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CHAPTER 52

Bend, Oregon Thursday, August 1, 2024

MARGOLIS MANOR WAS A SPRAWLING ESTATE THAT COVERED TWO thousand acres in Bend, Oregon. It was dark by the time they arrived, and the Margolis home was brilliantly lit from above. Nora pointed out landmarks as they approached—the main home, the guest cottage, the tennis courts, the winery, and the vineyard. When the helicopter landed in a clearing a hundred yards from the pool, Sloan got the impression that this was not the first time the family had arrived at the estate in such a fashion.

The pilot shut down the engine, the copilot opened the door, and they all spilled out. Sloan took Ellis’s hand as he helped her and Nora down the steps before turning his attention to his mother, who took the stairs gingerly and relied on her son’s assistance. Two men appeared and spoke briefly with Reid before pulling luggage from the compartment. Reid Margolis led them all across the lawn, past the pool and patio, and through the back door of the home. Sloan walked into the kitchen and realized how magnificent the place was—from concrete countertops to cherry-wood cabinets and twenty-foot ceilings, the home was gorgeous.

“Welcome to Margolis Manor,” Reid said with a smile.

“Thank you,” Sloan said. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit overwhelmed at the moment.”

“We apologize for whisking you away like that,” Tilly said. “We just couldn’t believe the number of news vans parked outside the gates of our home. We knew things would only get worse, and we’re not prepared to speak with the media just yet.”

“I’m just stunned that there’s so much interest,” Sloan said.

“You shouldn’t be,” Reid said. “When you all went missing that summer, it was the biggest story in America. You’re learning about today it by paging through recorded history. We lived it. The press was incessant back then, and remained that way for years. It’s no surprise your return has caused such an uproar, and we’re not about to walk blindly into the media trap we fell for decades ago. It was, excuse me, a goddamn mess. Accusations, conspiracy theories, rumors, and flat-out lies. We’re not going to allow that same thing to happen again. We’re going to control the narrative this time around, and the best way to do that is to address the media on our terms. We’ve bought a few days by coming here, and we’ll take the weekend to figure out the best approach.”

It was not hard, Sloan thought, to see that Reid Margolis was the patriarch of the family—the one who called the shots and made the decisions.

“I’m really sorry for any problems this has caused,” Sloan said.

“Oh, stop it,” Tilly said, coming over and taking Sloan’s forearm in her soft hands. “This is not your fault, and we’d have it no other way.”

“I’m all for taking a minute to figure out our options,” Ellis said. “But we’re going to have to speak with the press at some point. Mostly they’ll want to hear from Sloan, but all of us will have to make statements. We should get our talking points laid out so we’re all on the same page.”

“For Christ’s sake, Ellis,” Reid said. “This is not trial prep. We’ll get on the same page tomorrow after I make some calls to the networks and inquire about interviews.”

“I’m not sure if this will help,” Sloan said. “But my department chair back in Raleigh is the medical consultant for NBC and HAP News. I could reach out to her and see if she could put us in touch with anyone.”

Reid nodded. “That’s a great start. I’ll make some calls of my own and we’ll see what comes of it. But that’s on the agenda for tomorrow. Right now, after that stressful exit, can I get anyone a drink? God knows I need one.”

A few minutes later, two bottles of Margolis Manor cabernet were opened, and they all sat in the living room watching American Events, during which Avery Mason recapped the details of baby Charlotte’s miraculous resurfacing after nearly thirty years. A quick perusing of the channels told them that every major network, as well as the cable news outlets, were reporting on the return of Charlotte Margolis.