Page 163 of Dying to Meet You

Thinking of you,

—Z

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 howsorry 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. “Wouldyouwant 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 illbefore?”

“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’veofficially 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.”