Damage Control

Seth and Shane’s voices sound, low rumbles I can’t possibly make out, but there is this undercurrent to the conversation that is uncomfortably dark, and I’m concerned about whatever happened with the company while Shane was chasing me. Turning away, I walk out of the kitchen and go to the bar, staring down at the whiskey choices, and thinking I could use a little dumbing down right now to relive that night all over with Seth. There’s a shift in the air and I turn to find Shane rounding the corner from the kitchen to join me, his hoodie gone, his T-shirt stretched across a hard, broad chest that is far more appealing than the conversation to come.

His stops in front of me, his hands settling on my waist. “You okay?”

“Are you?”

His eyes soften and warm. “Sweetheart, I’ve got you back. I’m fucking wonderful. And since you avoided my question, how about a drink?”

“I’d better wait until I talk to Seth. Where is he?”

“I’m here.”

At the sound of Seth’s voice, I glance left to find him at the archway that separates us from the kitchen, his trench coat and suit jacket gone, his starched white shirt rolled to the elbows. He holds up his iPad. “Ready to take notes.”

Shane squeezes my hip and motions right. “Why don’t we sit down?”

I glance at the fancy leather furniture and back at him. “I’d rather stand.” I look at Seth, who is assessing me like I’m a criminal, and correct myself. “Never mind, let’s sit.” At least then he’ll be at eye level.

We all make our way to the brown leather living area and Shane and I claim the couch, while Seth sits in the chair to my left, which is good. For a moment I revel in him not staring me in the face and then I realize that makes me seem guilty of something. I stand up and walk to the chair directly across from him, no longer sitting next to Shane.

Shane arches a brow.

“I’m on the witness stand, and I guess you are both judge and jury.”

“No one is judging you, Emily,” Shane says.

“I judge by data, not words,” Seth adds, his expression unreadable.

“Since I’m telling the truth,” I reply, “I’d say that statement is comforting, but I’m kind of terrified about what you’ll find out. I know what happened the night I went into hiding. And more and more, I doubt what I thought I knew.”

“Start with the basics,” Seth says, asking me the same kinds of questions Shane had, but more of them. My name. My address. The address of my brother and stepfather. My parents’ names. Every neighbor near the house. Every person I ever knew that worked with the Geminis, which was no one outside my stepfather and brother, but I’d heard names. He drills me, showing no emotion, for a good fifteen minutes, and one thing is certain: The man is stone cold. There is not even one tiny inflection in his voice.

“Now I need to know about that night,” Seth says. “Every detail you remember.”

“I told you what happened,” I reply. “I got to my stepfather’s house. He was dead. My brother was there. He refused to go to the police.”

“You did,” Seth agrees. “But I need you to replay it from the moment you got there.”

I don’t want to replay it, and push back at him. “How does that help?”

“When you slow down and relive things, you might remember something. A car parked across the street. A name written on a piece of paper. Anything that tells us who might have been there beside your brother.”

“There was no one.”

“Are you sure?” he presses.

“I am.”

“Distress does not feed accuracy,” he pushes back.

“Seth—” Shane starts, but I cut him off.

“It’s fine, Shane.” I look at him. “Thank you, but I’ll try.” I shut my eyes and inhale, forcing myself back to that night. I am there. I am living it again. Desperate to confirm my brother was safe after two weeks of silence, I pull my silver Taurus into the driveway of my stepfather’s two-story stucco mansion of a house, the lights aglow on the bottom level. He might be dodging my calls, but he’s obviously home. He will have to tell me what’s going on with Rick. I glance at the stack of books in the passenger seat—I should be home studying—and quickly reach for the door and get out.

Motion detectors trigger lights and I walk up the drive and then make my way up the six steps leading to the front door. I ring the bell and wait. And wait some more. I ring it again and finally, I decide to go around back. I hurry down the steps and around the corner, more motion detectors setting my path aglow, until I’m at the back patio, where I find the door ajar. I walk toward it and …

My eyes pop open, that moment when I’d found my stepfather too near. “There is nothing new to tell. It was bloody. It was bad. My brother did it.” I shut my eyes and think of the driveway, encased in trees, and then open them again. “No cars that I could see. The house isn’t gated, but it’s shrouded in trees.”

“But your brother’s car was there?” Seth asks.

My brow furrows. “No. Actually it wasn’t.”

“Did he park in the garage?”

“Not for a visit,” I say. “Unless he moved back in and I didn’t know it. Now, that I think about it, that’s odd, and I don’t even want to think about the suspicion that stirs in me. Despite all of this, I love my brother.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">