I sit back in the chair, stunned. Silenced.
Anger lights his face. “It was a foolgameto you, Merryn Winthrop, but everything he ever did was wrapped up in you. Wasforyou. How many times he uttered the words, ‘married above my station.’ He had toprovehimself, day in and day out. To improve your lot. Then you ‘died’ and broke his heart and made certain he was blamed for your death—and when I think about how youplottedit all.”
I grip the chair beneath me. If I’ve acquired any new skill these past years, it’s knowing when to stay quiet. The man is a steam engine, barreling through, and no words will stop him.
“He’s brilliant, and his potential is limitless. Everything that man touches turns to gold, except…You are his weakness, Merryn Winthrop. I told him that from the moment he met you and declared his love.”
“Did he declare that?” Before or after he spent my money? Or tried to kill me?
Or did he?
“I tried talking him out of turning his back on it when you die—disappeared. He’d built it all himself.”
“So…hedidhave investments.” My heart deflates. I hung on to a secret hope that I’d find him honorable in all other ways, but he lied about this, too.
“No,youhad investments. That’s how he saw it, anyway, seeing as it was your money he used. They wereyourinvestments, even if it was his brilliance that made it happen.”
“If he’s so brilliant, then why did the money run out?”
He looks at me as if I’ve gone deaf and dumb. “Out?”
“Yes. My vast wealth, which he invested in the businesses. If they were so successful, why did the money run out?”
His face pales. I’ve made some blunder, of course.
But that isn’t the issue. “It didn’t. Everything you gave him, he poured right back. When you ‘died’ he liquidated, and he deposited nearly double the amount.”
“Into what?”
“Intoyourbank account. What else?”
I blink.
“After you died, he wouldn’t touch your money. It was yours, he said. And besides—he wouldn’t say it, but I will—he was only doing it foryou.To pleaseyouand makeyouhappy. There, are you satisfied? His accounts sit empty and yours are full.”
My head is light, a balloon floating above the table where we face one another, arguing over the details of my life and my marriage. “So…I’m wealthy.”
“As Midas.”
“Then why are wehere?” I wave my arm around the flat. It still doesn’t add up.
Various emotions—mostly confusion—flit across his features. “Because he wished to purchase a home with money he earned himself. He might have done it, if he hadn’t poured all his profits right back into more businesses. He’d only been at it a couple of years and he had more ambition than sense in those days.”
I stare at this uptight, anger-riddled man sitting in my kitchen. “How might I…that is…” I cannot think of the word. “Success. How might I success—no…”
He’s frowning at me.
Heat rises. My mind trips around the delicate topic. “I want to…”
“You want his businesses?”
“I haven’t any use for those. Just my money.”
He’s still frowning.
“Access.How might Iaccess…my money?”
Then I have the pleasure of seeing Nigel Brooks completely flummoxed.Nowhe believes me, it’s quite clear. His fingers go through his hair. His legs shift. They bounce. “You want access…to your own funds?”
