Page 12 of Backlash

“So?”

“It was from Sutton. I think she got the wrong idea.”

“I take it she doesn’t know that Sutton is your sister?” He lets out a whistle. “You’re in trouble. Look, I haven’t seen her, but I’ll keep an eye out. You might want to call Luca.”

Calling him is the last thing I want to do. True, a hitman is pretty good at tracking people down, especially ones who are trying to hide, but their targets have a disturbing tendency to stop living. “I’d rather find her alive,” I say dryly. “I’m just trying to figure out where she’d go.”

“Um, home?” Jack suggests.

It’s stupid that didn’t occur to me. Maybe it’s because I’ve never really had a home to run to. Maybe it’s because Adair’s always running from hers. “She had a fight with her brother. It’s doubtful that she’s there now.”

“That place is the size of Versailles. If she wants she can avoid her brother for months. Look, if it was me and some guy screwed me over, I’d wind up at home.” He makes a good point, but he’s getting the wrong idea.

“I didn’t…” I stop. Why bother trying to explain that we’d both screwed up? Right now, I need to be fixing things. “Thanks.”

“So, I take it you’ve crossed her off your list?” Jack asks.

“You could say that.”

“Where does that leave us?” Trust him to be direct. It’s how we operate. There wasn’t time on an operation for being passive aggressive.

I think about Malcolm and how he hurt her, about her father and how he used her. There’s something rotten in Valmont, and it needs to be weeded out as much for me as for her. “Nothing else changes. Not until I talk to Malcolm MacLaine.”

Jack doesn’t try to argue the point. “I’ll let you know if I see her,” he says before we hang up.

Going to Windfall is a long shot by any stretch of the imagination, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe a home is a place you run to no matter how much pain you’ve experienced there. I wouldn’t know.

“Well, buddy, wish me luck. I’m going to track her down and make her listen to what I need to say.” I lean down and stroke Zeus’s head. He whimpers like he’s hoping I have a better plan than that. Even a dog recognizes what sets Adair MacLaine apart. She has champagne taste and a whiskey temper—and I’m on the wrong side of both.

The sultry summer day begins to fade as I drive out of the city. The sun is beginning to set, purple seeping across the horizon, when I reach Valmont. Stopping at the gates of Windfall, I wait for the security guard to put down his sandwich. He steps out of the gatehouse, clipboard in hand, and motions for me to roll down the window.

“Name?” he says in a bored tone.

“Sterling Ford.” I tap the Aston’s steering wheel as his finger trails down his list. I wait for him to ask me why I’m here or call up for permission. Not that he or anyone else is going to stop me from getting to Adair if she’s in there. It would be nice to do this the easy way, though.

Instead, he nods. “Thank you, Mr. Ford. One moment.”

I made the guest permission list. That must mean that I’m still on Malcolm’s good side. He’s not the MacLaine I want keeping me around. I tear down the drive, swerving around to the back. Since I’m not here to see Malcolm, there’s no need to walk through the front door.

No matter how much time passes, I remember every detail of this house. It’s a bit like the ninth circle of hell—not a place that you forget if you make it out alive. I wasn’t welcome here five years ago. I certainly never made a guest list. But I’ve been here plenty of times—each instance more memorable than the last. If Jack is right and Adair came home, she didn’t bother with the front door. That’s the first trick to surviving Windfall, keep a low profile. She would have gone around back, straight to the kitchen. I’ll bet she’s crying to Felix over a batch of cookies. The back entrance also has the benefit of being close to the servant’s staircase. I can use it to get to Adair’s wing of the house with little chance of running into anyone that I don’t want to see.

I rap softly on the back door before letting myself in. The Windfall kitchen is huge, meant to accommodate multiple cooks and servers for parties and holidays. I’ve always been a little jealous of the pristine Viking appliances and marble counters. That was before, when I’d never had more than a closet-sized kitchen in Queens to use. Now, I wonder what the point of it is other than for show. Then again, that’s the primary function of an estate like this. It’s only here to show off the MacLaine wealth. I can see it for what it really is today: a family ego.

Felix looks up up from the pot on the stove. His hand, holding a wooden spoon, freezes in mid-air. He manages to cover his surprise well, but although his face remains blank, dislike narrows his eyes. I wonder how long he can keep up the charade of pretending I’m a stranger. He’s done an excellent job so far.

“May I help you?” he asks. The sham continues, it seems.

“Don’t act like you don’t remember me, Felix,” I said dryly. He played along before. We both know exactly who I am, and I’m guessing he knows why I came back. Adair always confided in him.

“You’re Daddy’s friend,” a small voice pipes up and I turn to see Malcolm’s daughter sitting at the kitchen island. Large, blue eyes loom in her round face and she studies me critically. She obviously takes after her aunt.

“I am, but I came to see your aunt,” I say to her. Felix might take Adair’s side, but kids, in my experience, don’t know how to go along with deception. They might hide a cookie behind their back, but guilt is usually written all over their face. That makes her my new best friend. If Adair is here, she won’t be able to hide it. I’m not certain Felix will feel inclined to tell me if he’s seen her.

The girl purses her lips and shakes her head. “Auntie Dair isn’t here. She’s been gone all night. Do you know where she’s been?”

Now that’s a loaded question.

“I don’t. That’s why I’m here,” I say softly. I take a stool next to hers and turn my focus back to Felix. I suppose I have to sweet talk him now.