Page 58 of Ethan & Grace

“Have I really been such a shitty person these past few years that it’s so hard to believe I just want to see justice done?” The honest answer was probably yes. But I still wanted to help Grace find her sister’s killer. Otherwise, she’d never be able to come to terms with what had happened. She deserved to heal, to finally feel better again. At least, that was what I told myself was my reason for helping her. It had nothing to do with the fact that I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head.

“No, you weren’t a shitty person, just a pretty selfish one,” Henry said. “I mean, you didn’t ask me once last year how I was doing, or how I was coping with everything. You never offered to help like you did the other day. And I really could have done with your emotional support. Maybe that would have been too much to ask, given how things were between us, but—”

“No, you could have asked,” I cut him off before he could take the entire blame for our situation. It was my fault. Or at least we were both responsible. After all, neither of us had dared talk to the other. “This is my family too. My hotel. I might not love The Darlington the way you do, but I could have been more involved. I could have at least tried to cause less trouble. But I’m trying to do better. I want to be more than the next fucked-up headline about this fucked-up family.”

“Ethan!” Henry’s tone was sharp, and my first instinct was to apologise for my language. But when I looked into his eyes, eyes so similar to mine, I realised that wasn’t what he meant. “You’re already more than those headlines. You don’t have to prove that to anyone. The press doesn’t know you. They only report on the parts of your life that sell best. Their headlines don’t define who you are.” He stressed every word, as if trying to hammer it into me, syllable by syllable. “You have so much potential. And it makes me happy that you’re finally not wasting it anymore. Not because of the headlines, but for yourself. You deserve more than you’ve ever allowed yourself to have.”

I took a deep breath, but didn’t speak. Because between what Henry wanted to see in me and what I saw in myself lay worlds that words could never bridge. Our dad had made sure of that long ago.

22

Stop ignoring my calls and get in touch!

I have an important question.

It’s about Amy.

Message from Grace to Garrett

Grace

I’d been buzzing with nervous energy since walking into the hotel that morning. At first, I’d assumed it had something to do with my colleagues, who were still treating me with kid gloves even after three weeks back. But it had gradually dawned on me that they weren’t the source of the restless flutter in my chest. Then I’d wondered if my nerves came from the fact that I’d neglected my investigation these past few days. Or that I hadn’t exchanged a single word with my parents since our argument over dinner last week. But it was none of those things.

When I stepped onto The Darlington’s private floor in the afternoon, it finally hit me like a ton of bricks: The flutter in my chest was excitement.

I was excited to see Ethan again.

The realisation had been so alarming that I’d forced myself to deal with the other penthouses first, even though what I really wanted was to go straight to Ethan, despite sex being strictly off the table during working hours. I’d be kicked straight out if anyone ever found out, and my investigation was nowhere near far enough along for me to risk losing my job. Not to mention that, despite everything, I actually liked working at The Darlington and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else right now.

It probably would have been sensible to turn my focus from Ethan back to solving the case, but thanks to him, I didn’t feel awful for the first time in months. He had given me something other than grief, pain, and anger, feelings that had weighed so heavily on me for so long that I’d forgotten what anything else felt like.

I scanned Mr. and Mrs. Darlington’s penthouse as I mentally went through my checklist. Bedroom: Check. Master bathroom: Check. Living room: Check. Kitchen: Check. Dining room: Check. Second bathroom: Check. Gallery: Check. Guest bedroom: No check, because the door was locked and I couldn’t get in. Mr. Darlington’s study: Also no check, because he was in there with someone, and I’d been putting off disturbing him. But leaving without at least asking if there was anything else he wanted me to clean would only get me in trouble. So I squared my shoulders, stepped up to the locked door, and knocked.

The voices inside fell silent. Then . . .

“Come in!”

I pushed the door open a crack. The acrid smell of cigar smoke hit me at once, making me cough. Mr. Darlington wasn’t sitting at his desk as I’d expected, but in one of the two leather armchairs by the window, which offered a breathtaking view of the city. He wasn’t alone, either. Opposite him sat Cabinet Member Alistair Eddington, a glass of whisky in hand.

The two men stared at me, and although they couldn’t have looked more different—Mr. Darlington with his blue eyes and dark-grey hair, and Mr. Eddington fair-haired with brown eyes—they were clearly cut from the same cloth. The similarities were in their condescending looks, their rigid postures, and their ability to make you feel small without uttering a single word.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Darlington. Mr. Eddington, it’s nice to see you again,” I greeted the cabinet member. He used to be a regular guest at the hotel, though his visits had become rarer over the past year—most likely because the scandals surrounding Mr. Darlington could harm his election campaign.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again too, Miss Claymore,” Mr. Eddington said with a smile. I was surprised he remembered my name, though that was probably just one of his political talents. “I thought you’d left the hotel after your sister’s accident. My sincerest condolences.”

“Thank you. I took a little time off.”

“Understandable,” he replied with a nod.

“What do you want, Miss Claymore?” Mr. Darlington cut in.

“I’ve finished with the rest of the penthouse and just wanted to ask if you’d like me to clean in here as well.”

“Does it look like you can clean here?” Mr. Darlington snapped. “We’re busy.”

Smoking cigars and drinking whisky, I thought, but bit back the retort. Instead, I forced an apologetic smile. “Of course. And what about the guest room? It’s locked.”

“If my wife and I wanted you to clean the second bedroom, it wouldn’t be locked. Use your head.” He turned back to Mr. Eddington, his voice edged with a practiced politeness. “Apologies for the interruption. Competent staff are so hard to find these days.”