Page 66 of Family Affair

“Nothing yet. But I have a baaaad feeling, brother.”

And suddenly, so did he.

But Christ, Ward wasn’t dead, no, he couldn’t be. World without Ward was surreal, it simply didn’t make sense.

He forced himself to concentrate. “Has the old story been exhumed yet?” he asked Ross.

“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Here’s my warning to you. Williamson was killed at about nine o’clock last night.” Trust Ross to know the details as soon as the police knew them. “You may want to think about where you were at that general time frame. In case you’re asked.”

Tension stiffened his shoulders as Cade drove through the wrought iron gates of his parents’ estate.

After half-a-mile of canopied driveway, the house popped into view. The mansion looked lovely, he supposed, to anyone who’d never lived there. To someone like Coco, who would no doubt be charmed by how the evening sun bathed it in warm hues. So homey, so inviting. Such a joke.

Though Cade grew up in this house, he never thought of it as home. Too many arguments had been carried out within its walls. Too many fights.

Gaining entry by punching in the code to the electronic lock on the front door, he heard them arguing from the doorstep.

“How the fuck would I know? I was trashed!” Dan’s booming bass echoed all the way to the foyer.

“It’s the story of your pathetic life, you useless piece of shit. Check yourself into a rehab already.” Rick’s hoarse baritone crackled with jolts of electricity.

Some things never changed, Cade thought, and the Sheffields’ argumentative practices among them. A lot of fucks, shits, and personal insults, their family’s version of constructive criticism for as long as he could remember.

He kicked the study door open with his foot.

“Oh, look. Cade’s here.” Dan was leaning against the wall, high color on his cheekbones giving away that his brother wasn’t immune to Rick’s heavy-handed disapproval.

“Well, hello there,” he said and looked over the room at large.

All men, except for Ross, were on their feet. Ross was sitting at the corner of Rick’s desk, shoulders hunched, typing on a laptop. A nearly empty bottle of Scotch and some glasses decorated the polished desk surface.

Maureen reclined in the armchair in the corner. She looked composed, but the wadded up tissues in her lap and her glassy eyes told a different story. Cade guessed she was well on her way to the lalaland, having taken a handful of her magic pills.

Rick glared at him out of his dark, almost black eyes deeply set in a strong face made dramatic by his salt and pepper hair. Except for Ross, all brothers inherited those dark eyes, the heavy build, and his wild, unpredictable temper.

Though Cade was the first to admit that being built like a brick shithouse had its advantages, he despised the Sheffield temper and had resolved early on to put a firm rein on his own volcanic nature. He hadn’t fully succeeded, but he had improved a helluva lot over the years. He had certainly far surpassed his father in terms of self control.

Rick’s glare conveyed tension and an unpleasant, oppressive suspense, the one that, had he been a child, would have been a precursor to some serious ass whipping.

“Cade,” Rick finally acknowledged him. He had no choice as Cade was standing smack in the way of his pacing. “How nice of you to grace us with your presence.”

“Sorry I’m late. I’ve been busy.”

“Do tell. Doing what?”

“Watched the news. Went to the morgue.”

Rick’s jaw dropped. “The morgue?”

“Yeah. You know, the morgue, where dead people reside. Where Ward Williamson is currently stored. Or what’s left of him.”

All movement suspended, everyone stared at him.

“The morgue has visitation hours?” Alex finally asked in a choked voice and moved to pour himself a shot with stiff gestures.

“They do if you find a right janitor to approach. Cost me fifty bucks to get in.”

Rick squinted. “Help me understand. You wanted to make sure Ward’s really dead? That it was really him? Or you hoped he’d rise and communicate to you some otherworldly wisdom?”