“Rings a bell,” I say politely.
“She got married not too long ago. She’s an artist and a storyteller, and getting out does wonders for her muse. Seattle can be lovely in the summer, but you know how it is after October. Months of grey skies and buckets. The first thing her Auggie did after their honeymoon was plunk down your kinda money for a new vacation spot with clearer skies. Big, fancy house, right on Lake Tahoe.”
“Lake Tahoe,” I repeat.
Shit.
She holds up a finger. “Now, there’s no guarantee, even if Elle and Lena are inseparable. But if you’ve got the means and you’re itching to find her bad enough, I’d start there.”
“You’re sure she’s with her best friend? Not her mother?” I watch Gran’s face.
“Her mama’s a lovely woman, but she never was the best at mothering her little girl when she needs it. She’s the quiet type, deep into meditation and singing to the trees alone when times get rough. Lena always took after her father, I think. Too serious for all that.” She sips her tea. “You’re a smart man. If I can add it up, so can you.”
Yeah, and I need to get the hell to Nevada tonight.
“Thanks, Gran.” I stuff the rest of my third muffin into my mouth as I jump to my feet. “Sorry about the crumbs, but I’ve just remembered some—some urgent business.”
“I see,” she says dryly. “Shake your tail, then. Lord knows I don’t want to hold you up, gabbing about nothing.”
“We’ll do this again real soon,” I promise.
Then I give her a grateful nod and shake her gnarled hand before I gun it out the door. As I’m walking to my vehicle, I text Luis to book me the next flight to Lake Tahoe and keep Queenie company for a few days.
I never got an address, but I can find out where the Marshalls have their property.
In less than an hour, I’m packed and ready.
I’m about to head out the door when my phone starts buzzing and doesn’t stop. Not a call, but a fuckload of notifications.
I stop to check.
The first thing I see is a new text from Luis—check Instagram—and I open the app with a ragged sigh.
I’m swamped with tags, mentions—far more than usual for posting nothing new.
I don’t have to scroll far before I’m confused.
Tags and DMs demanding if I knew.
If I’m okay with this.
People showering me with sympathies.
A call from Dad comes in, and I swipe it away, heading for a post by a particularly shitty online tabloid I recognize.
But it’s not me feeding the scandal mill for once.
It’s Lena.
The photos make my jaw drop.
She’s on a yacht, looking younger. There’s a lot of skin showing, and everything’s blurred, but it’s obvious what she’s doing. And it’s equally clear the man in the photos isn’t me when he has that ridiculous mustache I want to rip off with my bare hands.
I drop onto the sofa and slump against the cushions. Queenie gets up from sunning herself and strides over, leaning against me with a groan.
The dog is psychic. She knows how gutted I am.
And that’s when I realize the idiotic lawsuit was never the real attack. This is how he’s striking back, and it’s eviscerating.
