Reveling in Sin Read online

  “No problem at all. I’m still writing my report, so I can’t give you all the details, but I’ve made notes so—”

  “Sit down, Bard,” Commodore says, interrupting the coroner. “What the hell is going on here, and why didn’t you come to us directly instead of giving the transplant coordinator information that could be damaging to my family?”

  I look skyward, wishing that Commodore wouldn’t put our guest on the defensive before he has a chance to tell us a goddamned thing.

  “Well, I . . . You know . . .”

  I intervene, calming Bard’s flustered nerves and sputtered words. “We understand that your first responsibility is to make sure you follow protocol, Dr. Bard. Please excuse my grandfather; he’s very upset about my mother’s death, and we all want to understand exactly what’s going on here. My mother would’ve wanted to help as many people as possible with her passing, and we’re confused about what could have possibly prevented her tissue from being acceptable.” I may be laying it on thick about my mother, but Bard doesn’t need to know the truth.

  The coroner’s posture relaxes after my explanation, but his worried gaze still cuts to Commodore, like he’s expecting the royal inquisition.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Dr. Bard. Can I get you a drink?” I ask.

  “I’m still technically on the clock, so I shouldn’t.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know. Sometimes a little Scotch goes a long way to making the end of the day bearable.”

  His shoulders lift to around his ears, and just as I expect, he relents. “Maybe just a splash.”

  Commodore sits stone-faced behind the desk as I pour and then take the seat beside Dr. Bard. It feels a little like good cop/bad cop, but then again, that’s life with my grandfather.

  “Why don’t we cut to the chase, Bard,” Commodore says. “What was in Sylvia’s system that made her tissue bad?”

  “It wasn’t bad, per se,” Bard says.

  “What my grandfather means to ask is, what exactly prevented it from being acceptable to donate?” I clarify his question, sliding into my good-cop role.

  Bard takes a sip of the Scotch. “If there’s any chance that someone is using illicit drugs or had some kind of opiate addiction, we automatically disqualify them. We’ve had some issues in the past, and it’s one of our bright-line rules now.”

  “Drug user? Opiate addict? My mother?” Shock permeates my tone. “What the hell would make you think that?” And the good-cop portion of this session is over.

  “We found evidence of a highly addictive painkiller in her bloodstream that was never prescribed to her, according to the medical records we reviewed.”

  I can’t for the life of me picture my mother popping pills, but then I remember my conversation with McKinley. If my mother had any kind of drug problem, Harrison would know, and we still haven’t been able to track him down.

  “What did you find?” I ask, my tone demanding.

  “Fentanyl.”

  “What?” Commodore asks. “Where would she get it?”

  “I was worried about this.” Bard looks at me and then my grandfather, his expression concerned. The glass of Scotch dangles in his hand. “You didn’t know. And . . .”

  “What?” I snap.

  “From the hospital chart, I understand it was assumed that Mrs. Riscoff died of a heart attack.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” I say.

  The coroner slides the glass onto the desk and sits straighter in his chair. “The hospital was incorrect. Based on the tox screen, her cause of death was an overdose.”

  My heart pounds in my ears. “An overdose? On fentanyl?”

  The coroner nods, and I drop my head into my hands. Holy fucking hell. This can’t be happening.

  I lift my chin and meet Bard’s gaze. “Is there any possibility it wasn’t an overdose?”

  Bard shakes his head. “No. None at all. That’s the official cause of death.”

  “But is there a chance it wasn’t self-inflicted? Could someone else have given the drug to her without her knowledge?”

  Bard’s bushy eyebrows dive together. “I suppose . . . that could be possible, even though in my experience, it’s highly unlikely. I know families don’t want to think that their loved ones could have been hiding this kind of behavior, but—”

  “But there’s a chance my mother was murdered. Isn’t that right?”

  The coroner meets my gaze, his face pale. “Yes, Mr. Riscoff. Even though it’s not probable, it is possible.”

  24

  Whitney

  Lincoln comes into the library where I’m writing and McKinley is working, and he looks like he’s gone ten rounds with the champ in the last few hours.

  I bolt out of the window seat I’ve taken over, sending papers flying, and rush across the room to him. “What’s wrong?”

  His haggard expression leads me to come to only one conclusion. Something awful has happened.

  “What happened?” McKinley asks, rising from her laptop.

  When I reach him, he wraps one arm around me and squeezes tight. Over my shoulder, he looks at his sister.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. There’s a chance that Mother was murdered.”

  My heart drops to the intricate rug covering the floor, and McKinley’s gasp echoes from the high ceilings.

  “Murdered? No. That’s not possible. How could that be possible? Who? Why?”

  Lincoln holds out his other arm and his sister comes toward him, walking slowly, like her brain isn’t functioning completely right.

  She shakes her head. “No. No. That’s not possible.”

  “We don’t know anything for sure yet, except the fact that it wasn’t a heart attack. It was an overdose of fentanyl.”

  “Fentanyl?” I stiffen in Lincoln’s hold. “Are you sure?”

  He nods gravely. “Why?”

  “Because that’s how Ricky died.”

  Lincoln’s arm falls away from where he was cradling me against his chest. “Fuck. I forgot.”

  McKinley’s mouth drops open as she meets my gaze. “I thought he died of a heroin overdose.”

  “Heroin mixed with fentanyl. When he was in rehab, I learned that it was fairly common for people to use both, but fentanyl is so much more potent and deadly. And it’s legal if you have a prescription, which is absolutely mind-blowing.”

  “This seems like a hell of a coincidence.” Commodore’s deep voice comes from behind us as his power chair rolls into the room.

  I turn to face the old man. His dark gaze is as hard as granite, and his expression says I’m the enemy again. Fear that Ricky could take this from me too, just because he couldn’t control himself around drugs, rips through my system. I stiffen and stare down the Riscoff patriarch.

  “I didn’t kill my husband, if that’s what you’re asking. I wasn’t there. I never saw the drugs, never touched them. There was literally no way in hell for me to make that happen. I didn’t have anything to do with Sylvia’s death either. I swear to God.”

  He leans back in his chair, his good arm crossed over his sling as he studies me. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I’m equally afraid he will and won’t find it.

  Lincoln turns to face his grandfather. “What the hell are you getting at?”

  “I might be an old man, but even I can see that two overdoses with the same drug, this close together and with people who have connections in common, doesn’t seem like an accident. Sylvia was murdered, and I’m willing to put money on it that the same person might have killed them both.”

  “I didn’t kill either of them.” My tone holds all the righteous determination I can muster.

  “Do you have proof?”

  25

  Lincoln

  My jaw clenches as my grandfather stares Whitney down. I’m proud to see her holding strong, but she shouldn’t have to be strong. Especially not here, where she should feel safe and protected. I’m not going
to let anyone, including my own family, attack her ever again.

  “She doesn’t need proof, Commodore. She didn’t do it, so back the fuck off.”

  My grandfather drops his good arm and uses it to maneuver his chair to face me. “Are you willing to bet everything on that? On her?”

  I take a step toward him. “Absolutely.”

  The silence in the room is deafening as I wait for Commodore to make his pronouncement. But it doesn’t matter what he says . . . I will stand by Whitney, whether it’s in this house or as we walk away together from everything I’ve ever known.

  “Good. I’m glad you have no doubts. And for the record, I wasn’t accusing her.”

  “Then what the hell was that?” I ask as Commodore smiles.

  “Enlightening. Now we need to figure out who the hell could have done this, or if Sylvia was much better at hiding things than any of us thought.”

  “What do you mean, the lawyer said he doesn’t know if Mrs. Rango had a grandchild? Shouldn’t he have asked his client whose paternity they were trying to establish?” I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it for a moment like I don’t understand the language the private investigator is speaking. “How could the lawyer even file the suit without knowing something like that?”

  The investigator laughs. “If you saw this guy’s office, you wouldn’t be surprised. He’s got a fancy address, but it’s a closet, and I’m not even sure he passed the bar exam. He’s as big of a shyster as the lawyer who never filed the divorce papers for your dad. I’ll keep digging, though.”

  The reminder that my father couldn’t even manage to hire a lawyer who would actually follow through on filing for divorce leaves a bad taste in my mouth. How the hell could he have been so stupid? My tone is harsher than it should be when I reply.

  “Do not fuck this up. Chase every lead. If there’s a chance there is a child out there, we need to know.”

  “Yes, sir. If the kid exists, I’ll find him or her.”

  I end the call and immediately go looking for my grandfather.

  After Bard delivered the news about the overdose, Commodore put Whitney and me on the defensive and then retired to the smoking room for a drink and a cigar. I turned down his offer in favor of not smelling like an ashtray when I finally get a chance to have dinner with Whitney later. A dinner the kitchen is preparing for us to be served in—I glance at my watch—exactly three hours.

  I open the door to the smoking room and step inside. Commodore has an old leather photo album open on the table in front of him.

  “May I come in?”

  He looks up. “By all means.”

  As I move closer, I get a better look at the picture my grandfather had been staring at. It’s one I don’t remember. In it, Commodore looked to be about my father’s age when he died, and my father was still young and gangly. He looked a lot like I did at that age, which is a sobering thought.

  “Reminiscing?”

  “Wondering how the hell it all went so wrong,” he replies with a puff of smoke. “I should’ve been a better father. Maybe none of this would have ever happened if I’d been different.”

  Hearing Commodore sound anything other than completely confident throws me off-balance.

  “I don’t know how you were when my father was growing up, but I know how you were with me. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without your guidance, because I sure as hell didn’t follow my father’s example.”

  Commodore lifts his gaze to mine, and for the first time, he looks all of his ninety years. “I’d like to think I learned the second time around. I knew Roosevelt wouldn’t be the father he needed to be.”

  “As much as I don’t want to bring this up right now, sir, we have another problem.”

  Commodore takes a long draw on the cigar and exhales smoke rings. “Bring it on, boy. None of this has killed me yet, so it’s unlikely whatever you’ve got to say will.”

  “Our investigator has determined that Renee Rango never told her lawyer if there was a child when she had him start pursuing the paternity test. He assumed, but there’s absolutely no proof that a child actually exists. And since Ricky Rango was cremated, we may never know for sure now if he was a Riscoff.”

  Commodore’s fist clenches around the cigar before it comes down on the wooden table with a thwack hard enough to make the leather photo album jump.

  “I fucking knew it. That is why I didn’t settle. She was after the money and didn’t have a damned shred of evidence to prove she deserved it.” My grandfather shakes his head as he raises the cigar back to his mouth. He clamps his teeth around it, and to my surprise, he smiles. “She doesn’t have jack shit. That boy wasn’t your father’s son, and there’s no kid either. I knew it.”

  “Then why did you even consider exhuming my father’s body?”

  Commodore’s self-satisfied smile widens and the cigar hangs over his lip. “I was going to call her bluff. Now we don’t need to.”

  26

  Whitney

  When Lincoln comes to our room, he looks like he’s returning from fighting a war, not spending the day at his luxurious family estate.

  “What happened now? Was there something else?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but from what the investigator says, it’s pretty clear that Renee Rango was full of it. There’s no evidence Ricky ever had a kid. She dragged all of us through this for nothing.”

  Of course she did. And she might have lied to me about Ricky being a Riscoff too. I let her threaten me and take away ten years of the life I wanted all because she was after money. Part of me is relieved that it might finally be over, but the other part . . . the other part is done.

  “All this destruction and loss just for money?” I sit on the bed, lift my knees to my chest, and wrap my arms around them. I’m officially losing it, because tears I didn’t know were forming spout from my eyes and track down my face. “How dare she?”

  Lincoln sits on the bed beside me and pulls me into his lap. “I’m so sorry, Blue. So fucking sorry. You wanted peace, and you haven’t found any since you came home. I promise this is all going to be over soon.”

  I lean against him, tears falling for all the lives that have been lost so senselessly. “It’s not about me. It’s about everyone. She ruined so many lives . . . all for money. It’s disgusting.” A hurricane of emotions threatens to drag me under, and there’s only one way I know how to stop it. “I know you made dinner plans, but . . .”

  Lincoln’s hazel gaze meets mine. “Just tell me what you need. Dinner can wait.”

  “I need to get it all out.” My fingers flex, and he knows exactly what I mean.

  “I’ll get you paper and pencils. And I’ll be here when you’re done.”

  He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I wrap my arms around him and hug tight.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” I whisper. “But I have to do something before it sucks me back under.”

  “I know, Blue. You have your words, and I have you. I think it’s fair. I’ll be right back.”

  Lincoln brings me a blank notebook and four pencils, and then leaves the room with the promise that he won’t go far.

  I lose track of time writing lines about how I feel. The storm raging in this town. The secrets, the lies, the death and pain. I have to purge it from me, like it’s some kind of toxin infecting my bloodstream more every second I don’t put the feelings down on paper.

  Every page I flip, I feel a small measure of calm return, and my hand trembles a little less.

  When my fingers cramp and my wrist aches, I lay the last pencil down and can finally breathe again. I inhale slowly and let the breath out.

  No matter what happens, we will be fine. I repeat the mantra over and over.

  Nothing can tear us apart. Not now. Lincoln and I are stronger together than we are apart, and I’m not the Whitney Gable who runs and hides.

  Not anymore.

  Now I’m the Whitney Gable who stands beside the man she loves and f
ights when the world tries to break us.

  With that vow in my mind, I leave the room to find Lincoln sitting outside the door.

  “You really didn’t go far, did you?”

  “I’ll never go further from you than I have to.”

  I hold out my hand, and he rises.

  “I love you, Whitney. Promise me—”

  I press a finger to his lips. “You don’t even need to ask. I swear that no matter what comes next, you and I are rock solid. I’m done running. I know where I belong, and that’s with you.”

  His eyes close as he whispers, “Thank you, God.” And he crushes me to his chest. “We’re not going to make it to dinner.”

  Lincoln pushes open the door of the bedroom that I just exited, and together we stumble back inside. He kicks the door shut. We strip each other naked like two crazy people, and there’s only one thought on my mind.

  “I need you now. Right now. Fast. Hard.”

  “Whatever you need, I got you.” Lincoln grips my hips and lifts me so my legs wrap around his hips. He backs me up until my spine touches the wall. “This is gonna be rough.”

  “I don’t care. That’s what I want.”

  With my body pinned between his hips and the wallcovering, Lincoln sweeps his thumb over my lower lips to find me soaked.

  “How?” He lifts his gaze to mine.

  “The last song I wrote . . . it was about us.”

  “And it made you wet?”

  I nod.

  “I don’t know what I did to deserve you in my life, but I’m not going to ask questions. Not now.”

  “Good, because I’m done talking.”

  Lincoln’s done talking too. He positions his cock at my entrance, and I grip his shoulders tighter as he plunges inside me with a single stroke.

  I moan as my body stretches to take him. Exquisite pleasure mixed with the slightest burn of pain. It feels so perfect, and reminds me of the most important things . . .