When Max stepped in her hotel room, the anger returned. Housekeeping had straightened the mess, but dammit, it wasn’t fair, having her privacy violated by that jackass Beck.
She closed her eyes. “Grow up,” she told herself. Life certainly wasn’t fair, and she had to trust that Nick would bring back her notes. She plugged her laptop into its charger, relieved that at least her primary work was protected.
She showered, then changed into clean clothes. The bed looked inviting, but she had work to do. She typed up the notes she’d written last night for the article she wanted to write about Jason Hoffman and his senseless murder. She talked to Ben, then her attorney, then David. She repeated everything three times, and wished she’d just put them all on a conference call. She was fine. She was out of the loop because her cousin was a suspect, she was safe. Ben pushed her about doing a show on the Lindy Ames case, and she refused, but told him about the article she was writing about Jason Hoffman. That marginally satisfied him. David was boarding a plane in Hawaii and offered to cancel the Giants game that night; Max said that wasn’t necessary and to call her tomorrow.
The only thing she didn’t tell anyone was that she wasn’t leaving until she had answers. If it took a year, it would take a year.
And they would all just have to live with it.
By the time she was done with the shower and calls, it was nearly noon. She called William’s cell phone; he didn’t answer. She called his office; his secretary said he was gone for the day. Max didn’t know whether to believe her, but she was inclined to—if Nick had interviewed William, it would throw her cousin off enough where he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. She’d check his house.
She really didn’t want to confront him with Caitlin hovering around being the worried, protective, passive-aggressive wife, but she didn’t have much of a choice, especially if he wasn’t answering his phone.
Max still had her grandmother’s Jag. Driving in it reminded Max how much she loved sporty cars, and missed having her own. But in New York City, she didn’t need a car, and she didn’t want the headache of storing one. When she traveled, she rented. When she was on a long-term assignment, she leased.
The attack that totaled her rental, however much it wasn’t her fault, was going to make leasing future cars far more expensive.
William and Caitlin lived in a grand house around the corner from Eleanor’s estate. The estate was definitely more Caitlin, with luxurious everything—though William made a six-figure salary at his law firm, plus ample bonuses, he couldn’t afford to buy or maintain the house. The house had been a wedding present from Caitlin’s family, and William’s trust fund ran the place. It bordered on ostentatious, unlike the quiet money of her grandmother’s home.
Max walked up to the front door and knocked.
Caitlin opened it and slapped her.
Max would have stopped the blow had she been expecting it, but even she was surprised at Caitlin’s sudden move.
“Touch me again, and I will put you on the ground,” Max said.
“Get out of here. You’re not welcome.”
Max walked in. “Where’s William?”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.” Caitlin tried to push Max back out the door, but Max grabbed her wrist and held tight.
“Caitlin, Maxine, please stop.” William stepped into the entry and stared at Max. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a Scotch and ice—mostly Scotch—in his glass. It was twelve thirty.
“She’s destroying our family!”
Max ignored her and stared at William. She really, really looked at him.
For years, she’d trusted her instincts about people. Perhaps, fighting her inclination to distrust people, she relied on her gut feelings.
But family was different. Family members weren’t strangers, they had history and baggage and secrets. With all their shared history, the dreams they’d discussed, the times they snuck out of their houses and met up to swim in the lake under the moonlight, long before they were truly aware of who they were, their similarities and differences, could Max stand here and look at William as a killer?
“We need to talk,” she said.
William nodded and turned toward his study. Caitlin tried to follow, but Max stopped her. “This is between William and me,” she said.
Caitlin ignored her, until William nodded. His wife looked pained and betrayed. Then she stomped down the hall, angry. A moment later a door slammed somewhere in the house.
William closed the double doors, refilled his half-empty glass, and sat down heavily on the couch. His normally impeccable suit was rumpled, his tie misaligned. This was her GQ cousin, who never had a hair out of place, looking like a worn salesman.
Max didn’t know what to say.
“Andy thinks I killed Lindy,” William said bluntly.
“Did you?”
He shook his head and looked like he was going to cry. William had always been sensitive, even when being a cad. He teared up at movies. He didn’t like violence. He told Max two years ago, when she visited for Thea’s wedding, that the best thing about having two boys was that he could be here for them like his father wasn’t there for William. Except for college, William had never lived more than two miles from his father, yet Brooks Revere might as well have lived on another continent for all the attention he paid to his son.
Except William was falling into the same patterns as Brooks. Infidelity being the number one similarity. Did William not see that he was becoming his dad?
“I told you before, and I’ll tell you now, and I’ll tell anyone who asks, I didn’t kill Lindy. I’m stunned and hurt that Andy thinks I did. That he thinks I’m capable of, of strangling her. You know me, Max. At least, I thought you did. I always thought you could read my mind when we were younger, that you knew what I was thinking even if I said something different.”
“So did I.”