“I need a ride,” I say abruptly, cutting off Stanhope mid-speech. “Now.”
She blinks at me, startled. “What do I look like to you, a taxi service?”
“Where do you need to go, Archer?” Pomroy asks quietly. “I’ll take you.”
I glance at him and give a shallow nod of thanks. “The Valentine family estate, in Manchester. If my brother manages to elude you… I guarantee that’s where he’ll go next.”
“Why there?”
“Because if he wants to hurt me…” I swallow roughly. “The best way to do that is to hurther.”
* * *
It’s nearly midnight when Pomroy leaves me at the ornate wrought iron front gates with strict instructions to keep my phone on and contact him if there’s any sign of my brother. He taps the steering wheel restlessly as I unbuckle my seatbelt, eager to get back to the manhunt at the docks.
When we bring him in, you’ll be the first to know, he promised hurriedly, before racing off into the night.Don’t worry. You did great getting us that confession— but your part in this is over.
It was clear from his overly soothing tone that he only brought me to Cormorant House to mollify me. My hunch means nothing to them.
Why trust the gut-instinct of a nineteen-year-old kid when you have the full force of federal law enforcement at your disposal?
The DEA is confident they’ll capture Jaxon within hours. They don’t think he’d be stupid enough to resurface — certainly not to seek revenge. They think I’m nuts for even suggesting that instead of running for cover, putting as many miles as possible between himself and the North Shore… he’d dare to show his face in front of the brother who betrayed him.
But they don’t know Jaxon.
Not the way I do.
They don’t know how his brain works. They didn’t see the flash of unadulterated hatred that filled his eyes the moment before that first smoke-bomb went off, as he realized I’d betrayed him.
He will come for me.
I know it in my bones.
I punch in the front gate code, praying it hasn’t changed since last summer. There’s a moment of silence, followed by a low clanking sound as the gates swing inward. I walk up the circular driveway, my footsteps crunching on the imported pea stone as I make my way to the house.
It’s late. All the lights are off. No doubt, Jo is fast asleep inside. Probably curled up beside her boyfriend.
I don’t like it — the thought sets my teeth on edge — but so long as she’s safe, I’ll deal with it. I don’t intend to tell her I’m here. Not now, not in the middle of the night. I’ll just keep watch until dawn, an invisible layer of protection in case my brother really is dumb enough to show his face here. The chance I’m right — however slim — is still too big a risk to ignore.
I forget sometimes that this was his home, too. Before he went to prison, Jaxon lived on this sprawling property. Or, more specifically, in the staff quarters tucked away in the back thicket of trees. Gull Cottage — a single-story, shingled building we shared with Ma and Pa. I doubt he’d come back here now, but it’s worth checking.
I divert down the side path that leads away from the main house toward the cottage. It’s strange to be back here, but I can’t deny, there’s a certain morbid curiosity in my veins. Each footstep I walk closer to the place where I spent my childhood makes my pulse pound faster.
On this side of the estate, the lawn is slightly overgrown, the hedges trimmed with a rushed sloppiness my father never would’ve allowed, if he were still in charge of the grounds. I wonder who Blair and Vincent got to replace him. I wonder if they even hesitated as they dismissed a man who’d cared for their precious Cormorant House with meticulous precision for more than two decades.
It was all for the best, in the end. Pa sounded happier than I’ve ever heard him when we spoke on the phone yesterday. He has a house of his own to care for now — one he and Ma have made into a home on a small island off the coast of their native Puerto Rico.
I could hear the sound of waves crashing in the background as we chatted, tropical birds singing high-pitched songs from the trees overhead, the creak of a hammock strung up between two palms.
There are more wild horses on Vieques than there are people. They run through the yard like chickens, grazing on the herb garden, driving your mother crazy,Pa told me, a grin audible in his voice.You’ll love it. When are you coming to visit, mijo?
Soon, I’d assured him.Maybe I’ll try out fishing in some warmer waters.
He’d laughed, launching into a vivid description of the local catch. Long-billed marlins and colorful mahi-mahi; massive blackfin tuna and razor-mouthed barracuda.
We’ll catch them all, when you visit.
Okay, Pa. It’s a deal.