“Careful, Izzy. Your job doesn’t include weighing his reasons. If he decides it’s a go, it’s a go. You get the deal done. Your nonlegal opinions about what’s right for him, personally, can’t factor. That’s overstepping.”
“Yeah. I know.” She reached for the pen, and then, before she realized what she was doing, threw it across the room. “Which is probably why there’s a rule against getting intimately involved with your client. But I did, and I can’t undo it. Now I’m privy to new information that, professionally, is none of my damn business. But I can’t un-know it.”
“It’s a fine line to walk, but you can do it.”
She wasn’t so sure, but he wouldn’t want to hear that. “I have to.”
“You do. If you need any help—any at all—staying on that line, give me a call, okay? Day or night. The stakes are high, and I feel responsible for encouraging you to do something that put your personal feelings at odds with your professional responsibilities. I’m a bad influence.”
“Oh, please. I’m a grown woman, responsible for my own decisions.” She thought back to the first time she slept with Trace, after learning about his brother’s death. Her heart had made its choice, and even though things were currently a mess, she didn’t regret it. “It had nothing to do with you.”
“Well, even so, call me if you need me. I’m here for you.”
“I know. And knowing helps. Thanks.”
“Anytime, sweetie. Take something for the headache.”
“I will.” As soon as she disconnected, she got right on that. Trace probably kept some type of pain relief in his desk, but if she couldn’t find any, she’d ask Lenna. The skinny center drawer contained pens, pencils, a tangle of paper clips and rubber bands, and a bunch of change. The left-side drawer contained a stack of small aircraft magazines, with titles like Plane & Pilot, and Flight, which made her smile despite the pounding headache. Had she just discovered Trace’s version of a porn stash?
Leaving that drawer unperturbed, she tried the lower right-side drawer, and frowned. It contained an accordion file stuffed about two inches thick with papers. More filing? Her stomach clenched. Awesome. Were the due diligence materials she’d provided incomplete because she hadn’t had everything? She took the Redweld out, placed it on the desk, and dug into the first compartment. The top page bore an insurance company logo and the Re: line recited a claim number. Hot damn. The missing files. At least the day wasn’t a total waste. Putting the painkiller quest on the back burner, she woke up her laptop and got to work.
Ten minutes later, she pushed everything aside and buried her face in her hands. She was, quite possibly, going to be sick. Competing emotions whirled inside her like a category five hurricane. Neither heart nor mind could find steady footing amidst the chaos. God, she needed to think. She needed to get the hell out of here, lock herself in her room at the inn, and get her head around everything.
Her phone rang. She wanted to ignore it but saw the number. With shaking hands, she hit the green button. Before Trace could say a word, she hijacked the call. “You lied to me.”
“Huh?”
“You lied.” The word came out too loud, almost a shout. She took an unsteady breath and repeated, “You lied about your brother.”
“Izzy, honey, I don’t know who you spoke to, but…”
“No one. I found the insurance file. That spoke for itself. Shay died on the job. He crashed his plane while flying back from a passenger drop in Anchorage.”
“I never lied. I never said anything about how he died.”
His words came out flat. Emotionless. Like a detached stranger. She, on the other hand, was far too attached. “You looked me straight in the eye and promised me your brother’s death had nothing to do with your decision to sell your interest in the airfield. I’m not completely stupid, Trace. You assigned him the run. You were the last person to see him. It’s your signature on his flight plan. If you honestly believe none of that factors into why you suddenly want to back away from the only business you’ve ever known, you’re not just lying to me, you’re lying to yourself.”
“You forgot one. It’s also my signature on the mechanical check of his plane.”
And there it was. The great motivator. Guilt. “The cause of the crash was deemed to be weather and pilot error. He got caught in a downdraft, got turned around in the fog. He flew into a mountain. It’s tragic, but it’s not your fault.”
“I don’t want to do it anymore, all right?” Heat came into his voice now. “I’m entitled to decide what’s right for me.”
“This isn’t a decision,” she countered. “This is you running away. Running from a business your family built, a business you love, and, by all indications, you enjoyed helming. I’ve been crawling all over the evidence for weeks, and it can’t be denied. You ran it well.”
“If I ran Captivity Air so well, why is my brother dead? Why didn’t I listen to him when he showed up late—as usual—looking like he’d just rolled out of somebody’s bed, and tried to bribe me to do the run for him?”
Before she could answer, he went on. “You know why? Because I was annoyed at him for flying through life by the seat of his fucking pants. I was pissed that a foursome of paying customers were waiting on him, because he couldn’t get off his latest good time in order to do his job, and he assumed I’d cover for him like I’d done a million times before so he could go right back to whomever he’d been doing. Except this time, I didn’t, because I wanted to teach him a lesson. Now he’s dead. Some lesson.”
Jesus. “Trace, if he’d told you he didn’t feel well, you would have done the run for him.” The sympathy flooding her couldn’t be held back. She didn’t even try. “If he’d called ahead, explained he had something important to see to, and asked you to find another pilot, you would have done it. I’ve seen you adjust the schedule like that plenty of times since I’ve been here. But you can’t second-guess yourself for insisting he do his job. That was reasonable, not reckless.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.” His voice cracked. “Shay dying on my watch doesn’t feel reasonable. Too much of the time it feels un-fucking-bearable. I can’t handle any more. I don’t want the responsibility. I’m done.”
“All I hear is guilt.” She heard despair too, but she refused to get sucked into it. He was long overdue for some straight talk, but he’d set the whole thing up in a way designed to avoid any conversation that might shine a mirror on his motives. She hadn’t known Shay. Hadn’t loved him. Which might make her the least qualified person to tell him what he needed to hear with any authority whatsoever, but she was the only one holding a mirror. She had to try. In the back of her mind, she could hear Danny sighing. “You’re selling your past and your future because of misplaced guilt.”