Page 8 of Love and Lies

Malia blew out a loud breath. I could tell what was coming. “Listen to me, Len. I know you’re mad because the Coldwells spread all that stuff about Valerie, but—”

My voice turned to a hiss as I broke her off. “They said Valerie was the one egging him on, that she convinced Adam to take it! It’s bullshit!” I remembered, word for word, what Trish Coldwell had said back then. I was against this relationship from the start. I knew that that woman and her depraved lifestyle would bring my son nothing but trouble. Now he’s dead, and it is entirely her doing.

Except it wasn’t just Trish—Adam’s brother, his stepfather, and all of their friends had joined in. They turned up on talk shows, in the papers, on blogs, with story after story about my sister, painting her as reckless and irresponsible, obsessed with parties and luxury, an airhead who didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything but herself. And I’d sat by, in England, shocked and helpless in the face of their lies, unable to do a thing to defend my sister. Until now.

“I’d rather you didn’t go up against the Coldwells.” Malia shook her head. “You saw what they did to Val, how easily they can destroy someone in the media. I don’t want them to do the same to you.”

“You think I’m not a match for Trish Coldwell?” I asked defiantly.

“No, I know you’re not. That woman is dangerous, Helena. The whole fucking city kowtows to her. Not even your parents went after her publicly when they dragged Valerie through the dirt.”

She was right about that. My parents had taken legal action against the accusations, but they had never spoken publicly about the case. It’s not our style, they’d said, when I called them up from boarding school to ask why they were just letting it all happen, why they didn’t fight for their daughter when her name was being smeared. My brother had given a few interviews, true enough, but my parents had stood him down too, in the hope that talk would soon turn to other things.

“Well, I’m not the whole city,” I said, more confidently than I felt. “And when I find out the truth, Trish Coldwell can do what she likes. She can’t argue with concrete evidence.” I couldn’t wait for the day when I would pay that family back for everything they’d done to mine.

“And how are you going to get a hold of this evidence?” asked Malia. “The NYPD looked into everything, and so did private investigators hired by both families. They didn’t find anything to contradict Trish’s allegations.”

“Yes, but none of those people were trying to exonerate Valerie. They just wanted to know whether a crime had taken place or not. And as soon as they cleared that up, no one bothered to find out exactly what happened. So I’m going to.” I’d been working on it for almost a year in England. I’d gotten access to the case files without my parents finding out; I’d gathered all the facts and planned out what to do next. And Malia was part of that plan. “By the way… I might be able to use some help now and again, from a dedicated young police officer who wants to be a detective someday.”

Her eyes widened. “You want me to help you?” she asked in a low voice. “I’m being serious, Len—do you really think this is going to go anywhere? I don’t know if Valerie would want you to get so caught up in this thing.”

“Yes, she would—she’d have done exactly the same for me. That’s why I can’t let it go. I have to expose their lies and get to the truth. And I’m going to do it with or without your help.”

Malia returned my stare for a few seconds, then she leaned back and audibly exhaled. “This is crazy. No, you’re crazy. Do you even have a plan? Some kind of starting point?”

“I do. And I’ll gladly tell you all about it when I know you’re on board. I’m not asking much—maybe just some intel, or a little top cover here and there. I won’t get you into trouble, I promise.” A hopeful smile crept onto my lips. “Will you help me? Please don’t make me beg.”

“I am so going to regret this.” Malia shook her head and gave a deep sigh. “But okay, I’ll help you. Only I won’t do anything to jeopardize my job, or help with anything that would put you in danger. Are we agreed on that?”

“Yes.” I nodded, and I meant it.

“Good. Okay then… tell me your plan.”

4 Jessiah

“Good evening, Mr. Coldwell.” The young concierge in her black uniform nodded cordially at me as I stepped into the extravagant entrance hall.

I felt a brief shiver as that place engulfed me in its aura—cool elegance with no hint of comfort. You could be forgiven for thinking it was the lobby of a minimalist luxury hotel: black marble floor as far as the eye could see, Barcelona and Eames lounge chairs dotted around, and a front desk so long it accommodated ten staff members. But this was no hotel.

“Good evening, Lara.” I gave her a smile. It wasn’t her fault that I got anxious just walking in the door.

“Should I let your mother know you’re here?” she asked.

“No, there’s no need. She’s expecting me.” I continued past her, but then turned back. “Although you could do me a favor—when I come by again later in a tux, fake some kind of emergency? Like, faint or whatever—I’m not fussy.”

She gave a laugh, or more like a giggle—until she suddenly seemed to remember who her boss was, and that she’d almost certainly be fired if she was caught flirting with me. Her face abruptly returned to its mask of detached politeness, and I felt sorry for a moment, before I turned toward the elevators.

The silver lettering mounted on the wall above them alerted everyone to where we were: Coldwell House. The tallest residential tower in the world, a whole 1,575 feet of luxurious apartments for the superrich on Billionaire’s Row, built by my mother. This was the monument she’d dreamed of constructing since she arrived in New York City twenty years ago. Naturally, she lived on the top floor of the Fortress of Solitude, as I liked to refer to it. It would have been a stretch to call that skyscraper a house, after all—let alone a home.

In less than two minutes, the high-speed elevator had delivered me directly to the penthouse on the 115th floor. As the doors opened, I stepped into the hallway of an apartment that felt more like an art gallery. A vase full of white lilies stood on a white sideboard in front of a white wall, and above it hung a white painting with black squares. Everything was hideously neat and horribly sterile. There was nothing to suggest that my mother actually lived in this apartment—and not only her, but my fifteen-year-old half brother as well.

“Trish?” I went through to the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto Central Park. You couldn’t see much of it at this time of night; instead, the city lights spread out all the way to the Hudson River. Some people would have given anything for this view, but it left me totally cold.

“I’m in here.” My mother stood at her kitchen island—white, like most things in the penthouse—looking through some papers with her glasses on the end of her nose, the scene somewhat at odds with her long, gray evening dress and her blond hair in a smart updo. She cast a searching glance at my hair. “I told you to do something about that.”

“And I told you I wouldn’t. Either I go like this—or I don’t go.” Not too harsh, but still assertive.

She reached out a hand to touch my curls, which I’d actually managed to tame a little, unlike this morning.