Page 12 of My Beautiful Sin

I nod. “Perfect.”

“Cool. Would you put Jake in his crate when you leave? I need to get out of here or I’ll be late.”

I nod in assent, and she reaches down to stroke Jake, who’s sitting still, remarkably well-behaved in the hallway.

She twists around, obviously searching for her keys. “What are your plans?” she asks, finding them not on the hall table, but deep in her tote.

“I’m going to drop by the station and see if Lamar can help me with some research about Peter. But before that, I’m going to call Roger and see if I still have a job.”

She’d taken a step toward the door, but now she freezes. “You’re moving back to New York?”

“No, no.” I made the decision to stay in Laguna Cortez with Devlin, and I’m not changing my mind. But I love my job, too. And if I can finagle a way to keep it, well, then I’m more than willing to beg.

“Good luck,” Brandy says when I tell her as much. She gives me a hug, rubs Jake’s head, then hurries outside, slamming the door behind her.

With Jake at my heels, I head back to my room and settle on my bed. Jake flops in the sunny spot by my window as I slip on my headphones and dial the number for The Spall Monthly in Manhattan. “Hey, Brenda,” I say, when the receptionist answers, “it’s Ellie. Is Roger around?” Roger Covington is my editor, and we haven’t talked since he killed my profile of the DSF after learning that Devlin and I are involved. Add in the fact that I told him I’m staying in California, and I’m not sure where our friendship stands, much less my job.

“He’s in the staff meeting,” Brenda says, and I do a mental head-thwap, having forgotten the time difference. “But they’re almost done. Do you want to hold? Or I can have him call you back.”

I glance at my watch. If Roger’s on form—and he always is—they’ll wrap promptly in seven minutes. “I can hold,” I say, then settle in to listen to the classical hold music as I rummage in the floor of my closet for the box of my mother’s journals.

I’m willing to give Devlin twenty-four hours to see if he can learn something about the text. But I’m not willing to step back on learning more about Uncle Peter.

My first hint about Devlin’s true identity as the son of the notorious crime lord known as The Wolf came not long after I’d skimmed one of these very journals. I’d been a tiny thing at the time of the entry, and Mom was concerned about the kind of business her brother, Peter was in.

With me and Mom in the car, he’d gone to see the mother of a boy named Alejandro, who Peter had said was his boss’s son.

Soon after I read the entry, I made the connection. Peter worked for Daniel Lopez, aka The Wolf. Alex Leto was Alejandro Lopez, The Wolf’s son. And Alex had become Devlin.

It was a huge revelation at the time. Now, that I’ve learned the deeper truth, it’s only part of who Devlin is—and was.

For years, I hadn’t had the heart to read my mom’s words, too afraid that I’d be so consumed by grief that I’d get dragged down into the dark. I only started flipping through the pages when I began researching the article about Uncle Peter.

I came back to Laguna Cortez because new evidence had turned up after his death, and I soon learned that Peter had been in tight with The Wolf. And when he’d started skimming off money, The Wolf had ordered him killed.

I’d wanted to know how a seemingly upstanding man from a solid, middle-class family could have gotten sucked so deeply into an organization like The Wolf’s. But Peter died over ten years ago, and with no one else alive in my family and no other solid leads, I’d turned to my mom’s journals.

My first foray into my mother’s words had been limited, though. I’m not sure if it felt wrong to read her private thoughts or if I was afraid of crossing that black curtain of grief. Now, though, I want to know more. I want to learn what had troubled my mom about Peter, but I also want to learn more about the woman who loved me and was taken from me.

My mother didn’t label the spine of her journals, but one is only three-quarters filled out, and so I assume it’s the last of the books. With my heart pounding, I flip backwards to the final entry.

Charlie did it again. He promised he’d be home in time for dinner with me and Ellie. He hasn’t read her a bedtime story in a week. I know he loves both of us, but why can’t he understand that he needs to show it, too?

Forgive me, diary, I’m just griping. He’s a good man. A good provider. And I know he’s busy with so much responsibility, but even so…

I tried to call Peter to talk to him about Charlie. I know I should keep my marital issues to myself. But all my life, Peter has been my confidant. I know he’s still upset with me, but I had to talk with him. He didn’t answer the phone, though. I left a message, because maybe he’s screening calls. I told him to call me in an hour, because I need some air. I’m going to go take a drive. Hopefully Lisa can babysit for an hour or so. Ellie’s asleep, so doing her homework here is pretty much the same as doing it across the street at her house.

Maybe I’ll pick up a few more things for Ellie’s party tomorrow. Then it doesn’t seem like I’m escaping because I’m feeling alone and frustrated by the men in my life.

How is it that my baby is almost four!!??!!

Just called Lisa, and she’s on her way over. How lucky am I to have such a responsible high school kid right across the street?

My next entry will be much less whiny. Maybe I’ll even buy a bottle of wine and seduce my husband. Give him a reason to get home early. I think I like that plan…

I close the book, shaking. Ellie’s party tomorrow. She’d written this the night she was killed. The night that her car had gone over one of the cliffs, taking a chunk of the metal guardrail with it and killing my mother instantly.

Had that been part of the reason that Peter left Los Angeles and moved to Laguna Cortez? Had he felt guilty for missing my mom’s call—or, worse, for ignoring it?