Sin Never Sleeps Page 15

  At noon, we gather in the rec room and turn on the local news channel. We don’t have to wait long before the district attorney appears at the podium. Mackey takes her place beside them and they wait for the crowd to quiet.

  “New evidence has been found in the investigation of one of Belle Mère’s most prominent citizens…”

  I dare a glance around the room. Nathaniel West’s family wasn’t invited onto that stage for this announcement. Not only is the FBI keeping the Wests out of the spotlight, they’ve already drawn their conclusions.

  Jameson grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly as the DA hands the mic over to Detective Mackey.

  “After extensive examination of Mr. West’s body, investigators discovered trace DNA. A follow-up search of the crime scene produced an object with both Mr. West’s DNA and that of an unidentified source. Due to the nature of the evidence, our team has concluded that the victim had participated in sexual intercourse on the night of his death—”

  Jameson turns off the television. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Ignoring it won’t make it untrue.” The exhaustion in her voice is at odds with the cheerful attitude she turns on for most customers.

  “That’s why she came here.” I clap my hand over my mouth. Detective Mackey assumes I had sex with Mr. West.

  “At least we know what we’re dealing with,” Jameson says grimly.

  “Most of it,” I grumble.

  Evelyn pushes onto her feet and glances around the room, unable to make eye contact. “I’m going to lie down.”

  No one makes a move to stop her and as soon as she’s out of earshot, I turn on Jameson and Monroe. “Did she know your dad was a…”

  “Cheater?” Jameson fills in the blank. “Everyone knew.”

  I glance in the direction she fled. “She seemed so surprised.”

  “Humiliated,” Monroe clarifies.

  It’s one thing to have an unfaithful spouse and another to have your family’s dirty laundry hung out to dry for the whole town to see. When she doesn’t emerge from her room for dinner, I begin to worry.

  “Should we check on her?” I ask Jameson.

  “This isn’t her first rodeo,” Monroe jumps in. “She needs time.”

  I decide that she also needs tea. One of the few comforting memories I have of my own mom involves hot tea. She’d brew it when we had stomach bugs or colds. Other times she made it for no reason at all. I dig through the cupboards looking for teabags. When Jameson asks what I’m doing, he stays out of my way. Monroe, on the other hand, helps me raid the pantry.

  She holds a box of tea bags triumphantly.

  “It’s herbal.” She scrunches up her nose like decaffeinated is below her.

  “Do you know how she takes it?” I ask. In the end, I set off to her room with a cup of tea sans milk or sugar. Knocking lightly, I wait until I hear a faint come in.

  “I brought you some tea.” I place the cup on her nightstand.

  “I’m sorry that you’re mixed up in this.”

  “I mixed myself up.” I could have said no to Josie that night and stayed home. I could have blended into the party. I could have never met Jameson. All the fear and heartbreak is worth it, knowing that he’s in my life.

  She lowers her voice to a whisper that I have to lean to hear, “There are very few people in Belle Mère that you can trust. Jameson is one of them.”

  I don’t point out that he’s the only West on her list. I read between the lines instead.

  Chapter Twenty

  Life falls into a rhythm that’s steady but building in intensity. Hopeful reporters hover at the end of the family’s private drive. A handful of friends finagle invitations to sit by the grotto’s pool. Television networks negotiate private interviews.

  When I answer the door early one morning, I’m stupid enough to accept a package.

  “Don’t!” Jameson calls out but it’s already in my hands. He snatches it away. Inside, there’s a subpoena for me to appear at a medical clinic by the end of the week.

  “I don’t understand.” I study the letter like it’s written in ancient greek, but he’s on the phone to his lawyers. He talks to them so often that we should ask them to move in.

  They want your blood, he mouths before his call connects.

  My life has become a game of playing house with a billionaire’s toys all while under a microscope. If I’m not careful, whoever holds that lens might use it to set me on fire.

  By the end of the week this is my new normal, and I hate it. The only positive in this whole nightmare is when Jameson appears at the breakfast table in a three-piece suit and tie.

  I whistle when he comes into the room.

  “Doesn’t he clean up nicely?” Evelyn reaches out to ruffle his hair but he sidesteps her.

  “Duchess, a word?”

  I hurry after him, but when I round the corner to the living room, he sweeps me off my feet. I grip his tie as he kisses me deeply.

  “Mr. West,” I say breathlessly when we break apart.

  “Mr. West was my father,” he says in a tight voice.

  “And now it’s you,” I whisper, straightening the knot of his tie. I bite my lip, and he groans.

  “If you keep it up, I’ll never make it out of here,” he warns in a dark voice.

  That’s exactly what I want. I didn’t know Nathaniel West. I grew up conditioned to be prejudiced against him. The more I learn now, the less I want to know. Something about Jameson willingly taking up his place, even if only in the family business, makes me uneasy.

  “I want you to keep Maddox with you today.”

  “That almost sounds like a request,” I murmur with approval.

  The muscles in his jaw clench before he admits, “It is.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I remind him.

  “The reporters will—”

  “Let me worry about that. We had an arrangement,” I cut him off before he can renege on our agreement that Maddox is at my disposal. Brushing a renegade copper strand from his forehead, I continue, “Go play with your billions.”

  “Yes,” he says dryly. “I think my first order of business will be building a large vault filled with gold coins that I can dive into Scrooge McDuck style.”

  “I’m sure the board will approve.”

  He chuckles, but there’s a nervous edge to his laughter. When he finally lowers me to my feet, he pauses with his hands on my waist. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” With the whole world burning around us, it’s amazing that those three little words nearly knock me off my feet every time he says them.

  “Give Maddox a chance, and stay safe.” It’s not a request, it’s an order. I salute him before I push him towards the front door. He steals one final kiss before he climbs into the back of a chauffeured sedan.

  Getting out of the house without being hounded by wannabe reporters looking to score their big break is the real trick. The driver will deliver him to the West Corporation headquarters. I have no clue how I’ll get by them. I dress in a black wrap dress, pinning my hair low on my neck. No make-up or lipstick. As much as possible, I need to blend in. I head towards my Mercedes, which has been parked in the driveway since Jameson had someone retrieve it from the desert.

  Maddox appears as soon as I touch the handle.

  “Can I drive you somewhere?” he asks.

  I whirl around and give him a wicked smile. “No, but here’s what you’re going to do.”

  The one benefit of staying locked up for a week is that it’s pretty easy to trick the reporters waiting on the other side. I send Maddox ahead of me, along with one of the Wests’s house maids who needed to run some errands. When I reach the gate at the end of the private drive, there’s nary a leach insight.

  No one’s seen this car, so I put as much distance between me and the West residence as possible before I begin to slow down. I double-check my rearview mirrors and turn left a bunch of times until I’m satisfied that no one is following
me. Who knew you could learn how to lose a tail online? Thanks Google.

  It’s strange how different it feels when I pull up to the boxy, two bedroom house that’s only a few blocks away. The stark difference in Jameson’s reality and my past can’t be denied. But even as my stomach begins to churn from nerves, taking the walkway to the front door feels like coming home.

  I nearly give up when no one answers after I knock twice. I have a key, but I can’t shake how angry Josie had been when I’d touched her phone last week. How would she feel if I walked into her house? I stand there for a moment, staring at the locked door between us until it opens.

  “Emma!” Marion tugs her robe tightly around her.

  “I’m sorry!’ I stare at her in wide-eyed horror as I realize how early it is at the Deckard house. She probably just got off work a few hours ago.

  But Marion waves off my apology. “It’s my day off. I’d invite you in, but Josie has the flu.”

  “How is she?” I ask.

  “She’s fine. Probably something she ate.”

  I want to know about more than her stomach cramps, but I don’t push the topic. Marion Deckard didn’t invite me into her house, which means Josie’s either really sick or she doesn’t want to see me.

  “Tell her I stopped by?”

  “Of course,” she promises, her eyes darting around the street before she steps back inside.

  Maybe they both would prefer not to see me.

  I don’t have time to throw myself a pity party. If misery loves company, it hates productivity. My time is running out. According to the court, I have to appear at the clinic by Monday. That gives me the weekend to piece together the bizarre trail of clues The Dealer left behind for us. His posts have become less frequent. I don’t know what that means, but I’m not going to miss my opportunity to figure out what he’s trying to tell me.

  As if to back up that decision, a new photo appears on his feed in the late morning. It’s from last week. I’m in the black romper walking into a nondescript office building. I know what that place is and I know what he’s trying to tell me.

  I have an appointment that I need to keep this evening. But first, I have time to make a house call.

  Dominic Chamber’s office is a reporter-free zone, so he must have upheld his word that no one would know he’s been working for me. It’s early enough in the day that he’s at his desk. The creeps come out at night in this city.

  He glances up from his computer and exhales when he makes eye contact. Pushing away from the desk, he gestures for me to take an empty chair before he lounges in his own seat. “You’re a hard woman to reach.”

  “I’ve been a little more cautious with blocked callers. Next time go through the Belle Mère police. They seem to know where I am at all hours.”

  He frowns. Maybe I’m not as funny as I think I am. “I called from several numbers.”

  “Sorry, but my lawyer”—it still feels ridiculous to say that—“made me block unknown callers.”

  “Understandable, given the circumstances. However, if we’re going to continue to work together, I’ll need a way to reach you. Get yourself a prepaid cell phone to use as a burner.”

  “A burner?” I repeat. I thought those were only for spy movies, but he nods seriously.

  “Done,” I promise him. “So if you’ve been trying to reach me, does that mean you have something?”

  He shuffles a few folders around on his desk before he finds the one he wants. I could probably pay him in secretarial services.

  “There’s no record of who your sister’s father is.” Before I can thank him for his lackluster bit of news, he goes on, “In fact, most of her medical records and vital statistics have been sealed.”

  “What do you mean by sealed?”

  “It’s not so much that her father is unknown. It’s more that he’s hidden. Well, I might add.”

  “Why would they do that?” I ask. None of this makes sense. It had been hard enough to process that we had different fathers, but hearing the lengths my parents have gone to in order to bury that information is inconceivable.

  “I asked myself the same question, so I started doing a little digging. I looked for your parents’ names in conjunction with other legal proceedings. Adoption records, court records.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Were you aware that your family accepted a large settlement from Nathaniel West about thirteen years ago?” he asks.

  I nod. “My dad sued him in civil court for cutting him out of the business they started.”

  My parents used the funds as seed money to start Pawnography in an attempt to recapture the American dream he’d lost to his business partner.

  Dominic rubs his temples. It’s not the answer he’s hoping for. “That’s all I have so far. It’s not much.”

  I can’t help but think it’s a lot more than he thinks. Someone has gone to an awful lot of trouble to keep this quiet.

  “How much do I owe you?” I ask him, taking my wallet from my purse.

  Dominic holds up a chubby hand. “Nothing today. I haven’t gotten the information you asked for.”

  “But you’ve been working on it,” I say slowly.

  “I’ll be happy to bill you when I’ve figured this out.”

  I had no idea private investigators came with a satisfaction guarantee. Then again, considering his hourly billing rate, I deserve more answers.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he promises.

  I leave his office with more questions than answers. My mind churns through an endless stream of theories, many so ridiculous that I actually laugh at myself. I’m so distracted that I don’t bother to check my surroundings when I exit his building. When I remember, I glance around, checking every angle. There’s no one in sight.

  Apparently being investigated for murder makes one both reckless and cautious.

  As if he can read my thoughts, Jameson calls.

  “World’s best girlfriend,” I answer glibly.

  “Where are you, Duchess?” he asks in a lowered voice that’s so deep that I get goosebumps.

  “Running errands.” It’s not a lie technically.

  “Without your bodyguard?” he guesses.

  “Are you asking or do you know?”

  “I know. Maddox called to tell me you had him running the maid to the grocery store,” he says.

  “We’re out of eggs.”

  He pauses and I brace myself for a lecture. “Just promise me that you’re being careful.”

  “I am. Look there’s no safer place to be than on a suspect list.” Whoever is framing me wants me alive. I could run around Vegas naked with my hair on fire and no one would touch me.

  “Will I see you tonight?” he asks.

  “You’ll see me every night,” I reassure him before we hang up. He’ll see me tonight, but I have a very important date to keep first.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lies are so easy to tell, but sins are so hard to forgive. It’s odd how even something as simple as a coat of paint can be deceptive until viewed in the right light. I never knew what I preferred—a pretty lie or a sorry sinner—until now.

  They’ve redone the lobby of the West Casino. I suppose if I ran a hotel that had seen a murder and an accident in less than two months, I might try to freshen up the joint, too.

  It’s a bit early to check-in, but as I get closer to my appointment with May from Cachè—and her secret identity—I get more nervous. I’d planned to ask Josie to come with me tonight. I’d never even gotten the chance to tell her about the plan before our falling out.

  Before I reach the check-in counter, Mackey steps into my path. I halt, looking around to see if she’s alone. I don’t spot any other officers, but they are trained to blend in. It’s good to see my tax dollars at work.

  So much for flying under the radar.

  “Are you here to arrest me?” I ask her directly.

  “I’m here to talk to you alone.”

  Translat
ion: she wants to speak to me without Jameson or lawyers.

  “I have lunch plans,” I lie to her, “so this can’t take too long.”

  She glances at the gold watch on her wrist. “Late lunch.”

  “Early interrogation,” I counter. “I have until Monday to comply with the subpoena orders.”

  “You do,” she confirms. “Let’s grab a seat.”

  “Let’s stand.” I’m not about to let her get comfortable.

  “Your boyfriend is calling in every favor in town to find out more about the DNA evidence we’ve uncovered.”

  I shrug. She wants me to bite, which is something I can do. “I keep telling him to watch less CSI. Next thing you’ll know he’ll be doing blood spatter analysis.”

  “We found a towel in the residence containing seminal residue…”

  I do my best not to gag.

  “And blood—as well as some tissue.”

  “Tissue?” I repeat, hoping she’s talking about Kleenex.

  “Preliminary reports suggest it’s hymenal.”

  Some things you can’t unhear. “Are you saying that Nathaniel West…”

  “Had sexual intercourse with a woman we believe was a virgin at the time.”

  “Then there you go,” I tell her. “That clears me because I’m not eligible for a white wedding.”

  “Given your intriguing sexual history, it’s possible it could be you.”

  “I already told you that I’m not a virgin,” I whisper furiously as a group of Japanese tourists roll past.

  “According to your statement, you’ve only had sexual intercourse once. It’s very likely that your hy—”

  “Enough theories revolving around my vagina. None of this explains why you think it’s me.” I’m not a lawyer but there has to be some evidence actually linking me to the crime before they can start stealing my blood.

  “That’s why I’m here,” she says. “I’m about to tell you what your boyfriend so desperately wants to know.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “Before it’s too late.” It’s not the answer I’m expecting. “Our investigations have discovered some interesting connections between your family and the Wests.”