Guilty as Sin Read online

  And then immediately hit on the waitress.

  I pushed that memory away too, and stared at the sheet with silent regret until Commodore walked into the room. I didn’t know where he’d been, but water dripped from his rain jacket.

  He looked at the sheet. Then at me. My mother. My brother. He crossed the room and sank into the chair beside my father’s covered body. I watched as he braced himself to lift the sheet. It was the first time I’d ever seen the old man’s hand tremble like that.

  As soon as he saw my father’s face, Commodore’s eyes snapped shut and he dropped the fabric.

  “How did this happen?” His voice was rough and quiet but grew stronger and more demanding. “How the hell did this happen?” The question echoed in the room and down the hall.

  His head snapped around, his gaze scouring me, my brother, and my mother.

  “We don’t know yet, sir,” I replied.

  My grandfather’s jaw ticked. “I want answers now. My son is dead, and the Gables were involved. No one sleeps until someone tells me exactly how the hell this happened.”

  I cringed as he said Gables, but thankfully the doctor stepped inside the room.

  “Mr. Riscoff? Sir, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I was with the man who arrived first on the scene. The police have finished interviewing him. If you’d like—”

  “Get him in here!” Commodore’s voice boomed.

  The doctor nodded and backed out of the room.

  Commodore’s stare, harder than granite, landed on me. “I wasn’t supposed to outlive my son.”

  My mother looked up, her face contorted in anguish. “It should’ve been you. He said you called him back to the office. That’s why he’s dead!”

  Commodore’s brows swept together. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  My mother’s finger jutted out, shaking in the air as she pointed at Commodore. “He left tonight, in the middle of that storm, because you couldn’t wait for some report until tomorrow. This is your fault.”

  Commodore’s face showed nothing but confusion, and that told me exactly what I needed to know. My father wasn’t working tonight. There was no report.

  He’d lied to my mother. Again.

  Before Commodore could respond, the doctor returned with a man wearing damp clothing. “This is Mr. Ainsley, a volunteer firefighter. He—”

  Commodore stood. “Let the man speak. I want to hear him tell us what happened. Not you.”

  The doctor’s mouth snapped shut and he stepped back.

  “I’m so sorry to you all for your loss.” Mr. Ainsley removed his hat, and his gaze drifted to my mother. “Ma’am.”

  “Tell us something,” my mother screeched, and I was afraid she was going to scare him out of the room.

  Ainsley nodded. “I was heading home from picking up a buddy at the bar, and noticed the guardrail was out on the bridge. In that rain, I figured it’d be all too easy to lose control and for a car to go off.”

  “Which bridge?” I asked, because I’d driven over the bridge that was closest to Whitney’s parents’ house on my way from the cabin, and I didn’t see anything.

  “Downtown. Bridge Street.”

  I nodded, and he continued.

  “I parked and got out and looked over the side, and I saw a woman on the bank. She wasn’t moving. I called 911, grabbed my bag, and climbed down. That’s when I saw the cars. Both of them were caught up on the rocks. One was upside down.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Commodore whispered, bowing his head.

  “I went to the woman because she was the only victim I saw at first.”

  “At first?”

  Ainsley nodded. “I checked her pulse. Nothing. She wasn’t breathing either. I tried CPR, but she was unresponsive. I stayed with her until the EMTs showed up. When fire and rescue came, we waded out into the river. That’s when we found the others.”

  My stomach rolled as I pictured the scene he painted.

  “My son would’ve been driving a Mercedes,” Commodore said, his voice rough.

  “Yes, sir. That’s who I saw next. I’m sorry to say that . . .” He trailed off and looked at my mother. “You sure you all want to hear this?”

  “Just tell us,” Commodore said. “We need to know.”

  Ainsley glanced at my mother again, and his voice dropped low, almost like he was hoping she wouldn’t hear. “Mr. Riscoff was underwater in the passenger seat when we found him.”

  My head jerked up and I stared at Commodore, certain the shock I was feeling was the same as what was reflected on his face.

  “The passenger seat?” My mother’s voice trembled, and suddenly I was terrified I was going to lose both my parents tonight—my father to an accident and my mother to a heart attack. “Who was driving the car then?”

  Thankfully, she didn’t grasp her arm or chest like she usually did when she was having an episode.

  Her gaze darted around the room, from Ainsley to Commodore to me, and back to Ainsley again. “Who was driving the car?” she repeated, her tone turning shrill again.

  Ainsley swallowed. “I don’t know for sure, ma’am. The driver’s seat was empty, and the window was open.”

  My mother shot to her feet.

  “Mother, please, sit—” Harrison tried to calm her down, but she ignored him.

  “He said he had to work. He was working.” She said it to Commodore, as though hoping he could go back and make my father’s lies the truth. I knew if my grandfather could, he would.

  Commodore’s face remained impassive. Nothing he could say would change what had happened. Nothing any of us said could.

  My brother finally said what everyone in the room was thinking. “So she crawled out of the window . . . and left him in the car to . . .”

  All the blood remaining in my mother’s face drained away as she absorbed what Harrison had just said. “That Gable woman killed him! She murdered my husband! She—”

  I crossed the room and crouched in front of her. “Mother, calm down. Please.”

  She spat in my face.

  Shocked, I stumbled backward, blinking and wiping it away. My mother just spat in my face.

  No one in the room moved or breathed as I rose.

  “Don’t you dare speak to me.” My mother’s voice turned sharp and deadly. “You walked in here tonight with her daughter! Sneaking around with that little Gable slut all summer was bad enough, but coming in the hospital with her tonight? You were probably in bed with that trash when her whore mother killed your father!”

  3

  Whitney

  As I stood between the bodies of my parents, Mrs. Riscoff’s words ricocheted off the walls of the ER like bullets designed to maim instead of kill.

  “You were probably in bed with that trash when her whore mother killed your father!”

  They shattered me, mostly because they were true. At least, if what the police officer just told us was true.

  My mother was having an affair with Lincoln’s father.

  My mother was driving Lincoln’s father’s car when the cars collided and they both went over the bridge.

  Aunt Jackie bolted for the door. “I’ll kill that old hag myself if she says another word.”

  My body felt like it was shutting down, one system at a time. My brain couldn’t handle everything that had been thrown at it tonight. My emotions were shredded, especially after the phone call I’d just had with my brother. Aunt Jackie had to tell him what happened because I couldn’t force myself to say the words.

  I can’t take any more.

  Numbness swept over me, and I embraced it.

  “Whit? Baby? Asa said you were here. I was already almost to Gable when he called.”

  The voice was so familiar, but my brain felt like it was slogging through mud as I tried to identify it.

  “What are you doing here? How did you—” Jackie sputtered as I looked up at the person standing in the doorway.

  Ricky.

  His gaz
e locked on the two sheet-covered bodies. “Fuck. Fuck.” Ricky covered his mouth like he was going to puke. “Shit, they’re really—”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, sounding like a zombified version of myself.

  He stepped toward me. “I got on a plane as soon as I got your letter. I had a shitty layover, otherwise I would’ve been here sooner.” His gaze cut back to the bodies. “Asa just told me about . . . Fuck. I’m so sorry, Whit.”

  Ricky came to me and dropped to his knees at my feet. When he wrapped both arms around me and laid his head in my lap, I was too frozen to react. I didn’t understand why he was here, but maybe that was because I didn’t understand anything right now.

  I let Ricky hold me as he apologized over and over.

  “You need to keep walking, boy.”

  Aunt Jackie barked at someone, and my head jerked toward the doorway. Just before she pushed the door closed, my gaze collided with a tortured hazel one.

  Lincoln.

  A new storm of emotions rolled through me. I didn’t know where one ended and the next began.

  Pain. Regret. Loss.

  What was broken tonight could never be repaired.

  A Gable and a Riscoff could never be together. Fate would never let it happen.

  4

  Whitney

  Present day

  “What have you done?”

  The accusation in Lincoln’s voice—the voice that just promised me a new beginning—shreds me.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He holds out his phone, shoving it toward my face. The damning headline is at the top in bold.

  * * *

  Ricky Rango’s Estate Claims He Was the True Riscoff Heir

  * * *

  I tear my gaze from the words and look back up at Lincoln. “You think—”

  “I don’t know what to think, Whitney. You were his wife. You have to tell me what the hell is going on.”

  I wish I could. I reread the headline before Lincoln lowers his phone. Any words I might try to speak get caught in my throat.

  I look up at him, still attempting to form a response, but from the look on Lincoln’s face, it doesn’t matter. He’s already tried and convicted me. Again.

  Today, for a second, I thought I might not actually be cursed.

  Wrong.

  “Say something. Anything,” he says as his phone vibrates again. He never looks away from my face, expecting me to have some kind of answer when I have nothing to give him.

  I’m so tired of being found guilty of crimes I didn’t commit.

  Self-disgust, for letting this happen again, washes over me. I’m the only one who can allow someone to make me feel this way, and I’m done.

  I straighten my shoulders. “I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing.”

  He steps toward me, confusion creasing his brow. “Then—”

  I hold up a hand to silence him as hysterical laughter bubbles up and spills from my lips. I don’t care if I sound crazy. I don’t care about anything but getting the hell out of here before he makes me feel any worse on a day that’s already predisposed to be awful.

  “You know what?” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.

  “What?”

  “I already know how this little scene ends.” I wave my hand between us. “So I’m gonna save you the trouble. You don’t need to throw me out, because I’m gone.”

  I spin on my heel and head for the door. My shoes are nowhere to be found. Again. God, why is my life one big disaster repeating itself over and over?

  I yank the massive glass door open just as Lincoln grabs my wrist.

  “Whitney, wait—”

  “Don’t touch me.” I shake him off and step outside. “I’m done doing anything you ask. You don’t trust me? Then you don’t fucking deserve anything from me.”

  I slam the door behind me. Three steps down the driveway, all the morally outraged stiffness fades from the set of my shoulders, and tears track down my face.

  Every step of my bare feet on the asphalt reminds me that I never learn.

  But this time I will.

  I make the vow to myself as I walk away from Lincoln and out to whatever bullshit life throws at me next.

  I just don’t expect life to throw more bullshit at me so soon.

  When I reach the final turn in the driveway, the dull roar starts.

  What in the ever-loving hell?

  Cameras flash above and through the black bars of Lincoln’s gate, capturing my walk of shame.

  No. Not again.

  My stomach drops when the paparazzi gathered there recognize me.

  “Oh my God.”

  “That’s her!”

  “It’s Whitney Rango!”

  How in God’s name did the vultures find Lincoln so quickly? We’re not in LA, and these aren’t reporters from the Gable Miner.

  The story he showed me must have broken early this morning or late last night for them to be here by now.

  “Whitney, are you and Lincoln Riscoff together?”

  “Did you know that your husband was really a Riscoff?”

  “Did you kill your husband so Lincoln could inherit?”

  “How long has your affair with Lincoln Riscoff been going on?”

  With every question they hurl like daggers, I want to turn around and run in the other direction. But I can’t. There’s nowhere to go but back to Lincoln’s front door, and my pride won’t allow that.

  “Is it true that your dad killed Lincoln’s father when he tried to run away with your mother?”

  The last question is like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t surprise me that they latched onto that nugget.

  “No comment,” I tell them as I take another step forward.

  A rock digs into the ball of my foot, and I hop backward. It’s like my body knows better than I do that I can’t walk through that gate and face them. But what other choice do I have?

  An Escalade slows as it turns off Gable Road and into the driveway blocked by the press.

  Great. Now they’re bringing in the big guns.

  I stand frozen in the middle of the driveway, contemplating running into the woods. At least, until the Escalade’s driver rolls down his window and orders them away.

  The reporters at the gate don’t listen. The Escalade moves forward, making it clear the driver has no problem running them over if they won’t get out of his way.

  That’s when I realize it’s not more press. Only someone with the name Riscoff would dare run someone over in broad daylight, in front of a crowd of cameras. It takes a lifetime to build up that level of arrogance.

  The gate swings open, and shockingly, the reporters don’t dart inside. They must be veterans, or at least well-versed in the consequences of trespassing.

  The Escalade rolls to a stop beside me and the back window rolls down.

  Commodore.

  “I don’t want to know why you’re here, but get in.”

  I’m officially caught between a rock and a hard place. Story of my life. Who would I rather face? Lincoln or the patriarch of his family?

  I remember that night when he helped me up out of the dirt at the cabin and drove me home. Commodore wasn’t cruel like I’d expected him to be. I decide to take my chances with him.

  It’s the only way I can salvage my pride and escape the press.

  I round the SUV and enter the back seat from the other side. Reporters shout questions at me, but I tune them out—a skill I’ve honed over the last decade but didn’t know I’d need again so soon.

  When I shut the door, it’s blissfully quiet inside.

  “Martin, take us home.”

  I jerk my head sideways to look at the old man. “I’m not going to your house.”

  He raises a snowy white eyebrow. “You’re in my car. You go where I take you, Ms. Gable.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but he continues.

  “Do you really think the press hasn’t figured out where your aunt liv
es? No one will dare set foot on my property. I’d shoot them myself.”

  He has a point, even though I don’t want to admit it. I offer up another solution.

  “Drop me off at Magnus’s. No one will bother me there or he’ll shoot them.”

  Commodore studies me. “Fine.”

  As Martin drives through the gate, I keep my face pointed straight ahead, unwilling to look at them, even though they can’t see me through the tinted windows.

  “Would you care to tell me what the hell is going on?” Commodore asks. “Because we have quite the mess on our hands this morning, and it’s all because of your late husband’s estate.”

  “I saw the headline.”

  “And?”

  I turn to look at the cagey old man. “At this point, I’m guessing you know more than I do. I’m not the executor of Ricky’s estate.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Then who is?”

  I’m somewhat surprised he doesn’t already know. I thought Commodore Riscoff knew everything.

  “Ricky’s mom.”

  5

  Lincoln

  “Fuck!” I slap my hand against the back of the door Whitney walked out of, not knowing what the hell to think. She wouldn’t defend herself, and to me, that implies guilt.

  But I don’t want to believe that. I can’t believe that.

  Then again, who the hell else could have done this? She was married to Ricky Rango. She has to be in charge of his estate. Right?

  I head for the bedroom, throw on some clothes, and snag my keys from the counter in the kitchen.

  Last time I sent her running, I was young and stupid, and I waited too long to go after her. This time, I’m not making the same mistake.

  Five minutes from the time Whitney slammed the door, I’m in my Range Rover, hauling ass down my driveway . . . just in time to see my gate close behind a familiar black Escalade as it cuts through a throng of reporters.