Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

Brandon

“Brandon, can we talk?”

It’s evening. Darkness is slowly claiming the sky, and the stars are starting to appear above the layer of smog hovering above the city. Rose tried striking up a conversation in the back of the car, and I shut her down. After all the promises this morning that I wouldn’t willingly hurt her, I wouldn’t even let her speak.

My head has been reeling since I got the call from my mother in Vegas. Hard to believe it was only this morning. I should explain how I feel to Rose—I want to explain—but I’m still trying to process what I think is going on here myself.

The doctor said that my father is in no immediate danger of another attack. He wants to discuss his health going forward tomorrow with my mother, but for now, his condition is stable.

Rose looks tired, like a flower closing its petals for the night when the temperature drops.

“Not now.” I relent when her expression crumples. “I’m sorry, Rose. I need to make some calls.”

“Later then?” Her gaze lingers on the Nautilus mirror clock on the living room wall.

“Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Her eyes grow huge with unshed tears. I pull her against my chest and wrap my arms around her. “This has nothing to do with you, Rose.” My lips move against her hair. “There’s just been a lot to process today.”

“I know.” She seems to curl up against me like a bug protecting itself from danger. “You’re worried about your dad, I know. But please, Brandon, please just let the Ron Valentine deal go?”

I release her and hold her at arm’s length. “What’s this all about, Rose? Has Ron gotten to you on the island? Did he… Did he threaten you?”

It doesn’t sound like the Ron I’ve known all my life, but I can’t believe she’s this distressed about a bunch of photos. Folks have short memories. It’ll pass, and they’ll find a new victim to gossip about in a couple of weeks.

“No.” She shakes her head. “No! It’s not that. I just…”

“Forget about the photographs. I have.”

She smiles then, and her shoulders slump, but I can tell I haven’t smoothed out her concerns.

“Why don’t you go home and see your dad?” I suggest. “I’ll get the driver to bring the car back for you. You must have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Okay,” she says without conviction. “Do I… Do you want me to take the ring off?”

“I want you to do whatever you think is right, Rose.” She refuses to meet my eyes, her gaze fixated on the hand-woven rug between the couches, and I quickly add, “No, I don’t want you to take the ring off.”

This must be the right thing to say—her face brightens, she stands on tiptoes, and kisses my cheek. “Goodbye, Brandon.”

I catch her wrist before she can walk away. “You’re coming back, Rose. Aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m coming back, Brandon.”

She smiles, but it isn’t the same smile I saw in Vegas. It isn’t the smile of a woman who knows all the words to every Rod Stewart song ever recorded. It isn’t the smile of a woman who just fucked her man in the shower and drank mimosas on the terrace.

I watch her leave, and I don’t try to stop her despite the uneasiness settling in my stomach. Why did it feel like goodbye? Am I being oversensitive because I still don’t know how she feels or is it because I haven’t expressed how I feel about the whole situation?

In the morning, I’ll send her flowers. Roses. Hundreds of them. Then maybe she’ll start to understand.

I shut myself in my study with a bottle of brandy and a glass.

I lose track of time searching the Internet for Carlos Russo. There’s no mention of him on social media. The tabloids still refer to him on the financial pages, but despite numerous searches, there are no recent images.

Locating his sons and nephews isn’t quite as difficult. His sons Emilio and Luca have their own social media accounts and have posted images of themselves with their wives at social functions as recently as two days ago. His nephews Davide, Enzo, and Angelo have also been in the public eye, with media coverage of Davide’s baby daughter’s baptism, and business enterprises that have benefited the local community. There’s even an image of Enzo shaking hands with the mayor of New York City.

A third of the way through the bottle of brandy, I’m starting to believe that Carlos Russo is no longer alive. I don’t know if he’s sick, or if he took a very personal, very private early retirement back in his home country, but what I don’t understand is why the family is covering it up.

It’s one thing to keep his withdrawal from the family business hush-hush, but quite another to pretend like he’s still very much active.

And no matter which angle I attack this from, I still have no idea where I figure in their plans.

It’s obvious that Wren was an implant. As much as I don’t want to believe that Julia was involved—I can’t overlook the phone call in Vegas—the likeliest outcome is that they were using her to drip-feed information from Weiss Petroleum to them via her sister. It’s easy to apply pressure when you understand a person’s weakness, and everyone has their Achilles heel.

Then there was my father’s mention of a house by a lake. Coincidence? I understand that this connection is probably my mind’s way of searching for a casual reference and attaching a higher level of importance to it than is necessary. But it came out of the blue. It even took my mom by surprise for fuck’s sake.

My previous search history takes me back to the story of American Falls, and I read again about the city built in the original reservoir. The top of the cement grain silo can still be seen above the water in the reservoir—too large and too heavy to move; it was left behind when the townsfolk evacuated.

It’s an interesting story, but I adjust my search to include American Falls real estate, and almost choke on a mouthful of brandy when a familiar name catches my attention. Carlos Russo—as suggested by Sam—owns some listed properties in the area including the old power station. But it isn’t this name that leaves the brandy turning sour on my tongue.

Somewhere in the small print of real estate sales during the past twelve months, the name Harry Weiss flashes off the screen like a neon sign.

I keep scrolling until I find what I’m looking for: the property my father bought is the dilapidated house on the lake that the cab driver said belonged to Carlos Russo. I search further for the completion date and find that it was a little over three months ago. Shortly after Ron Valentine approached me to bail him out of his financial difficulties.

I pour another shot of brandy and sit back in my seat.

What’s the connection?

I’ve known Ron all my life, and I don’t think it’s a family connection, so what am I missing?

Why didn’t Ron approach Carlos Russo for help, if their connection is that strong? Or my father? Why approach me, unless he believed that I would help him discreetly? Was this all about pride? Was he too proud to tell his oldest friend that he was experiencing financial problems?

I sip my brandy and try to put myself in my father’s shoes.

He was ruthless when it came to business. I’d seen him outmaneuver his adversaries in the boardroom on many occasions. When Harry Weiss set his mind to taking someone down for a professional sleight—real or imagined—there was no escape route. He had a better grasp of the mechanics of business law than most solicitors I’d worked with since taking over Weiss Petroleum and knew how to manipulate it to his advantage.

But he was also unflinchingly loyal to his friends. Ron Valentine included.

My father never forgot a favor. He repaid his debts with interest and remembered every person who’d played a part in his rise to success, no matter how small. He would never have judged Ron for his failures, and Ron must know this.

Or did the younger generation of Russos have a bigger part to play in Ron’s downfall? With Carlos out of the picture, perhaps they were doing things their way and fuck the consequences. I don’t know Carlos Russo well, but he’s up there on a pedestal with my father: old school business mentality, a gentleman, ruthless only when it comes to getting the most out of a business transaction.

I go back to my computer and compile a list of other companies in the same league as Russo and Weiss. There are the big, untouchable names like Chevron and BP, but if I take them out of the equation, we’re the most obvious competitors.

I wish Carlos had reached out to me. I would never have personally attacked him—it isn’t my style—and we could’ve reached another truce, rejigged a few minor agreements, and made it work for all concerned.

I’m going around in circles, and I still feel like there’s something missing.

Why did my father not mention the house by the lake to my mother until today? Was he planning on renovating before announcing that was where he wanted to live? Or was he waiting for Carlos Russo to come back?

Mental images of the house make me shudder, penetrating the fug produced by a half-bottle of Remy Martin. I still can’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me from inside the house. Was it Carlos Russo? Does my father know where he is? It would make sense that he hasn’t begun renovating if the house is still being lived in.

Rose asking me to pull out of the deal with Ron sneaks back inside my head.

It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned it, but it was the first time I’d sensed that it meant something to her. It felt as though she were pleading with me.

I need to speak to her. It’s a long shot, and I have no idea how—maybe Rose overheard something during my father’s birthday celebrations—but I need to speak to her.

I locate her number on my phone and sit back, raising my glass to my lips. Last glass. Then I’ll send the car to collect her from her father’s house, shower, and take her out for a late supper. There’s an all-night Lebanese restaurant on Fifth Avenue that Jennifer always raves about.

Start afresh. Forget about the name Russo, and fake engagements, and keeping up appearances for the press. It could be exactly what we both need.

Only, Rose’s phone doesn’t ring. There isn’t even a beat during which the call tries to connect, it’s simply dead.

I try again.

I shouldn’t have swallowed the last shot. I need to understand the cold sense of dread slithering around my veins and forming beads of sweat on my forehead. I call the driver to find out where he dropped Rose off and get the same result. Silence.

Scrolling through my list of contacts, my finger hovers over Jennifer’s number. I touch the call button without thinking it through, and stumble to my feet when this connection too is dead. I swallow, a dry clicking sound emitting from the back of my throat.

I grab a jacket out of my closet, slide my feet into the shoes I traveled back from Vegas in, and ride the elevator down to the lobby.

“Did you see my wife leave earlier?” I ask the concierge.

“Yes, Mr. Weiss. Your car was waiting outside for her as requested.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“She didn’t, I’m sorry, sir. Is everything?—”

I don’t wait around for him to finish.

I’m outside the building, the cool night air snapping around my ankles, my footsteps pounding along the sidewalk. I run. A guy with sparse tufts of white hair on his shiny pink scalp dodges me by darting into an alleyway, the carrier bag in his hand clinking with the weight of bottles.

A cab comes towards me, traveling in the opposite direction. I sprint across the road without checking for traffic—it’s late, and the roads are relatively quiet. He stops, and I climb into the backseat, giving him Rose’s address.

I call Rose’s number again, willing it to ring. If it rings, I can tell myself that I’m panicking over nothing. Too much brandy; lack of sleep; the ghost stories of American Falls getting inside my head.

The number is still dead, as if it never existed at all, as if Rose Carter is nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

I ask the cab driver to wait for me. The houses in the street where Rose lives with her dad are sleeping. Curtains are drawn. TVs are switched off for the night. I sprint along the path leading to the front door and press the bell.

I allow extra time for Rose and her dad to wake up and realize there’s someone at the front door, but even so, they’re taking too long. I push the bell again. Nothing.

“Come on, Rose. Come on.”

This time, I leave my finger on the button, and sigh with relief when I hear footsteps approaching the door and a man’s voice: “All right, all right, I’m coming.”

A key turns. The door opens a crack, a thick metal chain preventing it from opening any further. Rose’s dad peers out, his face pale with sleep.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Carter,” I blurt out, “but is Rose there?”

“Rose?” He blinks like he doesn’t understand the question. “Mr. Weiss?”

“Yes. Rose. She came to see you earlier. Is she still here?”

“I haven’t seen her since she went away with Jess. Is there something wrong? What’s happened?—”

I back away from the door. I feel like I’m sleepwalking through water that’s rising, rising, making it difficult to keep moving, and the cab driver is yelling at me, “Do you still want a ride back?” as I stumble along the sidewalk.

“ Yes, I’m coming back .” That’s what she said when she left my apartment, and she meant it.