Page 49

Rhue

I don’t know what I was expecting to find in the file, or what I thought I’d be able to do with the information in it.

I expected it to be sort of like school, with a chapter I’d have to read through a few times before figuring out what information mattered and what didn’t; but her name popped out at me like flashing neon.

Sibel Osman, my mother’s personal assistant up until the day she died (and for a week after, putting her affairs in order); and, more importantly, a fairly recent entry in my mother’s diary.

I check my mirror, feeling a little tense.

Knowing that my dad touched her, too, fills me with a dark rage that I struggle to keep from overwhelming my rational thoughts.

I didn’t know her well, but she was part of the household during the workweek, handling my mother’s business while she was in her office with clients. She was always friendly to me. I had a crush on her for a long time. I wonder if dad does that on purpose—targets women he knows I’m attracted to.

Is it some kind of dominance game?

Some way of winning a competition against a younger male, like an aging lion?

I shake the thoughts away before they can affect my temper and check my mirror.

I need to stay calm. I’m driving with the file open on the seat beside me, her address highlighted in yellow.

The phone number recorded in the file is no longer hers; when I called it, a woman who was very sick of getting calls for Sibel answered and informed me, quite tersely, that I had the wrong number.

Ahead, Lake Ontario glimmers in the distance. It’s surprising to me that a former PA like Sibel Osman can afford a house in this area. Mom must have paid her exceptionally well—or maybe Sibel’s into crypto or something.

The back of my neck tingles and I glance at all my mirrors, then turn to check my blind spot. Everything seems normal—but the closer I get to Sibel’s neighborhood, the more exposed I feel. I should have rented a car.

I deliberately rip my attention back to the road ahead.

The neighborhood is beautiful. Ridiculously quiet with incredibly crisp, clean air.

The difference is immediately noticeable as I turn left onto Beach Avenue and find a nice wide spot on Sibel’s block where I can pull over.

One deep breath, and I’m reminded of how wonderful this place truly is—even if assholes like my father have a shot at leadership.

Shaking my head slowly, I take a moment to look around. My phone pings, and I check the screen. It’s Madison, asking if I’m free for a phone call. Her name on my screen makes my heart flutter like a frantic, drunken butterfly. She keeps doing that to me.

I don’t bother to text back, I just hit the little phone icon and let it ring.

“I guess that’s a yes,” she answers. Her voice has the echoic quality of speakerphone.

“Figured I’d save us a step,” I tell her. “Who’s all there?”

“What? Just me. Oh—I’m driving, that’s why you’re on speaker. I’m heading back to Rochester.”

My heart leaps. “Well hey, you want to get that dinner we never got around to yesterday?”

She hesitates. I get it—my family hasn’t been great to her, and I’ve been an ass—but it still sucks to feel like she’s afraid of me. It’s my own damn fault, I remind myself. It’s up to me to make it right.

“Maybe,” she says. “But listen—the reason I called—wait. Are you alone right now?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. But the back of my neck tingles. I can’t shake this feeling that I’m being followed, but I can’t see anyone or anything out of the ordinary. It’s the weekend so the beach park is full, though mostly with picnics and barbeques. It’s too cold for swimming.

The restaurants are open, as are the bars. No one is looking my way. There’s no suspicious-looking vehicle lurking, either. I might be paranoid—but I have every reason to be. My father would rip my head off if he knew what I was doing.

“I’m just sitting here in my car,” I tell her. “Not driving, though.”

“Cool, cool,” she says absently.

“What is it, Madison? What’s wrong?”

She hisses out a tense sigh. “Your dad knows I talked,” she says. “He’s threatening my dad. I’ve only got a few hours left to agree to his terms before he does something drastic.”

My heart pounds and I sit up straighter, laser-focused. “What is he threatening?”

“He said dad’ll lose everything,” she says. “All he has is his business.”

No, that’s not all he has. Not by a long shot. “And you,” I point out.

She’s silent. After a moment, I can hear her quietly crying.

“Hey, focus on the road,” I tell her sharply. “Don’t kill yourself for him, for Christ’s sake. Okay, okay, what are his terms?”

“He wants me to sign an NDA, leave school, and never talk to you or Laura ever again. There might be something else, I don’t know, I’m so scared it’s scrambling my brain.”

“Those terms are completely unacceptable. You know that, right?”

“I mean—Rhue, my dad’s worked so hard to keep his business going and take care of us after mom left. He can’t—I can’t let all of that be for nothing. I can’t—I can’t leave him. I can’t let him lose everything. I can’t, Rhue.”

I want to argue with her. I want to tell her that she’s just as important as her dad—more important, as far as I’m concerned. But I don’t want to upset her any more than she already is—she’s still driving, and it’s a long way from Ithaca to Rochester.

“Okay, look. When does he want an answer?”

“Five o’clock.”

I check the time. 2:16. “When will you reach Rochester?”

“Right around four.”

“So you have an hour to do whatever it is you’re going to do,” I mutter. “Goddammit. Wait—you said he texted you? Shit, take it to the cops! They can’t turn a blind eye to timestamped evidence like that, can they?”

“I think he texted from a burner,” she says defeatedly. “And he never used his name, or yours, or Laura’s. From an outsider’s perspective, these texts could come from anybody.”

Of course. “He’s a bastard,” I tell her. “A smart bastard, but a bastard. All right, look. I don’t want you getting yourself worked up while you’re trying to drive. Meet me at your dad’s place when you get to town.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding relieved. “And then?”

“I don’t know yet,” I tell her. “But we’ll figure it out. Have a little faith in me. It’s going to be okay, I promise. Are you good? Dry eyes, clear head?”

“Close enough,” she says with a wet little laugh.

“Good. Stay safe. I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up, seething. If I thought dad would blow up if he knew I was messing with his past exploits, he’ll explode twice as hard if he catches me mitigating his revenge on Madison.

“Well, then, I’d better not get caught.”

I check the address one last time then close the folder, match the number to a house across the street, and step out of the car.

Her place sits on a little swell of hill, set way back from the road with a front yard full of trees and a flight of driftwood stairs leading up from the sidewalk.

It seems more like a fortress than a beachside cottage.

I ring the doorbell twice and wait, my back straight as I try to put on a friendly half-smile.

My heart is racing. I’ve never done something like this before, digging into a thing that my father wants to keep buried.

For the first time in my life, I’m about to ask all the right questions, and I’m not sure that I’m ready to hear the answers. Then the door opens.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Hi, Sibel.”

She frowns. “Rhue. What are you doing here?”

“Yes. Hi. Sorry to show up unannounced like this, but I needed to talk to you and your number wasn’t working.”

“I changed it,” she says, her lip curling. “Changed my address, too. Who told you where to find me, anyway?”

Hell, I can’t tell her that. “Let’s just say I know the right people. How’s that?”

“You sound just like your father,” she says, unable to hide her disgust. “Why can’t you people just leave me alone?”

Sibel slams the door in my face. I take a step back, but as I hear her fumbling with the lock, fury flashes through me. I knock on the door a little harder than necessary.

“Go away!”

“I’m only here to talk, Sibel. Please.”

“Screw this, you’re trespassing. I’m calling the cops!”

Damn it, that’s the last thing either of us needs.

“If you ever cared for my mother, even a little bit, you won’t do that,” I reply firmly. “Please listen to what I have to say before anything else happens. Don’t you think you owe that to her, Sibel?”

Silence answers me. Tension prickles down my spine as that feeling of getting watched, that anxiety of getting caught, redoubles.

I glance around, but all I see is a grocery delivery driver unloading their goods and an old man tending to the edges of his lawn.

I bet she’s calling the cops right now. I should leave—I can’t help Madison if I’m locked up—damn it, Sibel was my best lead.

Just as I’m turning to leave, she yanks the door open. She has her phone in her hand, but the screen is dark. “Screw you, Rhue, for bringing her up.”

“Sorry.”

“You can come in for three minutes,” she says. “I’m setting a timer. If you push it past that three-minute mark, I’m calling the cops, and no amount of emotional blackmail will change my mind.”

“Thank you.” Internally, I’m wincing. She’s cutting at me every way she can—she must think I’m following in my dad’s footsteps. I wonder if Madison thinks that way, too.

Sibel closes the door behind me and marches toward the big, granite and chrome kitchen. I follow her. She twists an egg timer and slams it on the counter between us.

“Three minutes. Go.”

Crossing her arms, she takes a couple of steps back and settles by the sink.

“I’m looking for the truth about my mother’s death—and I think you might know something about it.”

“Why would I? I wasn’t even there,” she says, her voice shaking.