Page 97 of No More Secrets

“If you say so.”

Her skin feels tight, heated. Her blouse clings to her back. This is too much. Her daughters will ruin her. Her breath shortens. They need to leave, and she needs to get out of here.

She turns and bumps into a wall.

Not a wall. Her son.

“Hello, Mother.”

She gasps, dragging her gaze from his wide chest up to his hard face. Her heart bangs in her rib cage like a persistent neighbor knocking on her door, screaming at her to get out of her burning house.

“Lucas, darling. You’re here, too?” Forcing a smile, she cups his face. His stubble is rough on her skin. He clenches his teeth, and she feels his jaw flex in her palms.

He removes her hands, his gaze angling toward the windows. Two uniformed police officers stand outside the glass door. Panic flares inside her.

“They’re waiting on us. We asked them to let us talk to you first.” Her gaze swerves to the rear exit, and he says, “They’re back there, too.”

“You can’t have me arrested.” Appalled, she shoves his chest.

“They just want to bring you in for questioning.”

“This is my gallery,” she shrieks. “My place of work. My reputation.”

“I don’t think you have a choice. They will arrest you if you resist.”

She wants to smack the smirk off his face.

His eyes narrow. “You lied to me. You manipulated me.”

True. She did plant the seed for him to murder his father.

Charlotte tugs her cuffs and pushes back her shoulders. “Then some dignity, please.”

“You don’t deserve it.” But he concedes and tilts his head toward her office.

“Thank you.” She releases a relieved breath and looks at each of her children, memorizing their faces the moment they betrayed her.

They watch her as if she’s a depraved maniac. Don’t they know? She’s not the crazy one. That was their father. He made her this way. They should be thanking her, ungrateful leeches. If she weren’t so peeved, she’d demand their respect. She’d take back her house and leave them with nothing.

She retreats upstairs to her office, overhearing Lily ask, “Do you think they have enough evidence to file charges?”

“Not sure,” Lucas says. “But it’s worth watching her squirm.”

Charlotte lifts her chin. Inside her office, she pours three fingers of bourbon and tosses it back without a wince. Through the glass walls, she looks down at her children.Her children.She gave them her home, her money. Their lives. And what have they given her? A knife in the back. Spoiled little brats.

Lucas waits on the threshold, holding open the door for his sisters to leave and for the police to come in. He looks up at her, and they make eye contact. He doesn’t smile. His face remains impassive, detached. He then turns away. The door closes, and he and his sisters are gone.

Two officers invade her cultivated space. Charlotte is of the mind to bolt the door and call her attorney. But she doesn’t act fast enough, and if she resists, they’ll place her under arrest and cuff her.

One officer takes the empty glass from her hands. “Careful,” she snaps. “That’s an Artel. Do you know how much that costs? Of course you don’t,” she says, noticing the cheap watch on his wrist.

He sets the glass on her desk with a sharp thud. The other officer asks her to kindly come with them. They have questions about the murder of Benton St.John.

“Fine, fine,” she says, gathering her coat and tote, already spinning a new story in her head. Dwight murdered Benton, not her. And he’d threatened her life if she ever spoke of the truth. Only now that he’s dead does she feel safe to talk about that horrible night so long ago.

Dwight is already buried, she calculates, settling into the back seat of the cruiser, but she won’t hesitate to dig him a deeper grave to save herself.

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