To know that none of it was real and that it truly was over did hurt.
No matter what she told herself—the truth was, it hurt like hell.
Chapter Seven
‡
A week later Grant walked down the steps of his jet and onto a private airfield outside of Trinity, Canada. Although the small harbor town boasted two hundred permanent residents, there was only one he was interested in meeting. If the mother of the pilot Stiles had paid to lie on his flight log was right, this was where her son had spent one uneventful evening before flying back to Aruba.
The first few days in Aruba had been frustrating. Just as Marc had warned, when Grant had first starting asking questions no one had been willing to discuss Stiles. What he’d found most curious was the fear he saw in some people’s eyes at the mere mention of his name.
Grant met with the private investigator Lance had hired and learned nothing more than he already knew. After a couple of days of making no progress, Grant had decided to become more creative.
To get people to open up to him, he fabricated a story about working for the insurance company that covered Stiles’s home and clinic. He flashed his fake IDs and said he was trying to earn a commission by proving Stiles had set his own home on fire.
Each time he told that story he learned something new about Stiles. In Aruba, Helene’s uncle was loved as well as feared. No one was willing to say a bad word about him, but they did describe how much of his own money he’d poured in, providing health services for those who couldn’t afford it.
Grant’s break came when he tracked down Stiles’s butler. The man had worked for him for a decade and was still angry he’d been let go with no warning or severance pay. Grant offered him five hundred dollars in exchange for any information regarding where Stiles might have gone.
When the man hesitated, Grant had used his cover story and said five hundred dollars was all he had, but if he proved Stiles was guilty, he’d get a bonus from his company and could send him more.
For a man who’d never been good at lying, he found he was better at it than he wanted to be. He layered on a story of two children in college and all the bills that went with it. That had resonated with Stiles’s ex-bulter, and he’d told Grant that although he didn’t know where Stiles was, he knew the mother of the pilot he’d used to leave the island.
More lies and another small bribe had gained him an address in Trinity, Canada. As soon as he had that, he sent Marc Stone ahead to make sure Stiles wouldn’t get far if he ran.
Grant slid into the black SUV he’d hired to take him to Stiles. If he were there for any other reason, he would have taken the time to appreciate the 18th century charm of the small roads, saltbox houses, and churches set against the deep blue of the cold northern ocean. He struggled to keep his thoughts focused on his reason for being there because when his mind wandered it filled with memories of a woman he’d almost called about a hundred times since leaving Boston.
He hated how he’d left things with Viviana. Their final kiss had felt like a goodbye. At the time he’d told himself the truth could wait. She could wait until he came back to hear his reasons for lying to her.
As the week went on, though, he’d thought more and more about how hurt she’d looked when he’d told her he might not be able to call her for a while. She thought I was brushing her off.
He could have called her, but he didn’t want to keep up the lie. He also didn’t feel it was a conversation they should have over the phone.
Just a few more days.
I’ll get the answers my family needs then track down Viviana and explain as much of this as I can.
Full disclosure might be worse than saying nothing.
I ditched you the morning after we had phenomenal sex because I had to find out how and why my soon to be sister-in-law’s uncle killed my infant brother. Yeah, my family’s fucked up.
The SUV parked in front of a blue and white house near the center of town. There was nothing about it that stood out from any of the other houses. Grant scanned the area and saw a man leaning against a tree a few hundred feet down the street. Marc.
Grant flicked his head in question toward the house.
Marc nodded.
Grant made a tactical hand motion for Marc to come and then a square to represent the back door and waved him in that direction. In a practiced, smooth move Grant slid his gun from the holster beneath his suit and kept it close enough to his thigh that it would blend in with the dark gray from a distance.
He was going into the situation armed because in his opinion cowards were as unpredictable and dangerous as little dogs. Both panicked and might attack without warning.
He knocked on the front door and stood slightly off to the side so he was not visible through the glass pane in the door. Stiles opened the door, looked around, and tried to slam the door shut as soon as he saw Grant.
Grant shoved his foot in the door to stop it from closing then shoved it back open with his shoulder. He slammed the door closed behind him and raised his gun. “Clarence Stiles, I’m going to give you a chance to make things right by telling me the truth about what happened to my brother, Kent Barrington.”
On closer inspection there was little about Clarence Stiles that warranted a drawn weapon. He was thin, almost frail looking, with gray hair and tired eyes. “You must be Asher. I know you by reputation”
“I am not,” Grant said impatiently.
Stiles relaxed somewhat. “Are you Ian? The ambassador. Have you come to offer me asylum?”
“No.”
The older man scratched his chin. “You’re too old to be the architect, Lance.”
“I’m Grant.”
“The financial wizard? Why would they send you?”
His temper rose and he holstered his gun. If need be, he could handle Stiles with his bare hands. “Because I’m the one who can best afford to cover up your death if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”
Stiles went white and swallowed visibly. “How is Helene?”
“She’s safe, no thanks to you.”
“I knew Andrew would get her out of there. I wasn’t as sure I’d be able to do the same. If you see her, tell her I’m sorry I left the way I did. My nerves are shot. Mind if I get a drink?”
Grant shook his head. Stiles looked like he might pass out if he didn’t, and that would be counterproductive. Still, he had no sympathy for him. Stiles had entrusted his niece’s safety to Andrew, a man he’d just met, then covered his ass by destroying old medical records and fleeing. He was weak in the most disgusting sense. “I have men outside who will shoot if you try to run.”
Stiles made his way over to a cabinet, poured himself a shot of whiskey, and downed it in one gulp before pouring himself another. “I’m not afraid to die. I haven’t slept through the night in months. I’ve lost my family, my clinic—everything I spent my life working for. All gone. And I deserved to lose it all. So, please, kill me. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
“Andrew came home with the impression that you were responsible for my youngest brother’s death.”
Stile took another gulp of whiskey. “Responsible yes, but I didn’t kill him.”
Grant felt some of the tension leave him. It was exactly what he’d assumed. “So it was negligence you covered up.”
The liquid in Stiles’s glass sloshed as his hand began to shake. “I wish it were.”
Grant stepped closer. “How did my brother die?”
“Suffocation,” Stiles said weakly. He placed the glass down and moved to sit in a chair, looking as if he might collapse if he didn’t. “I didn’t know anything about it until after it was done. I would have gone to the police, but it was an officer who told me what had happened. He said I’d be given two choices: a large sum of money to cover up how your brother died or the death of my family. He had photos of my sister, her husband, and Helene. I was scared. A part of me wanted to be heroic like in the movies, but there had already been a death—a n
urse. He said anyone who was involved would be erased. I agreed to the cover-up, but I still thought I could do something. Your parents were devastated, but the truth couldn’t bring your brother back. I needed to protect my staff. I tried to warn one of them, the one who had delivered your brother, but he said his conscience wouldn’t allow him to stay quiet. He died in a car crash soon afterward. They killed him, and it never made the papers. That’s when I knew how powerful they were. People could disappear and not make the news.”
Grant went to stand above Stiles, shaking his head. “Who would do something so heinous? And why? Why would anyone do that?”
Stiles closed his eyes for a long moment, then said, “A few days later, a man came to see me. He was American. He was the one who arranged for a large sum to be deposited into my bank account. I asked him the same questions. He said the devil is a woman, and her jealousy has no compassion for innocence or age.”
With his hands fisting at his sides, Grant growled, “I don’t want a riddle. I want a name.”
Stiles gripped the arms of his chair. “Patrice Stanfield, your aunt, a woman who, if there is any justice, is rotting in hell—she was the one who paid to have your brother killed. I took her blood money, but I poured it back into the community. One by one, every person who was involved with your brother’s birth or death disappeared. Doctors. Nurses. Even the two police officers who had threatened me. I lived every day thinking it would be my last, but they never came for me.”
A chill went down Grant’s back. He didn’t remember ever meeting his aunt Patrice, but she sounded even more demented than her journal had implied. Asher had told him she was the one who had destroyed his father’s political career. Had his mother’s sister been so sick that she would have gone as far as to have her sister’s child killed? Or was this Stiles making up a story to save his own ass? “That doesn’t make sense. Why kill just one? Kent was a twin.”
Looking sick to his stomach, Stiles said, “I think there was a mix-up. The man who paid me mentioned a baby girl. I think that was who Patrice wanted dead.”
“Do you have proof that any of this is true?”
