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The G80 was made to speed, and I push it to its limits, weaving in and out of traffic, while Elle clutches the oh-shit handle and tries not to say anything, her jaw clenched tight.
She’s somehow managed to turn one of my button-downs into a pale-blue shirt dress that looks like it was designed for her. She’s pressed back in her seat, sick with worry and possibly a little fear over the razor-sharp turns I’m taking.
I’ll apologize later.
Something tells me things are about to get very, very bad.
Clara won’t answer her phone.
Not for me, not for Elle, busying herself in the passenger’s seat, calling over and over, leaving worried voice mails.
I take the next turn like the car is on rails—and almost come bumper to bumper with Deb’s car, lunging ahead of mine through traffic.
Shit, shit.
I hoped she’d beat me to the office, but luck isn’t on my side today.
I know it’s too late by the time we both go skidding into the parking lot.
I spike the G80 to a halt at an angle to Deb’s fishtailing Mazda. Deb, Elle, and I all go spilling out into the front lot just as the door to the tall high-rise building opens.
Aunt Clara steps out, deep in conversation with Marissa and one of the lawyers we met the other day.
Suddenly, there’s no one for me but Clara.
Everyone else fades into the background.
Even the ridiculous flap of Elle’s fuzzy slippers trails me as I stalk across the concrete. There was no time to change her shoes.
“What did you do?” I demand. “What is this?”
Clara freezes the second she sees me.
There’s a painful flash of guilt on her face before her lips thin with determination and she lifts her chin proudly.
“What’s in my right to do,” she says woodenly. “I love you, August, but you don’t get to make that choice for me.”
“What choice, Aunt Clara?” Deb stumbles to a breathless halt next to me. “Auntie, what did you do?”
It’s not Aunt Clara who answers.
It’s Marissa Sullivan.
Crowing triumphantly, she holds up a small USB recording device.
“Lookie here,” she says, and this time she’s quite sober, her eyes glinting with evil joy. “Clara Marshall’s confession. She’s admitted everything. You lost, Marshall. Clara stole Inky the Penguin from my father, and the entire world is going to hear about it. Once I submit this evidence—everything you have is mine.”
XXI
DIMMING THE LIGHT
(ELLE)
It’s official.
I’ve never witnessed anything go to hell in a handbasket faster than this—and to think it all started with one innocent phone call.
I’m still reeling from this morning.
