XXII EYE OF THE STORM （AUGUST）

Aunt Clara has never hit me in my life.

Right now, I wish she would.

What I'd done failed to sink in for a full damning minute as Elle ran away.

Not when I was so wrapped up in my head with my anger and my betrayal.

Not when I'd just taken an entire lifetime of resentment out on the one person who deserved it the least.

By the time it caught up to me, she was gone.

Despair eats through me like acid, melting my heart into slag.

I pick up one of the pink fuzzy slippers that went flying off her foot, just staring at it before I let it fall limply to the ground.

Everything's gone to shit faster than I can comprehend.

My PA and driver spying on me.

Aunt Clara confessing—fucking confessing—to stealing Inky the Penguin from Lester Sullivan.

The grim fact that we're going to lose Little Key and everything she's ever built because the Inky IP was either built on a lie, or else it was all thrown away with a lie—either way, it's going, going, gone.

And the ugly truth is that I just ran off Elle like a total savage.

I shoved her away when all I want is her in my life, more than anything.

She's not an intrusion.

She never was.

Hell, she opened doors I shut so long ago that I forgot there was still a living man behind them, and not the lifeless workaholic asshole I've mutated into.

I am a heartless fuck of the highest order.

"Way to go, Casanova," Marissa mocks, lifting her chin with a sneer. "Y'know, I just wanted to destroy the bitch who killed my father ... but getting to watch your life come crashing down has been a fun bonus."

Aunt Clara looks sick. Ready to faint.

Despite the anger boiling my veins, concern swamps me.

I throw Marissa a sharp look.

"Don't," I say. "You got what you wanted. Learn to savor your win with a little class."

Aunt Clara shakes her head, giving Marissa a long, strange look.

"I never meant to hurt Lester," she whispers. There's something odd in her voice. Something distant and detached that tells me I'm missing a major piece of her puzzle. "I never meant to hurt you. I was simply trying to protect you in my own way, Marissa. I can't explain—I can't—but believe me, I was. Please believe that. I only hope this can help set things right."

Marissa looks confused, silent as she cocks her head at my aunt.

Aunt Clara smiles faintly and turns to me, touching my arm.

"Please take me home, son," she says. "You can rage at me all you like ... but I can't handle one more sip of this day."

No rage left.

I can't will myself to stay furious.

I don't even know what's happening right now.

We're all just standing here like someone called Cut! on filming, and now we don't know what to do when we don't have our parts to play. Even Marissa looks like a puppet with her strings cut.

The worst part is, Elle would know what to do right now.

She'd know how to smooth things over and move everything forward again.

Of course Elle's not here anymore, thanks to my dumb ass.

All this time, I've been so angry at what my ex-wife did, expecting each and every last woman in my life to hurt me the same way Charisma did.

Only, I was the one who hurt the one woman who was trying her very best not to.

I knew I would.

I knew I'd hurt her again.

For a few bright minutes, I fooled myself into believing I could behave like a civilized human being.

Like the man she truly deserves.

It's the stiff, silent lawyer who finally breaks the awkward scene. He clears his throat, adjusts his tie, and plucks the recorder from Marissa's hand. "I'll just add this to our evidence and make sure it's entered into the record before the case."

Marissa shakes herself, giving him a lost look before her face tightens into a scowl.

"Right." She sweeps us with a look. "The only Marshall who was invited here was Clara. The rest of you can get off my property. Unless you want me to have security escort you out." Her eyes flick to me like glinting knives.

Very fucking funny, throwing my words back at me.

"Let's go." Aunt Clara touches my arm lightly.

Deb catches my eye over her head. She doesn't have to mouth any words at me for me to know what she's saying.

I've known her my whole life, and despite our teasing and bickering, she's still my sister.

We'll talk later,she says silently.

Still dazed, I start moving, feeling like the entire world's been ripped out from under me.

I escort Clara to my car and tuck her into the passenger seat, then climb in and wait for Deb to drive through the roundabout before I follow her car like we're in a funeral procession.

It's dead silent, though now and then I'm painfully aware of little things like Rick's sunglasses clipped to the visor, a bottle cap from one of his lemon Italian sodas in the cup holder, all those reminders that—fuck.

I can't even sort my feelings there.

Why? Why didn't he just trust me enough to come for help, instead of letting Marissa goddamned Sullivan blackmail him against me?

Then again, when I refuse to trust anyone else—

Have I really been someone who anyone could turn to for help in their darkest hour? Even my driver?

Goddammit.

Fine.

Maybe after this is over, we'll sort this out and we'll talk. But it'll be a long damned time before I trust Rick to do anything more than pick up my dry cleaning.

I'll definitely hire someone to get that compromising info Marissa has, even if it's by less-than-legal methods.

Aunt Clara sits silently next to me, staring out the window, her expression ghostly. It's like she's deflated.

Everything that makes her Aunt Clara has drained out, now that she's given up the core of her life.

It's not right.

None of this is fucking right.

And I don't know what to do about it, as long as she's keeping her lips so stubbornly sealed about why this is even happening.

I cast a few frustrated glances at her, start to say something, and stop.

I don't know if I want to yell, beg, accuse, cry, or just fucking give up and let it be.

So I'm not expecting her to abruptly say, "You're still angry at Charisma."

"What?" I blink at her before turning back to traffic. "Of course I'm angry at Charisma. She tried to—"

"That's not why you're angry." Clara smiles sadly.

"The hell it isn't."

"August." She watches me knowingly. "You hate liars. Please don't lie to yourself."

"I . . ."

I recoil, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I stare at the taillights ahead of us. I've been so out of it I didn't even realize we were no longer behind Deb. She must have merged into the turn back to Little Key a few blocks back.

Why am I so angry at my dead ex-wife?

There's no point in it. I can't even tell her if I knew—

Oh.

Well, that's it, isn't it?

"I'm angry at her for dying," I admit. I feel like I'm spitting words at my reflection in the windshield. "There was no reason. No reason. We could have been normal divorced people. We could've said we were sorry it went wrong and gone our separate ways. I know I wasn't husband of the year. I know. I know we weren't right for each other. But instead of talking about it, she had to fucking go and get sucked in with those lunatics, and then—"

I cut myself off, pounding my fist on the steering wheel.

"I wish she was alive." Why is there a knot in my throat? "I wish I'd handled it right. I wish we'd settled our shit and gotten on with our lives, but we didn't. And I've been blaming myself for that, and that's wrong. All because I blame her. I blame her for what she did, and she'll never be here again for me to tell her to her face."

It comes out in a snarling rush, leaving me winded.

Clara watches me with her usual patience.

I'm reminded of when I was a little boy and she'd watch me screw up my face, trying like hell not to cry when I was hurt and angry. And she'd always coax my feelings out until I was an angry little mess, ranting about how mean the kids at school were, when all I wanted was a friend.

"No, she's not," Clara agrees gently. "But you're still here. You're alive. You're here to admit that to yourself. To heal, now that you've acknowledged your real feelings."

"I don't know if I'm capable of healing." My lips twist bitterly.

"I know someone who thinks you are," Clara points out. Just the softest reminder of Elle is a knife to the gut—hurt, longing, regret. "You don't have to forgive me, August. I did what I did for my own reasons, and I know it hurt you. I'm sorry for that. You have no idea how much. But there's still a chance she might forgive you."

The vehicle goes quiet as I pull up outside her modest little two-story house in Laurelhurst. The same place I used to call home.

For some reason, I vaguely remember when I ran a background check on Elle. Before she moved to her grandmother's cottage on Queen Anne Hill, her parents had owned a home in Laurelhurst.

If life hadn't taken us on wildly different paths, we might have grown up practically next to each other.

"Is there?" I ask. "Would you forgive a man who told you that you were nothing but an intrusion?"

"Give her a chance," Clara urges. "Not everyone holds grudges like you do."

"Very funny. I'm glad this day hasn't trashed your sterling sense of humor." I roll my eyes.

She smiles, but it's a shallow imitation of her old warmth.

"I have my moments."

I let myself look at her. Really look at her, but I can't muster any anger. Not even resentment at her bizarre betrayal.

Mostly, I'm just tired, but more than anything, I'm worried about the woman who raised me like a mother. Worried about what's going on inside her that would drive her to do something so drastic, despite knowing how it would hurt Deb and me.

It must be something terribly important.

I refuse to believe the woman I love and admire this much has spent my entire life deceiving me.

Wouldn't Elle be proud of me now?

Putting all my faith in a woman who more than deserves it, instead of cutting her off and rejecting her out of mistrust and my own selfish feelings of betrayal.

If only I'd had the sense to treat Elle the same way.

"What will you do now?"

"I'm going to have a cup of tea and read a book," Clara announces pragmatically as she pushes the door open, stepping out. She leans in, giving me a long look full of love that I know isn't a lie. She didn't have to take on Deb and me after our parents died, but she was always willingly, happily here for us. "Take care of yourself, August. Regardless of what you think of me, even if you despise me now—I do love you, and I always will."

I thunk my head back against the car seat.

"I can't stop loving you, Auntie." I sigh. "Even if I can't shake the feeling that you're hiding something important. I'll never believe you stole Inky from Lester Sullivan."

"Well ... that's something you'll have to wrestle with in your own way." She straightens, pressing a hand to the small of her back with a groan. "For now, I need to grapple with getting these old bones inside. I'll talk to you later, dearest heart."

"Later," I say as she pushes the car door closed.

I watch her make her way slowly up the walk.

Just another reminder that this isn't fucking right, and I desperately want to fix it, but I don't know how.

It's only after Clara's safely inside that I pull back out into traffic, pointing the G80 toward home.

My house feels too empty now.

Elle's barely been here enough to leave a mark, even if her silky pajamas and her bathrobe are still on my bedroom floor. I pick up the soft rose-colored top, breathing in her scent.

Then I fling it away, leaving it crumpled on the bed.

I can't stand the heartache right now.

Instead, I pick up the sheaf of papers, the report I tossed aside when I threw on my clothes and went dashing out earlier. I take them out to the deck and sink down in one of the high-backed chairs, slouching forward and paging through what the private detective uncovered.

Isn't there anything here I can use?

Some evidence that Marissa fabricated the sketchbook, or—

Wait.

I stop and flip back a page. Clara's name jumped out just now, but it was about Marissa's mother and not Marissa herself, so I'd skimmed past it before.

Now, I read carefully.

Lester and Yvette Sullivan never had a happy marriage, but it was rather peaceful until his partnership with Clara Marshall. Clara and Yvette became close friends. So close it sparked rumors that their friendship was shattered by infidelity between Lester and Clara.

There were other rumors too. Even more scandalous ones for the time. You know how people were about certain things back then.

And those women certainly were very, very, close.

"Thick as thieves," you might say.

But hey. People do love to gossip, and gossip isn't always true.

I lean back, staring across the water. Cold calculations flick through my head.

I'm catching on too slowly, but now it hits me like a train.

There's never been an uncle with Aunt Clara.

Hell, I don't recall her ever dating anyone, or talking about a love life at all.

Of course, Deb and I always chalked that up to her being too busy with Inky, and then unexpectedly saddled with two young brats on top of a full-time career dedicated to her art.

On the other hand, she's never expressed much interest in men at all.

It's not something I've ever thought about. You tend not to think too hard about your parental figure's love life for the sake of your own sanity.

It's not that she hates men.

She just seems oblivious to them, minus the stubborn little bastard she's sculpted into some semblance of a man.

Fuck.

Did she and Yvette Sullivan . . . ?

Shewon't tell me, but I know who might.

I grab my phone and tap Deb's number.

"Well, that was a complete shit show." She answers without a hello. "How're you holding up?"

"A particularly smelly one, but that's not why I'm calling. I need you to take over operations for a bit. I'm going out of town for a couple of days."

"What? Why? The trial's coming up! Even if it seems kind of fucking pointless now. We should still be there, shouldn't we?"

"I'll be back in time, Deb," I promise. "I don't think it's pointless."

"Oh no. Idiot brother, what are you planning? Where are you going?"

"Minnesota."

Long silence.

"What the fuck is in Minnesota?" Deb hisses.

I smile for the first time all day. "I'm not sure yet, but I'm about to find out."