I won’t be sixteen forever, and I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done.

  1

  Hutch

  Present day

  “I can’t kidnap them, Hugh. You have to give me a reason to bring them here.” I’m sweating my ass off in Hugh van Hamilton’s lavish greenhouse inside his six-thousand-square-foot, sprawling estate.

  It’s one of the oldest homes in Hamiltown (Yes, Hamiltown), and it’s situated at the end of a quarter-mile-long driveway canopied by arching live oak trees.

  The van Hamiltons founded this borough around the turn of the last century, and their massive family estate and the wizened man growing old inside it are all that’s left of their lurid legacy.

  Almost.

  His two spoiled nieces, daughters of his dead nephew, are alive and well in New York City, and from what I’ve heard, neither of those Park Avenue princesses is interested in returning to their hometown in the swamplands near the coast of South Carolina.

  At eighty, Hugh is five-ten and a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. His gray hair is neatly smoothed away from his face, and he’s wearing khakis and a button-down shirt with a light blue bow tie. His beige felt Stetson is neatly arranged beside his glasses on a nearby table.

  He’s a relic of the days when men took casual attire seriously; when appearance mattered more than anything. When transgressions were hidden from view, and family secrets were swept under the rug or shoved into the closet or ignored.

  I am not of those days.

  My family, the Winstons, were town founders as well, but we didn’t fight for prestige. My father was obsessed with Wall Street, and when I was young, he moved to an apartment on the Upper East Side of New York City where he still lives almost year-round.

  My mother was a “Hamil-townie.” She raised my two younger siblings and me here in this “wholesome” village, in a nice house I now own, and until the day she died, she taught us to value hard work and honesty.

  We have as much money and “culture” as the van Hamiltons, but I was never part of the spoiled, silver-spoon crowd. The one time I visited my father in the big city, I wasn’t impressed—not with his flirty female assistant nor with the kids my age and younger. They struck me as desperately bored, filling the void with meaningless sex and mindless parties, or pulling the wings off butterflies.

  They were either entirely corrupt or thoughtlessly cruel.

  I disliked them intensely, except for her. She was different. Still, I can’t imagine Blake wanting to be here.

  “Sorry for the heat.” Hugh tugs the crocheted shawl tighter around his arms, on top of his tailored three-piece suit. “Ever since my last round of chemo, I’ve had a hard time maintaining any body heat.”

  He’s practically a skeleton, and it hurts me to see him this way. This man has become like a surrogate father to me through the years. He’s not perfect, but who is these days? I help him as much as I can, and he’s given me advice the two times I asked for it.

  So, I try to lighten the mood. “Next time I’ll wear shorts and carry a Yeti full of hard seltzer.”

  “Heavens.” He chuckles, shaking his head, and affection warms my heart. “Don’t insult me.”

  “Judging from this favor, I’m trying to figure out what kind of pied piper you think I am.”

  “Blake will come home because I asked her to.” He shakes his head and adds quietly, “Hana will do whatever her sister tells her to do.”

  The last time I saw Blake, she was a striking sixteen-year-old with long, dark hair and fierce, silvery blue eyes. She didn’t starve herself to fit some WASPy stereotype, unlike her pale, younger sister Hana. Blake was independent, beautiful, tough, and when I saw the way her mother’s accountant looked at her, a man twenty years her senior, my vision went red.

  I went to her mother, who immediately shipped her off to a Catholic boarding school I recommended. It was the best move to keep her safe, but I know she hated me for it. I saw her eyes right before her mother ended the call. She would’ve killed me if she’d been in the room.

  “She won’t be happy to see me.” My tone is somber.

  Hugh arches an eyebrow at me. “I didn’t think you cared if people were happy to see you.”

  “I don’t, but I also don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “Sometimes you have to manage a little trouble to get what you need.”

  “She’s the type of trouble I don’t need. If you don’t give me a reason, she’ll slam the door in my face.”

  “It’s better if I don’t tell you my reasons, but trust me. They need to leave the city, at least for a little while. Ignorance is protection.”

  His words make the skin on my neck tighten. Hugh has known me since I was a teenager, since before I retired from the Marines and became a private investigator, and the last time he wouldn’t give me a reason, I was staring at a dead body in the trunk of his chauffeur’s car.

  As a PI, I’m not required to report my clients to law enforcement, but I do my best not to take on more than I can handle. “That’s not how the law sees it.”

  “It’s how the people who matter see it.” He walks over to a mahogany bar trolley waiting at the glass wall. “Can I offer you a drink? I can’t have alcohol anymore, but I can watch you enjoy it.”

  “I’m not much of a day drinker, thanks.”

  “By the book. Good man.” He nods, turning from the trolly. “I have to say, I wasn’t sure about the beard, but it suits you. It adds to your persona.”

  I automatically scratch the scruff on my cheek, unsure if he’s giving me a compliment or a dig. I’m not sloppy. I’m not a suit guy, but my black jeans and boots, navy Henley and Carhart jacket are appropriate for my work.

  “Blake and I haven’t spoken in seven years. Does she even consider this place her home? She’s never lived here.”

  “I sent her a letter. It’s possible you might not need to do anything at all, but if a week goes by… Don’t give it a week. If she doesn’t come here in a few days, I need you to follow up. My grandniece is a smart girl, but she thinks she can control her world, and she can’t.”

  I know the truth of that statement.

  Stepping over to a potted tree, I lift an enormous, dark-green leaf. It looks fake, it’s so shiny, and as I lean closer to get a better look, a bead of sweat tickles along my hairline. I take a handkerchief from my back pocket and wipe it away as I return to where Hugh stands beside a table.

  He’s using tiny scissors to trim what looks like a miniature oak tree, and he glances up to see me sweating through my shirt. “Norris will bring you ice water if you prefer.”

  “What I’d prefer is a straight answer. The last time you withheld information, I overlooked a dead body in your trunk. You still haven’t explained that one.”

  “I told you it was self-defense. My security guard handled it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you told me.”

  Only problem was the dead man appeared to be eastern European, and he had no identification. When I ran his prints, nothing came back, which as a former Marine, leads me to believe he was a spook, or a foreign spy. I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since.

  Hugh places the small pruning shears on the table. “I trust you, Hutch. You’re a straight shooter, and you know when to sit on things.” His bushy gray brows furrow so the two become one. “I need you to protect my nieces. You’re the law. You can do that.”

  “I’m not the law.” I exhale a chuckle. “I’m only a detective, and your nieces are grown women. This isn’t a police state.”

  He dismisses my argument. “People listen to you, Hutch. You’re a natural leader, and they trust your judgment.”

  All traces of laughter leave my tone. “I’m not so sure I deserve that.”

  “Which makes me trust you even more.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, and we start walking towards the door. “Everyone makes mistakes, but I know you’ve lived a decent life. I’ve witnessed it firsthand. If you have to go to them, tell Blake I asked you to do this. Tell her it’s my final wish. Hana will follow.”

  My brow furrows. “Your final wish?”

  His tone immediately lightens. “As in the last thing I’ll ask of them. Don’t be morbid, my friend.”

  “I’d say the same to you, but I’ll tell you. I can’t commit to this. I’ve got Pepper now, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing there. I don’t have time for more females to worry about.

  “Pepper… that’s your sister’s child? What is she, eleven?” He gives me a wink and taps the side of his nose. “She’ll be fine, just let her be a kid.”

  Nodding, I can’t argue. Judy’s daughter is a lot like her, although it doesn’t give me much comfort. My sister always had a reckless streak. She was an adrenaline junkie, and I don’t know if Pepper’s going to turn out like her or like me. I’m not afraid of anything, but I know my limits.

  The old man seems to read my mind. “What happened to your sister was a tragedy. Sometimes the best of us are lost through no fault of our own.”

  “Maybe.” I’ll never believe Judy deserved what happened to her, and losing my sister hurt like hell.

  “Will you help me, Hutch?” Pleading gray eyes meet mine. “Protect my nieces. They’re all I have left in this world.”

  I swallow the growl in my throat, and with a heavy exhale, I nod. “I’ll be sure they get here, and I’ll keep them safe while they are here. That’s as much as I can do.”

  He reaches out and braces my shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

  My lips tighten. “One of these days, we’re going to sit down and hash out what happened.”

  “One day.” He nods, thin lips tightening grimly. “Now you’d better get going. I sent Blake that letter a few days ago. Hopefully it will be enough.”

  “She loves you. If you asked her to come here, I’m sure she will.” God, I hope I’m right. If I have to go to New York and try to bring her here, it will not go well.

  “Just promise me you’ll be sure she does.”

  The urgency in his tone puzzles me. He’s hiding something again, and I don’t like it. “You let me know if you need my help. With anything.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  Unfortunately, the answer is no.

  2

  Blake

  “What the hell?” I freeze in place outside the small black limo dropping my sister Hana and me at our Manhattan apartment building.

  It’s not yet two a.m., but I wasn’t having fun tonight. The anonymous note about Hana being in some porno left on my table at the Vogue soured my stomach, and after that, all I wanted was to track her down and go home.

  Done.

  Secondary objective is to get her inside and lock up the doors until she sobers up, and we can sort out what the hell she’s done now and how to fix it. Only the scene unfolding on our front steps changes everything.

  Dark rain mists over my arms and hair, making the rainbow strobe of police lights and emergency vehicles more vivid. It’s like we’re still at the club.

  Hana bumps into me from behind as she exits the vehicle and snorts a giggle. “Whoops! Sorry, Blake.”

  She hasn’t even noticed the garish display right in front of us. A small crowd is starting to form, which means whatever it is just happened.

  Two police officers hold up their hands as the media appear quickly, jumping out of vans or racing up on foot to take pictures or whip out cameras. Another officer is stretching yellow tape to block everyone out.

  That’s when my eyes land on three large cops dressed in all-black uniforms surrounding a dark lump on the wet concrete. A thick strawberry-blonde braid catches the light, and my chest collapses. It’s a young woman, arms and legs spread and bent in odd angles, but the thing I see, that I don’t want to recognize, is the thing making it difficult for me to breathe.

  Emergency workers are doing their best to cover everything, but I recognize the brightly patterned, gold and black Versace robe. I’d know it anywhere, because she bought it last summer when we were together in Miami. She said it was in memory of a great designer gunned down before his time on the steps of his beautiful mansion.

  “Debbie?” My voice cracks as I recognize my friend.

  Her body is broken. She’s lying on the cold, wet ground, face down in the gutter, on the steps of our beautiful building.

  “What the fuck?” Trip is out of the car, and he pushes past me, skidding to a stop at the police line, where an officer stops him and pushes him back.

  Cold seeps into my bones as I watch a uniformed woman continue to spread a tarp over my friend’s body.

  I think I might faint.

  “I don’t understand… What’s happening?” Hana’s voice pulls me back, and I spin around to get her away from the grizzly scene in front of us.

  She doesn’t need to see this. Hell, I don’t need to see it. I don’t want to remember Debbie this way, dead on the cold concrete in her gold satin robe, dark red liquid seeping from her mouth and nose.

  “Oh!” My ankle almost turns in my stilettos, but I grab my sister’s arms tighter to stay upright. “What was that?”

  Looking back, I recognize the fluffy white Louboutin slipper with her initials stitched in black cursive across the band. Bile rises in my throat, and I leave it there. I don’t look back. I don’t imagine how it flew off her foot as she fell to her death.

  What happened? Why? It doesn’t make any sense.

  “What is that?” My younger sister’s voice is loose, and she grips my arms as I lead her around the scene to the front door, trying to divert her attention. “Is that Debbie’s slipper?”

  The side is marred with dirty water. “Just leave it. It’s part of the crime scene now.”

  “What do you mean?” Hana looks from me to the growing mob of spectators.

  More police cars arrive and an ambulance, although I can tell from the slump of Trip’s shoulders they only need the coroner.

  Flashes strobe in the night–the paparazzi are here, or what’s left of them these days. Even a news van is pulling up on the scene. I guess some people still watch television. The old people who live in our building, the same ones who’ll lose their shit over a spoiled debutant attracting so much attention by dying.

  “I don’t understand. Why is it a crime scene?” My sister looks from me to Trip as he slowly approaches, following us into the building.

  “It’s illegal to kill yourself in Manhattan.” Trip’s voice is mirthless, almost sarcastic, and I decide I need to be upstairs, in our apartment, drink in hand. Stat.

  You don’t sleep when someone you love dies.

  I’m going on twenty-four hours, eyes wide open.

  Hana is on the couch with gold facial strips under her red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t believe it. It had to be an accident. She just bought a closet full of designer dresses during fashion week. We were talking about all the parties we would attend at Cannes.”

  “Debbie Does Death?” Trip lifts the newspaper from our breakfast cart. “Seriously?”

  He unfolds the black and white print and turns it so I can read the headline plastered above three columns and an unflattering photo of our dead friend at a bar looking very rough.

  Assholes. It’s so fucking unfair.

  “I guess that passes for clever these days.” We’re not allowed to complain about how we’re treated in the media, right?

  Our life of privilege is blanket permission to judge whatever goes on behind closed doors, especially to us girls. We’re always labeled as out of control or crazy or hysterical.

  Debbie was my closest friend. She was the only friend who kept in touch with me the two years I was stuck in prison at Bishop of the Holy Family. She was my roommate at Columbia, and she helped me find modeling gigs so I didn’t have to ask my mother for money before my trust fund matured.

  Now she’s dead.

  My stomach cramps, and I skip the omelets, sausage, assorted breads, and fruit waiting for us along with coffee and juice and head straight for the bar. I take the Mamont vodka out of the small refrigerator and pour two fingers, neat.

  “Would you pour one for me, Blake?” My sister holds out her hand, and my eyes narrow.

  “Me, too.” Trip lifts his chin, and I clamp my teeth over the snarky response on the tip of my tongue.

  I’m not Trip’s bar wench, and I don’t think my sister should be drinking first thing in the morning. Still, we’ve all had a shock. We’re all suffering, and I’m the oldest. I pour them each a lowball vodka and try to figure out what the hell we do now.

  Pressure tightens my temples and an ache twists between my shoulder blades. With Debbie gone, I have nothing in this town except my sister, as if Hana can be thought of as a functioning adult. I know she has her reasons, but we’ve got to make a change.

  I’m adrift in a sea of soulless children, and it hurts, deep at the base of my ribcage, radiating through my stomach. I’m not sure I can pretend I’m strong enough this time. My nails are scratching on the bottom of the barrel.

  “Has anyone told her mother?” I hand them their drinks and walk back to the bar to retrieve mine.

  “Does anyone know where her mother is?” Trip snarks, and my eyebrow arches. “Anyway, I’m sure the authorities will find her. We can just let that play out as it will. I’m in no mood to tangle with Belinda Desayda-Rice right now.”

  “Not since you slept with her?” Hana pushes a deep-red, manicured toe into his side, and he brushes her away.

  “That was a year ago.”

  His presence annoys me. “Shouldn’t you check on your own mother?”

  “God, no. The last thing Cheryl needs is me poking my head in the middle of her latest threesome.”

  Trip has lived on our couch for the last several months since he got kicked out of his Upper East Side apartment. He’s not the best influence on Hana, dabbling in drugs and gambling. I can ignore him, but my sister is always getting sucked into his schemes, and it’s cost me several times to keep it off the radar.