The Highlands was in Redmond which, at this time in the work commute, would take forty-five minutes to an hour to get to. A normal parent-child relationship would dictate a phone call to let him know I was running late, but nothing about our relationship was normal. He’d be pissed if I called him and pissed when I got there. This way, I only had to endure one round of ire.
Once in my car, I realized I was breaking about every rule-of-the-road law possible, from speeding, cutting off cars, changing lanes without signaling, and utilizing the carpool lane when I clearly had no other passengers inside. Once I reminded myself I wasn’t that same sixteen-year-old desperate to earn her father’s approval, I eased off the gas, chose a lane, and stopped endangering the lives of those around me. I’d be late no matter how fast or slow I drove, and arriving ten minutes late was as grave a sin as not showing up at all.
Twilight had bled to dark by the time I pulled into an empty parking space at the country club almost an hour later.
The Highlands was the type of place that didn’t do understated and clearly catered to the elite. Even the parking lot, with its array of expensive cars, told the story of wealth and privilege. The upper-middle-class weren’t members; there probably would have been an uproar from the old money third generations who behaved as though the club were America and they the founding fathers.
As a kid, I’d hated coming here. The swimming pool in the summer and the promise of a gelato from the clubhouse couldn’t soften my view. Mom had drug me here almost every Sunday night for social hour and dinner. Dad occasionally, though rarely, joined us when his schedule allowed. Sundays were reserved for golf, colleagues, and bourbon—they were not a family day in Silas Payne’s eyes.
A young man stationed at the front door in the standard employee outfit of a hunter green dress shirt and khaki slacks swung the front door open for me. Women wore skirts instead—shorter than necessary of course, because that’s how things worked at an establishment teeming with good ol’ boys.
Like the exterior, nothing had changed inside. Cigar smoke, floral perfume, and prime rib permeated the air, a parade of trust funds and bloated investment portfolios rubbing elbows inside the lounge adjacent to the dining room.
“May I help you, ma’am?” the girl at the front desk who was, predictably, young and gorgeous asked.
“I’m looking for the conference room Silas Payne reserved,” I replied, angling away from the dining room when I noticed a couple of familiar faces. Mrs. Bradshaw had tried to set me up with her son since birth, failing to recognize or acknowledge that her son was gay. If she saw me, she’d still probably try to set me up with him, wedding ring or not.
“He’s in the Rainier conference room, at the end of the north hall. Would you like me to show you there?” The girl stepped out from behind the reception booth, smiling in a way that hinted she was right on track for achieving future trophy wife status.
“I know where it is. Thank you though,” I replied, taking as wide a route around the dining area as possible when I recognized another face. A tech tycoon close to my dad’s age who’d directed so many inappropriate remarks my way, he would have been a top contender for leader of the sexual harassment club if there was one . . . and in this kind of place, that didn’t seem far off base.
I hated the Highlands and had managed to steer clear of it for the past seventeen years. How I’d let my parents convince me to hold Noah’s and my wedding here was beyond logic, but I guessed it had a lot to do with them footing the bill while I was scared out of my five-months-pregnant mind.
My father’s voice could be heard from halfway down the hall. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I could tell from his tone that it was important. Bracing myself before showing up an hour late, I stepped inside the conference room, refusing to make eye contact with him until I’d made it to a seat.
His speech didn’t miss a beat, though the handful of others assembled in the room looked up from the files in front of them to appraise the newcomer.
A server stationed in the back of the room approached me once I’d settled into a chair, asking in a whisper what I’d like to drink. Eyeing the selections around the table, I ordered a club soda with lime, despite craving a harder drink like the rest of them were sipping on. However, I was beginning to wonder if needing a drink might have been the worst time to turn to one. It was a habit I’d fallen into, and one I recognized in the man standing at the head of the table.
“If anyone isn’t aware, the latecomer is my daughter, Grace Wolff.” Dad gestured at me, taking a sip of his bourbon. “Grace is a prosecutor with the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s Office.”
The people congregated around the table—mostly men—tipped their heads at me. A couple I recognized, though I couldn’t place from where or when.
“Following in Dad’s footsteps, yeah?” the man across the table from me said.
Dad took another sip. “Trying,” he responded, his tone explaining the rest. “Grace was the lead prosecutor on the Skovil case, and will be assisting the task force in strictly an advisory capacity.”
I scanned the table, trying to figure out what purpose this odd mix of characters my father had gathered here tonight would serve. My eyes narrowed at the thick file on the table in front of me. My hand lifted though I didn’t wait to be called on. “Task force?”
“I explained my reason for assembling everyone here tonight when the meeting started. At seven o clock.” Dad let one of those pauses that was intended to make the person he was addressing as uncomfortable as possible pass. “If you all will excuse me, allow me a few minutes to catch my daughter up to speed.”
“Give her a break, Silas,” the older gentleman a couple seats down from me said. “If there’s no rest for the wicked, then there’s none for those who prosecute them.” He glanced at me. “Am I right?”
I tipped my glass of club soda at him. “Too right.”
“You haven’t even given your daughter a hint of the crazy scheme you strong-armed us into?” the man across the table from me jeered at my father good-naturedly. His cowboy hat, mustache, and weathered skin stretched across handsome features suggested he could have starred in the old Westerns my grandpa used to watch.
“And by strong-armed, you’re referring to the generous compensation I’ll be paying you for your expertise?” The ice in Dad’s glass clinked when he tipped it at the older man who’d commented.
“Dad, please,” I interrupted the rumble of laughter that followed. “What is this?”
After finishing what was left of his drink, he set it down and placed his hands on the table. “I’m assembling a task force funded by yours truly to find the son of a bitch who’s under the impression that justice is best served at his hands.”
My throat cleared, confusion spreading deeper. “Keep explaining.”
“Ambiguity does not become you, Silas,” the one up front by my dad added. He was dressed differently than rest, in the kind of suit and tie that suggested he was an attorney as well. As soon as my inspection landed on his face, my shoulders dropped. Of all the attorneys in this city my dad knew, he had to call this one.
Dad gestured at the file in front of me. I’d had corporate law books in school that weren’t as thick. “There’s been a serial killer operating for over a decade that no one was aware of until recently, when new information emerged from the Skovil investigation.”