Trip arches an eyebrow, “Are you channeling Bette Davis?”
Natasha makes a pouty face. “I’m sure you're tired, B.” She nudges Trip in the ribs. “We’ll take this party down the hall. Shower and join us when you and Hana are ready.”
I tilt my head as if I’ll nod, but I don’t. We won’t be joining any of them.
Trip leaves his empty tumbler on the table, pausing as he passes to kiss my cheek. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”
He’s annoyed, but I couldn’t care less.
He annoys me. “I don’t need anything.”
My tone is dismissive, and he turns, wrapping his arms around Natasha and Rainey’s waists. “Come, girls. Time for an Irish wake.”
The door closes, and I carry the letter down the long, mahogany hall to my sister’s door. What I said to Trip isn’t true. I do need something badly. I need to be away from this place. I need something real, fresh air, peace.
With a soft knock, I step into Hana’s plush, white bedroom. She’s lying on the bed, and I go to her, sitting beside her and smoothing her long, spiral curls away from her face. Her eyes are closed, and the empty tumbler is on her nightstand.
“Why did she do it?” Hana’s small voice breaks, and I blink against the heat stinging my eyes.
I don’t know the answer to her question. I can’t fix this, and I don’t want her getting any ideas.
Clearing my throat, I speak softly. “Uncle Hugh invited us to visit the family estate in Hamiltown. He’s turning eighty, and I think it would be the perfect escape from what's happening here, don’t you?”
I hold the letter where she can see it, and her brow furrows. She squints at it then turns away without even reading. “Whatever you think, B.”
Like always. “I’ll wake you in a few hours. We can be on the train by lunch.”
She’s not responding, but the decision is made.
We’re getting the fuck out of here.
3
Hutch
This is my fault.
The van Hamilton mansion is eerily quiet. Not a portrait is tilted, not a corner of a rug is upturned. I follow the butler across the parquet floors out to the small greenhouse, where I last saw Hugh. The small bonsai tree is still where he left it, tiny pruning shears on the table beside it.
I lift the tool, but it’s too small to do any real damage. “The last time you saw him was when he went to bed last night?”
Norris flusters like a gray-haired, overheated penguin in his uniform. “He has to take his pills. He needs his medicine. How can I give him his medicine if he’s not here?”
My lips tighten as I survey the area, remembering our conversation. He all but told me this was coming, and I didn’t take him seriously, or I accepted his clumsy cover, when I know damn well Hugh van Hamilton doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean.
He said coming home would be the last thing he’d ask of Blake and Hana.
Keep them safe was the last thing he asked of me.
My fist flexes. Dammit, how could I have let this happen?
“Oh, Mr. Winston, we’ve got to find him.” Norris is making me uneasy, so I wave him off and head to the back entrance.
The four-car garage is also quiet, clean, with no signs of struggle or forced entry. An Audi sedan is parked beside a black, Lincoln Town Car. Beside it is an unused Bentley, and in the fourth space is an overused golf cart.
My partner Oscar rises to his full, six-foot-four height from where he’d been crouching behind the limo. His skin is covered in ink from his neck to his waist, down to both wrists. The tattoos cover some pretty gnarly burn scars.
“What’s the good news?”
Pale-blue wolf eyes meet mine, and he shakes his dark head. “Nothing.”
He’s not much for conversation, but I need more than that.
A growl rumbles low in my throat. “Dammit, Scar. There’s gotta be something. No one disappears without leaving some clue behind.”
“Looks like Hugh did.” He’s not being cocky.
Scar Lourde doesn’t like “no clue” cases. He’s the best tracker in the world, and he prides himself on being able to find anyone or anything. When we first met overseas, he was a contractor with the Marines. We found spies, bombs, hijackers, hidden bunkers, suicide bombers… He saved my ass more than once, and he’s practically psychic when it comes to finding evidence.
When he dropped by Hamiltown for a visit five years ago, I all but begged him to join my fledgling private investigation firm. I’d retired from service, and we were just getting established. I was the leader, the muscle, and my brother was the brains. Scar was exactly what we needed, and now I can’t imagine doing our work without him.
“We’ve got to keep looking.” I remember my last conversation with Hugh. “This isn’t some random stranger.”
“You’d search as hard for a random stranger.” Scar’s deep voice is quiet, and I concede.
“I’ll search harder for Hugh.”
“There’s no struggle, no forced entry. His car didn’t leave the garage…”
“So it’s a kidnapping?”
“Or he wandered off.”
Our eyes meet for a beat, and I shake my head. “He’s ill, but he doesn’t have dementia.”
“And he wasn’t kidnapped.” My younger brother Dirk walks up to where we’re standing.
My father always called him Duke because of his ability to fit seamlessly into both worlds. He’s equally comfortable sipping Ono champagne cocktails on the Upper East Side as he is eating bologna sandwiches in Slim Harold's in Hamiltown.
But he’s primarily a computer genius–hell, he’s a fucking genius period. I’m lucky if I can get his ass out of bed before noon, but it’s because he’s up all night tracking bad guys across the dark web.
“If it were a kidnapping, there’d be a ransom note or at the very least someone taking responsibility. I checked all the downstairs windows, the surrounding drive, the lawns, and I did find one thing–two, actually.”
“What?” Oscar straightens, and my shoulders tense.
“I found these. Car let them out five minutes ago.”
He steps to the side like he’s a game-show host, revealing two females with confused expressions, holding suitcases.
It’s actually two very beautiful women, one I remember well, only the last time I saw her, she was a sixteen-year-old troublemaker, a firebrand too attractive for her age, and especially for our five-year age difference.
“What’s happening here?” Blake’s voice is slightly lower since I last heard it, still she’s coolly elegant in her tailored brown blazer over an ivory shirt and dark jeans.
Her silky, brunette hair is smoothed over one shoulder in a wavy ponytail, and when her striking silver eyes meet mine, they narrow. My stomach tightens, and my jaw grinds.
I don’t have time for that involuntary response.
“Surprise!” The pale blonde next to her exhales a soft laugh then she covers her mouth quickly, staring at the ground as if she’s embarrassed we’re all looking at her.
Hana hasn’t changed at all. She sounds high. Her dark blue eyes seem too big for her face, and spiral white-blonde curls hang loose down her back, swaying as she wobbles on her stilettos. The filmy, floral dress she’s wearing does little to cover her too-thin body.