. And the word in my mind is no longer more—it’s murder. It’s not a good thought, but not one I can risk setting aside. Murder brought me here. Faith kept me here.
We’re unpacking the groceries when Faith’s phone rings on the counter where it rests. “Josh again,” she says, answering and having a short conversation that finishes with, “No. No. No. I’m not. I’m hanging up now.” And she does. “He wants to see my submissions so he can make me second-guess my choices, and I’m not going to do it.”
“Good for you,” I say. “So now I say we pack you up. Where do you want to start?”
“My closet. My clothes are the most important thing for me to take. And my shoes, of course. A girl has to have her shoes.”
I’d tell her I’d just buy her all new things, but I’m smarter than that, and her phone rings again anyway. She grimaces and answers it without looking at the caller ID. I walk to the fridge and grab a bottle of water as she says, “No, Josh. Stop calling.” I’ve just opened my bottle and tilted it back when she snags my shirt, and I turn to face her as she says, “Bill. Why are you calling me?” She puts the phone on speaker, and I join her at the island and set my water bottle down.
“I’m concerned that I gave you the wrong impression when we talked,” he says. “I wasn’t implying anything about your mother or father. I simply don’t feel the topic is appropriate between myself and their daughter.”
“They’re dead,” Faith states flatly.
“I’m aware of this fact every day of my life. We’re family, Faith. Your father and I found our way to a truce. I’d like to do that with you as well.”
“No,” Faith says. “I have no interest in reconciling with you, and you’ve already proven that you won’t answer my questions.”
“Not if they’re related to their sexual preferences.”
“You did have a threesome with them, didn’t you?” She doesn’t give him time to answer. “Why, if you already had sex with both of them, did he get pissed when you had sex with just her?”
“Our falling-out wasn’t about sex.”
“Then what was it about?”
“Brother stuff. We’re family, Faith.”
“Stop saying that,” Faith bites out. “Don’t call me. And don’t call or visit Kasey.”
He’s silent for several beats. “I have some old photos of your father I just stumbled onto. I’ll drop them by the winery. I think you’ll enjoy them. Maybe we can have coffee.” He softens his voice. “I really hope that you have a change of heart, Faith.” He hangs up.
I reach for the phone and ensure the line is disconnected.
“He had a threesome with my parents, Nick.”
“Yes,” I say. “I believe he did. He also wants to buy the winery.”
“Even if I was willing to sell, which I’m not, I’d never sell to him. You’d think he’d be smart enough to just lie and say he didn’t do the whole ménage à trois thing with my mother and father.”
“He doesn’t know what you know. That’s obvious. And he knows that right now, you won’t sell to him.”
“So, he tried to drive me into the ground so I’d be desperate.”
“Most likely,” I agree. “And it’s a smart guess that he made a deal at the bank to pay someone off for helping him pick it up for a steal.”
“I will never sell it to him. I’m not going to sell.”
“But he knows—everyone knows—that you want to paint.”
“Oh God. You don’t think he bought my work to give me some facade of success so I’d dump the winery, do you?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t let him downgrade your success. It’s yours. You own it.”
“Can you do what you do and make sure he didn’t buy those paintings?”
“Yes. I will. But those sales are your sales. You own them, but if I confirm that he owns the hell you just went through, I’m going to ruin that bastard.”
“No,” Faith says. “Don’t ruin him. I don’t need justice. I just need him to go away.”