“Mrs. Hale, you need to open your eyes and get more involved. Call your husband out on some of his shit instead of taking everything he says at face value. And, I have to say, if you lightened up a little, you’d have so much more fun. Niamh, you’re lovely—don’t get me wrong. But where were you when Jackson needed someone in his corner? You’ve known him for long enough to hear what he has to deal with and you’ve said nothing. It’s not good enough.” Niamh ducked her head and squirmed, but Leah wasn’t finished. She squared her shoulders and turned to his father, resolute contempt written all over her face. “And you, Mr. Hale? Well, you are an asshat.”
There was a joint intake of breath from multiple mouths. His dad’s lips formed a clamped line. Sam’s, in contrast, were definitely quivering.
“I know you’ve been under a lot of stress but, honestly, you brought that on yourself. You’ve made some godawful decisions and expected your son to bail you out. Which he’s done or tried to do. Every. Single. Time. And you sat back and left him to it, hiding behind your pitiful ‘Woe is me—I can’t risk my social standing!’He’s sold his condo to cover some of your stupid loan. He’s been killing himself to make improvements at Amity Court so he can sell that, too.Hisinheritance, not yours. What have you done, Mr. Hale? I’m not hearing a lot about your role in putting out this dumpster fire.” Leah didn’t take her eyes from his father’s face.
The frigid aura left them isolated like warring relatives at a disputed-will reading, the negative energy crackling and snapping.
“Since tonight is all about raising money for the foundation, I’m going to say this, too. I’m truly sorry that Dominic died. It must have been beyond awful for you all. But you seem to have forgotten Jackson lost him, too, and he was not the cause of his brother’s death. Constantly making him feel less valued because he’s still alive is a really shitty thing to do. Poking at him because he’s dyslexic, and Dominic wasn’t, is just mean.”
Leah finally broke eye contact with his father. She smoothed pale hands down the sides of her dress and, because he knew all her tells, Jackson could read the delayed influx of nerves in the gesture. “I’m thirsty now and I’ve said enough. So I think I’ll wait at the bar until Jackson has given his speech—which I’m sure will be pretty fucking fantastic, like everything else he does.”
She turned her back on the group and a large section of her coiled hair came loose, flopping across her face. With a sigh, Leah began to pull the rest of the pins out, pushing a hand through the midnight waves and shaking them loose as she walked to the bar. Jackson had never seen her look more bewitching.
He took a step backward and collided with the events coordinator who had crept up behind him. “Sorry, sir! If you could run over a few details with me, we’ll be ready for you to address everyone.”
Jackson barely heard her. His hands were shaking, his mouth desert-dry. He’d never been on the receiving end of such fierce support. Leah had no reason to defend him. He’d pushed her away,doubted her loyalty at the very first hurdle, and she’d still gone to bat for him without hesitation.
“That girl has had your back from the moment she first met you.” Hazel’s words from the barbecue. Jackson almost groaned.
In a daze, he let himself be guided away. He took in maybe a fifth of what the event coordinator told him, nodding in what he hoped were the right places while she explained her way through a rundown of the evening. When she steered him toward a small podium, he took a dutiful step up and adjusted the tiny microphone attached to the glass and aluminum lectern. He cleared his throat softly and focused on what he’d planned to say before all the shit had gone down.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” His voice rasping like a paint scraper on flaked woodwork, Jackson waited for a few seconds as the general hubbub came to a halt. He zeroed in on Leah, who had twisted on a bar stool in the distance, shot glass in hand, facing him. “For anyone here who doesn’t know me, my name is Jackson Hale and, on behalf of Hale Evolution and the Dominic Hale Foundation, I’d like to welcome you to this stunning venue. I hope you enjoy the wonderful displays, this amazing view, and, most importantly, the cocktails, because we would like you to bid wildly and willingly on the very special silent auction items on offer tonight.”
A ripple of amusement traveled through the guests. Jackson ran his gaze over the room, but found it drawn almost immediately back to Leah. He felt rather than saw the dip of her chin, which encouraged him to continue.
“Dominic was my brother. I feel his loss every day because he was also my friend. Through the Dominic Hale Foundation, my family and I have tried to turn a personal tragedy into something positive. We take strength from being able to direct any fundsraised from events such as this one toward projects and charities that benefit young adults in a multitude of different ways.”
He took a breath before continuing. “Homelessness can happen to anyone and the reasons for it are complex, including family breakdowns, mental health concerns, job losses, bereavement, and care leaving, among many others. Young people are particularly vulnerable, and providing support to those who find themselves without a home, through no fault of their own, at a time when most of us have family to turn to, is especially important.”
Leah’s drink froze, hovering somewhere midway between the bar and her lips.
“This year, all the money raised from tonight’s ticket sales and silent auction will go to Cricklade House in Kalamazoo—an amazing charity that provides safe and secure housing and related services for young adults. Your money will not only buy interview outfits for those trying to get a job but will help to fund regular workshops for residents, ranging from money management and life skills, through to team building and mental wellbeing sessions. With your support, we can try to give young people in crisis the lifelong tools they need to thrive.” Jackson took a long breath, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “So, please—relax, have a wonderful evening, and thank you again for joining us tonight.”
He stepped down from the lectern to enthusiastic applause and a swell of renewed conversation, only to be immediately engulfed by friends and acquaintances offering congratulations. There was no way of avoiding his official duties, however much he itched to drag Leah away so he could speak to her alone. Even as he chatted politely, answering questions and deflecting others, he searched her out, over and over again, never able to get any nearer to where she sat at the bar.
Bidding on the silent auction lots was fast and furious. Relief loosened the stranglehold of tension on his lungs. At least thefundraising part of the evening was a success. Jackson worked the opposite side of the room to his father, circling closer to Leah—conversation by painful conversation—as he networked, listened, and nodded. It took him more than an hour to cross the gallery. He bypassed Sam and Kash, trapped by a verbose member of the Michigan State Board of Real Estate Brokers & Salespersons. Ignoring Kash’s desperate eyebrow which begged for rescue, Jackson suppressed a tight smile when Sam flipped him off with a strategically placed finger on the outside of his glass.
It wasn’t only Leah he was searching for as he scanned the gathering. A singular peal of laughter, rising from a group of his father’s country club associates, lifted the hairs on the back of his neck and Jackson’s chin whipped around, his eye snagging on a familiar head of graying hair and an unmistakable mustache. Landon Peake had arrived.
Everything blurred; the background chatter faded away and Jackson became an active radar missile, locked onto his target. Only Peake remained in high definition at the center of his vision. Adrenaline rocketing, he held himself back with cotton-thin restraint. He wanted to fucking kill him.
“Not here.” His father stepped in to block his way. “This isn’t the place.”
“You’re wrong.” Jackson suppressed a snarl.
“You can’t.”
“I fuckingcouldif I wanted to.” His eyes blazed. “I don’t care about causing a scene. I don’t care about your reputation. I’d love to take on that asshole in front of everyone—but there’s no need. I’ve got someone else who’s going to do it for me.”
He gestured and his dad spun around.
Two people strode with authority toward the country club group—one female in dark pants and a burgundy shirt, one male in police uniform.
“Mr. Landon Peake?” The woman in plain clothes spoke first.
“That’s me.” Peake was still laughing as he turned. The upward curve fell from his lips once he properly registered the new arrivals. Jackson stalked closer, his father on his heels.
“My name is Lucy Lam, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI Chicago Field Office.” She held out her warrant card. “You are under arrest for making extortionate extensions of credit without a license to lend, and attempted malicious arson. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
