Page 24 of These Summer Storms

Coward.

“Managing director of what?” Alice asked.

Sam replied. “Of Dad’s right hand. The son he wished he had.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Elisabeth muttered, shifting in her chair as Emily made a comforting sound in Sam’s direction.

Emily had more patience than Greta, who’d clearly heard this particular song before, and said, “Do we have to do this now, Sam?”

“No. By all means, let Jack say his piece.” Sam raised his hands. “He hates me, by the way.”

Jack returned his attention to the matter at hand, as though Sam hadn’t spoken, which Alice would have appreciated for the way it must have infuriated her brother—if she hadn’t decided there was nothing about this man worthy of appreciation. “As I was saying—”

The door to the room opened, revealing Sam’s wife, an impossibly slim white woman dressed head to toe in polo chic from Ralph Lauren circa 2004, white button-down, tan jodhpurs, and knee-high riding boots, her golden-blond hair pulled up in a high, tight ponytail. The only thing missing was a crop, which was too bad, as Alice was certain someone in the room was bound to require correction soon.

“Lovely. Here’s Sila,” Elisabeth said in a tone that to the untrained ear might have sounded warm but was absolutely not. “Why do you look as though you’ve been riding, dear? Have we imported horses?”

“Oh, Elisabeth!” Sila’s high-pitched laugh was wildly out of place in the room. “You’re such a card!”

The sisters shared a look at the words. Sila Evans had been raised in a gleaming penthouse apartment in midtown with all the trappings of new money made on the stock market. Her father, Mitchell, started in investments when five thousand dollars was enough to become hundreds of millions, after which he’d married Sila’s mother (thirty years his junior) and made sure his only daughter didn’t ever have to pretend at being a princess because she believed she was one already.

Mitchell’s connections in New York and Silicon Valley had thrown Sila into the Storm children’s orbit, where she’d aimed for Sam (more than once) and eventually hit her mark. A surprise pregnancy arrived with perfect timing, and the pair married in a quick summer wedding splashed across the society pages, mere months before the Evans family found itself splashed across very different newsprint; it turned outMitchell Evans had been the architect of one of the largest Ponzi schemes in history and was now serving 190 years in federal prison.

Sila had dropped the Evans from her name as quickly as possible, blithely expecting the Storms to clasp her to their bosom. If Elisabeth’s baleful gaze was any indication, there hadn’t been any movement on that front in the last five years.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Sila said, absolutely hoping she was interrupting. She squeezed onto the center cushion between Sam’s sprawl and Alice, fashioned a sympathetic look, and set a hand to Alice’s thigh. “Hi,” she mouthed, “we didn’t think we’d see you!”

Alice offered a tight smile before her sister-in-law, ever undeterred, delivered one of her trademark whispers to Sam—too quiet to hear without studious attention and simultaneously too loud to ignore. “What’s Jack doing here?”

Great. EvenSilaknew who Jack was.

Alice looked to Jack. “So, you worked for our father, and he sent you to meet with us the day after his death?”

He nodded, the words spurring him into action. “It goes without saying that I wish I were here under different circumstances. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The whole room ignored him—Storms rarely made time for platitudes. Sam pointed to the envelopes in Jack’s hand. “What are those?”

He lifted them. “Letters.”

The whole room froze. Alice could hear her breath, reed thin.

“From Dad?” Greta clarified.

“For you, yes,” Jack replied.

Her father had left them letters. Of course he had. If anyone in the world liked a dramatic entrance, it was Franklin Storm. Why not a dramatic exit? But how? And why? And why did thisstrangerhave them?

God, she’d slept in the same room as her father’s final words the night before, and she hadn’t known.

“That bastard,” Sam said softly, extending a hand. “Let’s see them.”

Jack shook his head. “Not yet.”

Everyone’s eyes went wide.

“Why not?” Sila asked.

Jack didn’t look at her. “I should explain why I’m here.”