“Excuse me?” She splutters. “That’s not possible, I didn’t buy Nightingale. I put no money into it.”
“It looks like Mr Claythorne had both your names on the deed. Miss Osbourne, can you tell me who A. Claythorne is? They seem to be on the deed to the house and entire property too, but we can’t seem to find them in the system. None of the guests we asked know this person either.”
A crease dents between her brows and her lips pursed tight. “I have no idea who that person is. I’ve been close with their family since birth, and I don’t know anyone with the first initial A.”
Shuffling his stance wider, he smirks under his stupid fucking mustache. “I was just curious to see if you knew, seeing as the house is now split between yourself and this mystery person. That is all. Get me those secrets.” Giving us all a stern frown, he leaves the room and clatters the kitchen door closed.
My body slumps into her and I'm surprised she supports me whilst still sitting on the stool. It's only Cardinal that seems unphased, mumbling choice words whilst he sips his tea.
“I feel like we just got mentally done up the arse, and not in a good way.” I breathe, racking a palm through my messy curls.
Robin inhales sharply, her smile wobbly. “Is there a good way?”
“I mean it comes with a little light edging, but yeah. Loads of lube too.”
“You need to get your head checked.” He growls at me, dumping his mug in the sink before leaving the kitchen. He rattles the door too and we hear him shout, “Get everyone rounded up in that fucking overpriced conservatory.Orangerymy arse.”
Chapter twenty
Robin
NIGHTINGALEHouse is numbing me from the inside. I physically clasp and unclasp my hands around an Aloe Vera plant, running the jagged edges against my skin to make sure I can feel anything at all. My head fills with the memories of damp skin, hot breaths, and hands touching everywhere. In floats bewildered smiles, eyes piercing green, and the look of awe as we lay in each other's arms. I'd felt safe, until I didn't.
The crash back into the sharpness of this morning hits me all over again, like a bird with clipped wings unable to soar back down to its safe spot. My thoughts replay waking up, finding my room trashed, my friendship with Merle in ruins, and a message that should have filled me with so much fear, but my numb body lacked any life. My heart hasn't even pulsed heavier, the only anchor in that moment being the heavily tattooed man who hauled me out of there. I look at that same man now, the way his ruthless curls fall in his eyes, the green in them like a deep forest that is cast in shadow, just like this hotel. His long fingers brush my knee as he talks to Phin and I don't think he even knows he'sdoing it, always keeping some form of touch, like he fears I could slip between invisible cracks in the floor.
Could he be the one lying to me? It’s my own self-saboteur talking again, and my brain throws out so many other options than accepting the guilt that rushes in when I look at Merle's name, now written in my tiny notepad—my new makeshift suspect list. I needed an easier form of transporting it around, so after I borrowed clothes from Lil and informed her we all needed to meet downstairs to join efforts in finding the clues for Detective Starling, I made a quick trip to the hotel office. I found a new notebook in their supplies. The room was clinically clean, empty yet of any sign of work, and I knew the guys needed to open up for business as soon as we could all leave Nightingale.
I scribbled some theories that have no legs, the debt hidden from my best friend consuming me till I don't think I can be around him for much longer. Not without spilling everything and damning the consequences. So far, it’s the only lead that makes sense.
They both resided at opposite ends of the room, rain lashing above our heads like a depressive soundtrack to our temporary reality.
Phin has his head resting on the back of the high back chair, his face turned to Wren as the latter checks in with him.
Could either be lying to me?
I would rationalise away any theories I had to not break the dynamic of my friendships at all cost, but if someone wasn't warning me about Merle, I didn't want to think of the possibility. I could leave here without a best friend or the man beside me that's taken home in a space I didn't realise may have been waiting for him all along.
Merle was the liar, he had to be.
Who the hell was A. Claythorne?
I bristle at the mystery of it, especially when it’s not exactly a good look being named on the house's deed with them.The house deed. Could my brain shut down the thought and turn numb over that, too? Owning the house I never put anything into wasn't the plan; Corbin had bought the place on the premise of trying to win my heart again, or my loyalties, because I still didn't believe he'd ever had the beating artery.
Overlooking my cluelessness, a storyboard unfolds in front of me, like the structure points I made when planning my book. I'm picturing Merle as the character walking along the board, a monopoly of plot squares that twist and turn to make the story. He plans to buy the hotel from Corbin, but the first twist is the loss of funds. He borrows, climbs the board, and is swiftly kicked to the jail square with this weekend's bombshell. Not only does Corbin want the money in full, but he moves to the next crumpling square; to buy the hotel, he'd also have to pay out myself and A. Claythorne, unknown and kept that way when he leaps to the next solid square for safety—the murder. Killing off potentially the only other person who would know about the deed, whether an accident or not, the plot sticks. Granted, it needs some extensions, clues, and cleverly inserted information, but my twisted brain has delivered me this draft in the only way it knows how. It’s not just an inkling, he could be a solid suspect.
"Darling, I swear sometimes you’re just so away with the fairies, I don’t know if I need to pinch you or something. Your eyes get all glazed. You'd easily pass for a lifeless zombie." Lily wafts a slim hand in the air in front of me, like she’s smacking away a fog that explains my daydreaming. I can’t very well tell her my brain decided to take me on a journey into how plausible I think her brother’s boyfriend—one of my close friends—committed murder and is lying to us all.
My hands shake a little as I raise them to my brow and swipe at the beads of sweat gathering, because despite how heavy the rainis still falling, it’s muggy and hot in the plant room. Like Cardinal said, a glorified conservatory with nice plants, lovely furniture, and places guests can enjoy tea or breakfast.
"Sorry. Got a lot on my mind, you know." I give her a small smile, but she’s already examining her nails and looking around the room for someone to fill up her empty glass. I’ve always been in awe at how unable to read a room she can be. Of course, she'd assume someone would be on hand to keep the party going, despite being in the midst of a murder investigation and no staff are at the hotel.
"You know, I’d kill for a fresh glass of Pimm's. It has that Summer vibe, doesn’t it. Won’t let the rain wash away our fun, will it Robs." She squeezes my knee and dusts the pleats of my borrowed skirt, reminding me that she was happy to lend me some of her clothes, but they cost more than my monthly rent. I feel unable to even perspire in them and honestly I can't wait to snuggle into one of Wren’s t-shirts again.
We’re all scattered around in a loose circle of mixed matched chairs, waiting for more of the guests to come help us look for the remaining clues and secrets. After heading up to grab my friend and ask her for some clothes, I explain my trashed room. I was surprised by her relaxed mood and sincerity over how upset she felt for me over my things. One thing she could relate to was materialistic things, Lil lived and breathed them. She’d been attentive and even helped with my hair, matching a thick ribbon to the dusty pink color of my skirt. The creamy cardigan was tucked into the waistband, and she’d given me some chunky jewellery to pair it with. The look was not entirely me, but I did feel comfortable. There was just no way in hell I could get a spec of dirt on me.
Wren had said I looked soft and innocent, biting at my fingers when I came downstairs and whispering that he’d already tasted how not innocent I was. Since then, he’d not kept his hands offme, either holding my hand, hovering it over my arm, back, or rubbing soothing circles in the dip of my waist. Phin continued to update him about the indie score he was working on, needing help on the bridge in a beach scene. Wren’s fingers softly tickled my scalp and he twisted one of my curls around his index finger, never taking his eyes from our friend but showing me I always had part of his attention. I was never out of his head, he had whispered to me whilst we spooned last night. Before I could hear more on his project, Lil rattled the ice in her glass and sighed, still looking around the orangery, the only other person with us being Cardinal who looms by the glass panels closest to the herb gardens. He’s like a walking grimm, in a black button-down and smart pants, my guess being he also was getting low on fresh clothes.
"We’re gonna start looking for the clues again, but maybe we can grab a drink together when we make dinner later?" I ask, hoping Lil will accept time to hang out because the craziness of this week was leaving me feeling like a bad friend.
