“You were sleeping with her.” I knew Scout’s coldness was a mask, but she’d always been too convincing. “The night of your Christmas party, you were the one she met in the pool house.”
Emotions warred over Easton’s face. Ten years had hardly changed him, only hollowed out his cheeks, added a touch of silver to his hair. This was the face of Georgia’s boyfriend. Her killer. I triedto watch carefully, wanting to see the exact moment his expression turned fearful.
There it was. Funny: It was the first time he’d ever resembled his son, with fear on his face.
“I was seeing her,” Easton admitted, raising his hands higher, as if he thought Scout might pull the trigger. “But it was consensual, I swear. The choking was consensual, too.”
Scout’s grip tightened on her gun. Easton’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Your sister wanted to experiment.”
“Liar.”
“I know there was an age gap, but—”
“Did Alden find out?” The thought had just occurred to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. “That you were sleeping with the girl he loved?”
Scout looked at me, and I watched the realization hit her, too. “He must’ve figured out that you were the reason she was in the pool house that night. Which meant you were the one who killed her.” Her chest heaved. “Is that why he took his own life?”
Alden must’ve put it together: The fact that Georgia was found in the pool house, where Easton was famous for bringing his dalliances. His dad’s predilection for younger girls, Georgia’s unwillingness to share who her boyfriend was. Maybe Easton’s unexpected warmth upon meeting Georgia had even clued Alden in, such a stark change after so many years suffering his father’s disapproval. The night we’d come over, Alden must’ve put the pieces together and realized the true scope of his dad’s betrayal.
The look on Easton’s face was confirmation enough. “My son was too soft,” he said. “I tried to toughen him, but I couldn’t.”
“Why did you kill Georgia?” For ten long years I’d imagined every possibility. “Did she threaten to tell your wife?”
Easton scrubbed his face. When he withdrew his hands, there were new lines etched around his eyes I hadn’t noticed before. “I told you, I didn’t kill her.” His gaze met mine, and he took a cautious step from behind his desk.
“Don’t move,” Scout barked.
But he ignored her, taking another step. “I went too far that night. I’ll admit that. I got too rough. I was drunk from the party, probablytoo excited at the thought of sneaking around with her under everyone’s noses.”
My mouth went dry.
“I choked her too hard,” Easton said, with another step. “Missed the warning signs. She passed out. I’m giving you this honesty because I have nothing to hide.”
“Stop moving,” Scout warned, but Easton stepped forward anyway, and before I could react, Scout struck him across the face, the barrel of the gun splitting Easton’s cheek.
He lunged at her, trying to wrest the gun from her grasp.
“Get off her,” I screamed, and threw myself at him, trying to shove him as he wrestled Scout to the floor. But he was too heavy.
“My son’s blood is on your hands,” Easton roared, wrenching the gun out of Scout’s grip. She kneed him between the legs, then bit him on the cheek, quick as a viper. Easton screamed and reared back, clutching his bloody face, and the gun went skittering across the floor.
I seized the first thing I could find—a Golden Globe statue from the bookshelf, its square marble base heavy in my hand—and swung for Easton’s head, cracking it once, twice, until he slumped over.
I staggered back, chest heaving, and Scout shoved his dead weight off. There was a sudden gasp from behind us, and a voice rang out—a voice that dragged back a thousand memories.
“Scout?”
Standing in the doorway, jaw dropped in shock, was Emmy Nolan—no, Emerson Banks, Easton’s wife. Her hair was blonder, her features so different, and it took me a second to realize why looking at her felt so uncanny.
I looked down at Scout on the floor, then back at Emmy. They could’ve been twins.
Bile rose up my throat as Emmy crouched and picked up Scout’s gun. She held it gingerly, like it was a snake that might bite.
“Emmy.” I dropped the bloody Golden Globe on Easton’s desk. “We can explain.”
“He killed Georgia,” Scout said. “All this time it was Easton, not Alden.”
