Page 67

Sunday

Rowan

The next few days are rough. I spend too much time sitting on the couch, waiting for my next dose of Advil.

Harrison putters around the house, trying to make me comfortable. He feeds me inventive sandwiches, a delicious gazpacho, and more of those homemade crackers. And does an admirable job ignoring my terrible mood.

I know I’m supposed to be grateful to be alive, and I am. But my hand is often throbbing, and I feel clumsy and helpless.

And there’s an endless stream of visitors. Detective Fry interviews me again. The police are finally digging into the history of the Wincott Foundation and Tim’s adoption scandal. They want to build an airtight case against Beatrice. “What did she know, and how did she know it,” he explains.

I help where I can.

But then, on Sunday, someone else knocks on the door. And when Harrison goes to answer it, I see his shoulders tense up.

“Hi,” says a voice from the front stoop. “Can I come in for a second?”

“I guess,” Harrison grumbles.

He opens the door, and Hank Wincott strides in, dressed like an ad for Ralph Lauren weekend wear. He comes to an awkward stop in front of the coffee table, folding and then unfolding his arms as if he can’t decide where to put them. “Hey, Rowan.”

It’s the most uncomfortable I’ve ever seen Hank.

“Have a seat.” I indicate the nearby slipper chair.

“Thanks. So...” He sits down with a wince. “I just came to say how sorry I am and how badly I feel about everything that happened. As soon as the lawyers can draft it, the foundation will be offering you a settlement. It’ll be a generous package for your medical and recovery costs, plus lost income. And a buyout of your contract, so you don’t ever have to set foot in the mansion again. Unless you want to, of course.”

“Not fucking likely,” Harrison mutters. “Would you want to go back to work where someone tried to kill you?”

Hank winces again. “Probably not, no. But I just want to say that we’re cooperating with all requests from law enforcement. And when the lawyers are ready, you can take a look at the settlement and tell me what you think. No rush.” He rubs his neck awkwardly. “I’m just really sorry. I didn’t know Beatrice was unraveling like that.”

Something about the way he says it makes me ask a follow-up question. “Has she been mentally ill before ?”

“She’s had... manic episodes,” he says, clearing his throat. “As a teenager. But none recently. The thing is, though, anyone could hire an employee who might suddenly exhibit a grave mental illness. What I feel bad about is not realizing how she felt about the family. The Wincotts.”

“So you knew she was your cousin?” That’s the big question burning inside me.

“My first cousin once removed,” he corrects. “But, yeah, I knew she was Marcus’s daughter. My family paid for her education and gave her a job.” His ears are turning a shade of red that I’ve never seen on Hank before. “And I knew she had big ambitions. She wanted that director’s position, even though I’d always told her that it was out of the question.”

“But that’s not all she wanted, right? She was your family’s dirty little secret,” I clarify. “For her, it wasn’t just about a job.”

He sighs. “You could put it like that.”

“She wanted to be a bigger part of your family,” I press. “She wanted to be a Wincott.”

“I guess.” He shrugs. “My family has a long history, and some of it is godawful. So I didn’t truly understand her burning desire to join the clan.”

Harrison snorts.

Hank turns his attention to Harrison. “Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve officially met. I’m Hank Wincott. And according to some journalist who’s been hounding me this week...” He clears his throat again. “You and I might be related, too.”

Harrison goes still. Then his eyes flick up to Hank’s, before he looks away again. “That theory has come up,” he says. “But I don’t know.”

“You, uh, could find out,” Hank says. “Marcus Wincott obviously never anticipated DNA testing. But I’m sure I’ll be swabbing my cheek any day now when this story breaks and people wonder if Portland is full of unknown Wincotts.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Harrison says stiffly.

Hank nods. “Meanwhile, I’ll be spending the foreseeable future in rooms full of lawyers, untangling all the messes the foundation is in,” he says. “But I want you both to know that we’ll take full responsibility for whatever happened in the past.”

A girl could almost feel sorry for him. Almost. “And what about Beatrice?”

He sighs again. “The police will build their case against her—for murder, attempted murder, and some kind of drug charge.”

“Because of Laura Peebles?” I ask.

He nods. “I don’t know much about that part. But Beatrice’s lawyer will argue that she’s incompetent to stand trial, by reason of insanity.”

“A lawyer that you’re paying for?” Harrison asks.

“Well, probably. I know I’m not supposed to feel sorry for her, but somebody has to. And it’s such a waste of potential. Beatrice is smart and talented.”

“And deeply disturbed,” Harrison adds.

“True.” Hank does that thing where he rubs his neck again. “I believe her mother was mentally ill. Maybe you’ve heard the rumors, but she took her own life in the mansion.”

“Wait, did she...” My throat goes suddenly dry. “Did she go over the railing?”

Hank spreads his hands. “I can’t confirm or deny. But when I was a kid, that was the story I heard.”

“Is that why the house stood empty for so many years after Marcus died?”

“Probably. But I was thirteen when he died. Not exactly brought in on all the big family decisions.”

“You are now, though,” I point out. “And some of those family decisions are going to be examined if Beatrice goes to trial.”

“And even if she doesn’t,” Hank says, sounding resigned. He stands up. “There’s a lot to be done. You know where to find me, Rowan. I’ll have some paperwork to you in the next few days. And please don’t worry about anything job related. I’ve asked the new girl to call every contractor and let them know that we’ve hit pause on the site.”

“The new girl,” I echo, rising to walk him to the door. “What’s her name ?”

He winces. “Yeah, I’ve got to stop calling her that. Her name is Lisette. She’s still not as efficient as Beatrice used to be. But on the positive side, I don’t think she’s a murderer.”

“Hang on to her, then,” I say.

When we get to the door, Hank pauses. “Let me just say one more time that I’m sorry I embarrassed you after the dinner, too. That was very bad behavior.”

“I’ve forgotten it already.” It’s true—if only because I’ve been very busy trying not to die.

We shake hands very awkwardly, because my right hand is out of commission. And then he leaves.

Returning to the sofa, I sit down beside Harrison. He’s got his feet propped up on the coffee table and a distant look in his eye.

I take his hand in mine, which is a thing that I seem to do now. He’s basically worn me down with homemade soup and soft glances. Propping my feet up on the coffee table beside his, I ask what’s on his mind.

He strokes his thumb across my palm and doesn’t answer for a moment. “Nothing much,” he says. And it sounds a little evasive.

“Look, I know I’m the neurotic one, and you’re Mr. Cool and Collected. But a billionaire just sat here and wondered if maybe he’s your cousin. You barely blinked. And you never even said whether you thought the B. Jones on that list was your mom. Aren’t you curious? There could be a settlement for you.”

He goes quiet beside me.

“Harrison? What aren’t you saying?”

He tilts his head back and stares up at my antique tin ceiling. “Maybe I’m not curious, because I already had a hunch.”

“What? Why am I hearing about this only now?”

He reaches across the sofa and tips me carefully over, so my head is in his lap. And then he smooths my hair away from my face and starts talking. “I definitely heard the name Wincott a few times when I was growing up. Whispered conversations. Didn’t think much about it.”

“And... ?”

He shrugs. “And some guy sent us checks every month for most of my childhood. But then the checks stopped. And my mother got pretty desperate. That’s when I heard the name Wincott one more time—one night when she was on the phone. ‘That asshole died,’ she said. ‘Wincott died and I can’t make the rent.’ ”

I remember to exhale.

“So, yeah, I had a hunch that I finally knew my father’s name. But it didn’t matter, Ro. He was just a name and a check. He never once met me. Never showed up to a Little League game. Some kids are just trained not to ask, you know? You’re nobody. No father will claim you. And it’s better not to ask, because the truth won’t sound very good.”

It’s hard to swallow, because I realize I did this to Natalie, too. My silence made the topic shameful, whether I meant it to or not.

“So, yeah, I don’t feel a lot of sympathy for Beatrice. But at least I understand her deep well of crazy. She spent her life kissing up to the Wincotts, waiting for the moment they’d claim her for real. Somehow, she convinced herself that if she was a really good little soldier, they’d make her a copy of the key to the castle.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch. And then Kovak follows his own trail of breadcrumbs, tries to interview her, and says he’s going to blow her father’s reputation sky high.” He snaps his fingers. “And just like that, she breaks.”

“That sounds plausible.”

He smooths my hair away from my face. “It’s just my take. But I know what mistakes you can make when someone tells you that you don’t matter. It’s an ugly cycle. I did the same thing to you and Natalie. And I’ll always regret it. But I don’t need any of Hank’s money. I’m getting my life back together without his help.”

My eyes feel hot, because I believe him. I’m still mad that he wrote us off. But I can understand how it happened. “Seems like you’re campaigning pretty hard for Father of the Year. I think you’ll get Natalie’s vote.”

“Yours counts, too,” he says softly. “Actually, there’s something I need to show you, and I haven’t found the right moment. Can I show you now?”

“Sure, as long as it isn’t a piano concerto you want me to play.” I sit up, taking care not to bump my cast.

“Yeah, Lefty. I know.” He leaves the sofa for a minute, fetching something out of his room.

Is it weird that I’ve come to think of it as his?

He returns a moment later, holding a passport. No, it’s an old-style bankbook. But he doesn’t hand it to me. “Fifteen years ago, I did a thing, and at the time it felt like an inevitable decision. But I don’t know anymore.” He sits down and flops the booklet into my lap. “I’m not sure you heard, but your parents offered me money to sign away any parental relationship with Natalie.”

Oh . “I did know that. My mother told me.”

He rubs his forehead. “Okay, well. Your mother said it was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to do,” I repeat slowly.

“She said it would be easier on you if I broke off contact and just disappeared. That you could start over. I didn’t want her blood money, so I put it in Natalie’s name. For college. And I’ve been adding to it with my gig money, which is peanuts. But there’s, like, seven grand in there now. It’s in her name.”

I press my hands against my mouth and taste bile in the back of my throat.

He frowns. “You don’t have to give it to her now. You could wait until she’s older.”

I swallow hard and flip open the booklet with my good hand. It’s a passbook savings account from Fore River Savings Bank. The balance is around seven grand, like he said. And the most recent deposit was just last month. One hundred dollars.

The account’s owner is my daughter, with Harrison listed as the custodian.

“She told me you took the money,” I whisper. “Didn’t even put up a fight.”

“Well, I didn’t,” he says quietly. “She said that Natalie deserved a father who wasn’t behind bars. And that if you two had a real chance at happiness, it was selfish of me to stand in your way. I believed her, honey.”

“Shit.” I drop the bankbook onto the coffee table just as an inconvenient tear rolls down my face. “I loved you so much. All I needed was for you to love me back.”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “But I had a voice in my head telling me I was never good enough for you. And, uh, your mother’s actual voice saying the same thing. She’s not here to defend herself, Ro, so I feel bad saying all this. But she told me I was a terrible father.”

It’s not very hard to picture. My mother was so angry when Harrison got arrested. She raged, and said it only confirmed what she already knew about him.

“She said the right thing to do was give Natalie up. And I believed her.”

God, they said the same thing to Laura Peebles at the Magdalene Home. “I’m so sorry. I hate that she did that.”

He reaches over, puts his hands under me like a forklift, and pulls me into his lap. “She probably thought she was doing the right thing for Natalie.”

“And yet Natalie wouldn’t agree.” I tuck my head against his shoulder and relax into his arms.

He drops his head and kisses my jaw. And then my neck.

I forget what we were talking about, because he cups my chin and tastes my lips slowly. The way a vintner takes a contemplative taste of a new blend.

I wrap my good arm around him. “Harrison?”

“Mmm?” He kisses me again.

“Would you ever want to move upstairs?”

“Yeah, right now,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth. “While the kid is at work.”

“No, I meant for real.”

“How about...” He kisses my throat. “Right now, and then also later.”

“Okay. Sure.”

He stands up suddenly, keeping me tightly in his arms. “Hold on, Gallagher. Watch that hand, m’kay?”

I let him carry me toward the stairs. Both animals follow us. “Your cat sure made herself at home,” I point out as he begins the climb.

“Yeah, I still owe her fifty bucks for that,” he says.

I laugh so hard that he has trouble carrying me.