Page 167 of Our Little Secret

“It’s also half Leah’s,” he reminded her as the wind blew colder and the sound of the surf in the distance became louder.

“Not quite. Because of the loan you gave her.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but that doesn’t cover all of her interest. She still owns a portion.”

“Nonetheless, you had no right—none—to talk to my sister without consulting me, no right to plot about selling the cabin.” She stared up at him through the falling snow. “Neal, what the eff were you thinking?”

Before he could answer she was quickly putting two and two together. “You’ve been talking to Leah about this, haven’t you? Oh—oh crap.” It was hitting her like a ton of bricks. Neal and Leah—in this together. “I’ve seen you behind the woodshed door, and then again, I found out you lied about leaving your wallet at the store. Hank Thatcher told me you were on the phone the whole time.”

“You’ve been checking up on me?” he asked, trying to look outraged.

“No! But I should have.”

“You’re a great one to talk, Brooke,” he accused, but she wasn’t going to listen to any outlandish lies or excuses he could come up with. She shoved Gina Duquette’s sack of pastries into his arms, then slapped Shep’s leash onto his palm. “The answer is no! I’mnotselling. Ever. Got that?” So angry she was shaking, she added, “So go tell Leah and . . . and whatever his name is that the cabin stays in the family!”

With that, she took off at a jog, away from her lying husband, away from the cabin that he and her sister planned to sell, and away from Gideon-fucking-Ross.

She didn’t look back, just felt the cold air fill her lungs as her blood began to pump through her veins. Her mind spun, the headache at bay now returning. How long had Neal and Leah been plotting to sell the cabin? How many times had they met? Was it all as Neal said, about money and selling Nana’s cottage, or was there more to it? Gina Duquette had thought them husband and wife. In fact, she’d seemed certain they were a couple.

Were they?

No, that didn’t make sense.

Leah was obviously over the moon in love with the man she believed was Eli Stone. Those emotions weren’t faked. Brooke had witnessed her sister in love often enough to know.

But she hadn’t met Eli until after Labor Day, sometime in September, so maybe Leah and Neal had been involvedbeforeLeah met Eli. Maybe they’d been having an affair for a long while. Maybe that was why Neal was so eager to lend Leah money, to keep her close and to keep her quiet.

Brooke kept running, filling her lungs, stretching her legs, and trying to keep control of her emotions. She needed a clear head no matter how heartsick she felt.

Don’t jump to conclusions. Just figure out what’s going on.

She reached the landing.

If the general store were open, she would have marched in, bought a pack of Marlboro Lights and a bottle of cheap wine with some of the money in Eli’s wallet, and thrown herself a pity party. But the store was closed, and on second thought she didn’t need a hit of nicotine or a slug of alcohol to settle her nerves. She needed to think and think clearly.

She felt as if she were a marionette in some dark scheme and her sister, husband, and Eli/Gideon were pulling the strings.

Well, no more.

It was time to turn the tables on them all.

God, she wished she had a cigarette.

No, no! Think, Brooke, think!

Brooke pushed herself and kept running down to the ferry landing and past the tall piers and boats rocking on the water. She felt snowflakes melting on her cheeks and smelled the salt from the sea, which of course reminded her of her struggle with Gideon under the water in Elliott Bay.

Unlike her sister, Brooke didn’t like the role of victim; she refused to play it. No way. And she was tired of hiding and cowering and fearing her family would find out the truth. She’d never been a coward in her life, but ever since her affair with Gideon she’d let her own fears and the threats of others rule her life.

No more.

And an idea was coming to her mind, a plan beginning to form.

She made a big loop in the snow and started running toward the cabin.

The words of “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” by John Lennon and Yoko Ono ran through her mind. She threw a question at herself. It wasn’t “What have you done?” No, the question was, “What are you going to do?”

As the wind began to pick up, she knew the answer.