I laugh. “Sure thing. Clearly, we’re at the top of the list for his reunion tour.”
The detectives thank us for our time, and I watch them walk toward their vehicle. I have so much to say, and yet, when I turn around, my father has already gone inside. It’s not like him; we should talk this out. We should figure it out.
But this is probably better. I’d end up telling him about the Starline Hotel. About thinking Ellis was there, about the men who tried to kill us, too. Even now, it’s all I can do to stop myself from going in there and confessing the entire day to him. But I have to trust my uncle. At least for now.
Who is in that marsh? And what, if anything, does it have to do with my brother?
I set the business card aside and rest my elbows on the counter, my reality shaken. No matter what my brother has done, I wouldn’t call a detective before getting his side of the story. First things first, when I see Ellis, I’m going to give him a hug. And then I’m going to punch him in the face for leaving us.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
—JAMIE
Twelve stitches and a tetanusshot later, I am freed from the hospital. My arm doesn’t hurt right now—numb from the lidocaine—but the bandages are thick, stiff. I can barely bend my wrist.
Unfortunately, though, the nurse did call my mother.
I find her waiting in one of the lobby chairs, overdressed and out of place among the normal people. Her lips are pulled downward, like she finds the fluorescent lights and scuffed tiles personally offensive. She stands when she sees me, her expression flipping between relief and irritation before settling into something unreadable.
“What happened?” she demands. “And why didn’t you call me before coming here?”
“I tried,” I say. “But I was unconscious.” I smile at her, but she doesn’t seem amused. “I was making some repairs on my boat,” I explain. “And I ended up cutting myself on the engine.”
I don’t even hesitate to lie to her, because honestly, where would I even start? Haunted hotel? Dead body in the trees? Oh, maybe the part where a couple of guys shot at me?
My mother scoffs. “I’ve told you a hundred times that it’s not your job to repair the boat. We have people for that.”
“I like to get my hands dirty.”
“No, you like to be stubborn,” she says. “How many stitches did you get?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“How many?” she demands.
“Twelve,” I tell her defensively.
“Just wonderful,” she says. “I’m sure that will look beautiful.”
“Yeah, I guess my modeling career is over,” I reply.
My mother keeps her sour expression, but then the moment passes. She motions toward the exit doors. “Let’s go,” she says. As we walk, she looks me over. “Do I even want to know about the black eye?” she asks.
“Doubtful,” I tell her.
When we get outside, the air smells like salt, and the distant crying of seagulls echoes off the hospital’s glass doors. Our driver stands at the curb next to the town car, the vehicle looking too polished, too sleek, for a hospital pickup lane.
My mother turns to me, arms crossed again. “I’m not sure why you’re giving me such a hard time,” she says in a hushed voice. “I’m the one who should be pissed after getting a surprise call from the local hospital, informing me that my son was injured.”
She gestures toward the building, and it’s unclear if she’s more upset that they called instead of me, or that I wasn’t taken to a private hospital in the first place.
“And where’s Jordan?” she adds. “You left with her this morning, but somehow I doubt she was there when you got hurt. And don’t insult me by pretending this was really about an engine.”
I stiffen but don’t answer. I don’t want to talk about Jordan, and I definitely don’t want to talk about what really happened. But I’m surprised to hear my mother use the word “pissed.” My father would hate that.
Before she was Izzie Matthews, my mother was Isabelle Garda—a defense attorney, a successful one. She helped my father build his ITsecurity company from the ground up, working by his side. Back then, we were a real family. Or at least, it felt that way. But once my father’s company hit the stock exchange, flooding us with money, we weren’t people anymore—we were an image. The perfect family on the glossy Christmas cards. And it was all fake.
What I wouldn’t give to go back to a time when we were real. A time before I found out that my father was having an affair.
