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)
I press my hands to the doorframe and lower my chin. “Damn it.” I sit down next to the door. Eventually she will figure out that I’m not leaving.
Fifteen minutes later, it’s clear that she gets that point when a police car pulls into the driveway.
I stand up and walk to meet the officer, and after some smooth talking, I get in my car and drive to my rental house down the road. I don’t dry off. I walk in the door, skip the lights, and head to the huge brown leather chair in the living room, where I sit down to think through what comes next.
Because I’m still not leaving. Because I have to touch her again. I have to hold her close to me in our bed. I have to put that ring on her finger and call her my wife. And I want to watch her paint every day for the rest of my life. I need to think. I can figure this out. I know I can figure this out.
Time ticks by: seconds, minutes, an hour. I’ve been in this damn chair an hour with no good plan when my cellphone rings. Hoping like hell it’s Faith, I yank it from my soaking wet pocket to find Abel’s number. “The autopsy report,” he says immediately.
I sit up straight. “Tell me.”
“It’s not logged yet, but my insider says it’s being sent to the DA. It wouldn’t be sent to the DA if they didn’t come to the same conclusion we did.”
“My father was murdered. I need to call Beck.”
I end the connection, and, knowing I can’t get close to Faith right now, I autodial Beck with one thing in mind. Making sure Faith is not next.
Chapter Forty-One
Faith
I wake Saturday morning with the same thought I fell asleep thinking, the same thing I’m thinking now standing at the kitchen island: I can’t believe I called the police on Nick. Just seeing him made me weak in the knees, and he stood in the rain for me. I wanted to believe that meant we had something real, but he lied to me. Over and over, he lied to me. That is not the kind of “real” I want in my life. But Lord help me, I wanted to open the door and feel him, taste him one last time.
The sound of rain pattering on the windows sends a chill down my spine as I walk to the bedroom to pull a V-neck black sweater over the black tank that I’m wearing with black jeans. Apparently, I’m back in funeral mode. The doorbell rings, and I race down the hallway and inhale on a rush of nerves before reaching for the door. I open it to find Bill standing there in khakis and a button-down, a jacket over the top that has rain droplets all over it.
“Come in,” I say, backing up, but he shrugs out of his jacket and leaves it on the porch rail.
He joins me inside, and I motion toward the kitchen, hurrying that way. He shuts the door and follows, his footsteps heavy behind me. I round the island, and he claims the spot across from me. His tall frame and broad shoulders are paired with his blue eyes, which are so like my father’s that it hurts my already broken heart.
“Coffee?”
“I’d love some, but you stay where you are. I can see your supplies here. I’ll mix me up a cup.” He rounds the island, and I have this odd sense of claustrophobia, but maybe it’s not odd. I have spent a lot of years distrusting him, hating him. That won’t go away overnight.
It’s not long before we are sitting on stools across from each other. “What have you done about Nick?”
“I left him.”
“What about the winery?”
“It’s mine,” I say. “It’s handled.” But as I assure him of this, I realize I’ve not thought about this at all myself. Nick doesn’t own the winery, but maybe he just did that to seem honorable and planned to convince me to sell?
“Really?” Bill says, pulling me back into the moment. “It was that easy?”
“Yes. It’s handled.”
“Well, I don’t know how you managed that, but I’m damn glad. I’m concerned about his connections on this mercury, though. I have some people looking into it.” He gives me a level stare. “It’s okay to want to focus on your art and just sell. You know that, right?”
“I don’t want to sell,” I say, making that decision as I speak the words. This place is stability for me. I need it, but what I say to him is also true. “I will protect this place, just like my father wanted to protect it. And I have a good team. I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? Because I could buy it and protect it for you. And heck, I’ll do some improvements and get a tax write-off.”