Quite Precarious Page 6

  I’ve been thinking about what I want to do with my life, other than whatever I feel like that day.

  It’s a start. Or at least, it was until this whole getting shot and arrested thing.

  The sounds of my sister rustling around the kitchen making grown-up dinner tells me it’s time to move. As nice as it would be to stay in here listening to Marcella breathe for the rest of the night—or maybe the year—we need to discuss how I can possibly get myself out of this situation.

  I’m guessing the evening will also feature more glowering and snarky comments

  about whether or not helping Gracie is worth giving up my freedom, followed by me trying to keep my mouth shut because neither of us is helped by me voicing the truth.

  Which is an unequivocal yes.

  Lindsay says she doesn’t get it, but I think she would, if she would get over her decades-old prejudice against Gracie and remember what it’s like to have people in her life she’d do anything for—including her daughter. My sister hates Gracie because Lindsay is the only person who has been aware of my feelings since the beginning, when it was just a silly twelve-year-old crush. She saw the heartbreak of the Gracie and Will

  dynasty, and the pretend dismissal when she left Heron Creek and never looked back. I’m not sure whether she thinks Gracie is aware and torturing me on purpose or is simply, blissfully, unaware. While it’s nice that Lindsay’s on my side, we both know her blinders when it comes to my only real friend in this town are substantial.

  “Sleep tight, monkey,” I whisper, leaning over to kiss my niece’s forehead. I freeze as she stirs before settling back into sleep, and then slip off the bed and out into the hallway.

  In the kitchen, Lindsay is stirring a boiling pot of spaghetti even though it’s after eight and we both have acid reflux issues that keep us up even if we drink milk for dinner.

  “You want to open that sauce for me?” she says without making eye contact, nodding toward a jar of Prego on the counter.

  I pick it up, twist the lid, and dump it into the pot waiting on the stove. It’s thick and chunky, its smell too tomatoey as it starts to heat up—nothing like the tang of sausage and spices that rose from my mother’s batches of homemade pasta and sauce. My mouth waters at the mere memory, and for a second, then another, I let myself wonder how she’s doing.

  “Smells good,” I comment to have something to say to my sister and to force my thoughts into the present.

  She snorts. “Yeah, right. Our Sicilian grandmother is literally rolling over in her grave.

  She’s probably going to start haunting your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.” The defense comes fast, out of habit. Lindsay might be the only person who knows the truth about my feelings, but she wasn’t the first or last person to tease me about my complicated friendship with Graciela Harper.

  “I know. That’s the saddest part about this whole thing.” Lindsay dumps the noodles into a colander in the sink, shaking it to dislodge the extra water. My grandmother would have drained it over a pot. She believed in saving the pasta water for the sauce—just in case.

  Of course, she was raised by Depression-era parents. Her mother washed an entire sink of dishes in no more than two inches of water.

  I sigh, doing my best to ignore her barbs, and stir the sauce until it boils. Once we’re sitting at the table, steaming plates of pasta in front of us, my stomach growls. Apparently it doesn’t care so much whether the sauce came from a jar or the noodles are a little too sticky.

  While we’re eating in silence together around the table, I can almost glimpse the way it could be for us if life would cooperate. “I’m glad you’re here, Linds.”

  “Don’t butter me up, Leo. And besides, I’m sure having your sister and her four-year-old living with you puts a damper on your lifestyle.”

  “My lifestyle? Of doing odd jobs and doing research on how many first dates a guy can go on in a row?”

  “That’s your own fault. There’s nothing wrong with these girls you’re taking out.

  What about the yoga instructor? What was her name?”

  “Taylor.”

  “Right, Taylor. What was wrong with her?”

  I chew my food, pretending to think about it. There’s nothing wrong with Taylor, or Shelby from Riverside, or anyone else I’ve been out with once or rolled in the hay over the past ten years. But there’s no spark, and that’s enough. “Nothing. She’s not for me, is all.”

  “Hmm,” is my sister’s only response to that as she twirls up another forkful of spaghetti. “Marcella go right to sleep?”

  “Yeah. She’s getting better and better with you home.”

  “I can’t believe she’s going to be in kindergarten next year. It’s insane.”

  “It really is.”

  She pauses. “Let’s talk about how you’re going to be here to take her first day of school picture.”

  “And cut the crust off her sandwiches because you’re too mean to do it.”

  She purses her lips, sitting back in her chair. “You spoil her, Leo. That’s not how we were raised and it’s not going to do her any favors.”

  “It’s bread crust, Linds. If it makes her feel like I listen to her and I love her, I don’t think it’s a reason to call DFS.” I copy her pose, crumpling up my napkin and dropping it on my plate. “And I think we have a shot at winning this thing, because there are things that my attorney doesn’t know.”

  “Such as…”

  I can tell she’s barely holding back a lecture about being open with my attorney, but this situation is more sensitive than my sister seems to realize. Randall Middleton is a sitting US Senator, and he’s had the job for over a decade. That means he has power, of course, but he’s also got plenty to lose.

  It also means that pissing him off more than I already have would likely lead to my losing valuable body parts, so even though I’d like to punch him in the balls and run, this requires delicacy. Which is what I tell my sister, who squinches up her face trying to understand.

  “And you and Gracie Harper are so gifted when it comes to delicacy. Please. Leo, just tell me what’s going on. You can trust me.”

  “Okay. You should know that before we took that rather extreme approach of breaking into the home of a United States Senator, Gracie and her little band of miscreants did try to gather information to convince the Middletons to back off the old-fashioned way.

  Amelia’s lawyer told them it was hearsay and wouldn’t work to convince a judge, and that we needed proof.”

  “Which is when you tried your hand at cat burgling.”

  “Can you zip your flapping lips for five seconds and let me finish?”

  She sticks her tongue out at me, then makes a motion like zipping her lips and throwing away the key.

  “Thank you. Yes, that’s when we reverted to breaking in, but you’re missing the point.”

  It doesn’t take her long to find it. “The crew of miscreants found some good dirt when they went digging in Charleston?”

  “Yep. The kind of dirt that could ruin a career, if we can prove it.”

  “So, you’re hoping that if you can convince the people who have said dirt to go on the record, you can convince the Middletons to drop the charges in exchange for his career.”

  “I think we’re going to need to take it one step further. Middleton is powerful, and he’s entrenched. A few rumors, even if people are willing to gab to the media and they sound terrible, aren’t going to take him down and he knows it. We need proof.” I tap my fingers on the table, sure this could work but wondering how we’re going to find tracks that have surely been covered by experts.

  “How are you going to get it? And are you doing this alone?” Her implication is clear, but it’s nice that she allows it to go unspoken for once, anyway.

  “I don’t know about Gracie—she’s got some weird and wild shit going on even

  though Amelia’s court case is sorted—but I think the Gayles might be w
illing to help me look into it.”

  “Yeah, because Melanie’s not in enough trouble for sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.” She cocks her head. “Besides, they’re Gracie’s friends, not yours.”

  The barb hits right where she intended—in my chest, and it stings. I shake it off before she can give me her patented, satisfied smirk.

  “Right, but we’re talking about Mel’s freedom, too. She’s in at least as deep as me, and the Middletons aren’t going to let her off the hook unless we force them. They’ll help, and they’re good at it.” Plus, Will’s more comfortable going to that old coot in the mountains, and he might be just the kind of help we need in a situation like this one. “I’m going to ask them.”

  Lindsay folds her arms over her chest. “So, Gracie got you into this mess, but she’s not going to get you out.”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I’m going to do everything I can to help myself, because we’re Boones and that’s what we do. I’m not going to prison. I’m not missing Marcie’s first day of school. She’s had too many people duck out of her life and I’m not going to be one of them.” My throat tries to close but I swallow, bending my emotions to my will with years of practice. “I promise, Linds.”

  “You can’t promise that.” Her eyes fill with tears as she slumps in the chair, giving up on being angry with me in favor of her true reaction to all of this—fear. “I don’t want us to be apart again. I want us to be together.”

  “I want that, too. This is a real way to fix it, not pie in the sky.”

  “How, though? Guys like Middleton don’t get busted by people like us. They make people like us disappear.”

  I swallow again, ignoring a black, clawing breathlessness in my chest. Her fear infects me, maybe awakens terror already lurking inside me, because she’s not wrong. The Middletons should be feared. If they want to, they can do a lot worse than send me to prison or ruin my life. They are the kind of people who make bodies disappear, and the kind of people who don’t have to answer questions about it later.

  But I have reasons to fight, and so does Melanie. Will has connections through the police department and with the criminal element, who we might be able to convince to help us…if we have something to trade. Despite what I told Lindsay, and what she thinks, Gracie cares about both of us and she’s not going to let this go. She has

  some…interesting abilities at her disposal.

  Maybe it’s time we urge her to use these ghosts, if that’s what she sees, to her advantage. They’ve spent months in the backseat, giving Gracie directions. I can’t help but wonder what could happen if she starts demanding some of them pay a toll.

  Chapter Eight

  Brick

  “You should go check on your brother.” Birdie snaps shut her briefcase, looking more tired than I’ve ever seen her, at least in public. The only time I can remember seeing her this ragged is after Lucy disappeared all those years ago.

  Her mention of Beau—I assume she’s talking about him and not the brother none of us have seen for the better part of a decade—startles me out of my post-‐meeting high. The potential of beating the Middletons at their own game had even eased the throbbing headache of alcohol withdrawal.

  The mention of my brother and the out-‐of-‐nowhere thought of Lucy, a woman who nearly blew our family apart, makes my head pound.

  “Why does Beau need to be checked on?” I glance out the giant, spotless conference room windows at downtown Charleston, frowning at the streaks of rain slipping down the glass. In the distance, whitecaps surf the harbor, smashing against the seawall that protects some of the city’s most iconic architecture from drowning.

  For now. “It’s going to pour.”

  “Just trust me. The two of you have things to discuss, and he could use someone to drink with tonight.”

  I flinch. She notices, her gaze narrowing, but chooses not to comment. More proof that something’s off with my sister.

  “Is it Graciela? Did something happen?” I don’t really need to ask. The rigid shock on Amelia’s cousin’s face earlier tonight, when she found me in her living room again, said it all. They were in trouble. Maybe not over, but close, and even though I don’t know what cut those last strings, Beau’s got to be upset.

  “Yes, something happened.” She picks up her briefcase and flicks off the lights in the conference room, holding the door for me. “I was there earlier. You should go.”

  “Fine.”

  We part ways in the parking garage, both of our cars thankfully safe from the growing winds and plump raindrops slicking the streets. Thunder booms, rattling the car windows as I speed down the highway toward Heron Creek, a shit little town I barely knew existed as a kid. Somehow, I find myself spending way too much of my time driving to and from it these days.

  My brother’s house looms at the end of the block, set on a huge corner lot overlooking the Charles River. Even I have to admit it’s a nice piece of real estate. For Heron Creek.

  Darkness hovers behind the windows but the porch light burns bright against the falling rain. I knock, and when there’s no response, I ring the doorbell. Nothing. The slightest kernel of worry drops into my gut, but my brother has a tendency to be a bit of a drama queen when things don’t go his way. Instead of panicking, I pick up the little turtle on the porch railing, grab the spare key, and let myself inside.

  The silence picks at my comfort, and the darkness leaves me feeling like a little boy scared to put his feet on the floor because of the monsters under the bed. I flip on lights as I walk through the foyer, dining room, kitchen, and living room—all of which are empty.

  I find my brother in his office-‐slash-‐den, his cracked voice breaking the eerie quiet when my fingers land on the light switch.

  “Don’t.”

  “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  The tinkle of melting ice against the side of a glass tells me he’s shifting on the leather sofa. “Because it’s my goddamn house and I want to. Is that okay with you, Brick? What are you even doing here?”

  “Birdie suggested you could use some company. Or a drinking buddy.” Now I’m the one thankful for the darkness. He won’t be able to see me not drinking, but in my current state, even holding a glass of booze will be too big a temptation.

  “Please. You don’t drink anymore.”

  I startle, then snap on the lights and risk my brother’s wrath. He growls and squints, and I get a good look at his greasy hair, rumpled clothes, and bloodshot eyes.

  “You look like hell.”

  No comment, just another growl as he slams the rest of his drink. He and Birdie are both having rough days, it would seem.

  “How do you know I don’t drink anymore?” I try instead, since he doesn’t want to talk about him.

  “The reunion. You had ginger ale in a whiskey tumbler all night, then switched to water after everyone else was too smashed to notice.” He glares up at me. “And you’ve been sweating a lot. More of an asshole than usual. Classic withdrawal symptoms.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  He shrugs, all of the irritation fading from his expression as he slumps back into the cushions. “Figured it was a good thing, and you had your reasons for hiding it. Or, reason.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I bristle, realizing too late that being defensive will do nothing but confirm his suspicions.

  And if Beau has thoughts about my sobriety and the motivations behind it, and he and Birdie had talked earlier, that could be the reason she was acting so odd at the office.

  “Oh hell, I don’t have the energy for this,” he grumbles, his voice thin and tired.

  “Whatever your reason for kicking your addiction, it’s about damned time. Booze is great and all, but you were using it to suppress your feelings. A time-‐honored Drayton family tradition, I know, but maybe you can rise above.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Like you’re doing tonight?”

  “Give me a day to wallow. I
’m allowed.”

  The soft leather sofa sinks under my weight. My brother stares despondently at the empty drink in his hands from the other end, a look of hopeless loss on his face

  that triggers all of my instincts to put as much space between us as possible. We’re not a touchy-‐feely family. We hide our problems—drink them away, usually, but if that doesn’t work, we choose solitude. As children, we went into our rooms and closed the door if we wanted to cry or rage. Our parents created an atmosphere of competition between us, which meant if Beau or Birdie was in trouble, if they’d disappointed Brand or angered Cordelia, it was an opportunity for me to step into the limelight. Comforting our sibling would do nothing but cost us valuable time.

  I wonder what ol’ Marv the truck-‐driving AA sponsor would have to say about that.

  What I say about it is that it means these are uncharted waters. I have no idea if the Drayton siblings can overcome years of conditioning, but I do know that not one single part of me likes seeing my brother like this. All…humbled.

  “You’re right, you’re allowed.” I lick my lips, trying to avoid staring at his glass.

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Not really. I spilled to Birdie earlier, she can fill you in. But the short story is that Gracie and I are taking a break.”

  “A break? Or…”

  “I don’t know. I said I needed some time. I didn’t use the words it’s over, but I don’t know how we reconcile our issues.” He laughs, but it sounds more angry than anything. “It figures that I would finally meet another woman who makes me want a future with her, only to have it derailed by the first.”

  That’s the second reference to Lucy tonight. It’s starting to make me paranoid—she’s been gone three years, but for our family, she’s always lurking in the corners of the room. “What does Lucy have to do with anything?”