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My stomach drops. Raleigh looks just as horrified. “Tommy, can I talk to-”
“Yes,” he interrupts. “At the estate. Not in front of your house, which is currently burning down.”
That shuts her up. The odds are that this wasn’t an accident, and that the arsonist, whoever they were, is still nearby. There are a lot of witnesses here now, but Thomas isn’t going to take any more chances tonight.
“Get in the car,” he repeats, and this time, his eyes are only on me. “Now.”
CHAPTER 2
Thomas
I let Clara Speare sit in frightened silence in the passenger seat as I drive us back to the Warwick estate. She keeps coughing and fighting to stifle it, and I want to reassess my understanding of the situation. But for now, I don’t.
Clara was inside the house with Raleigh. Arson seems to run in the Speare family.
If I look over at her, I’ll catch myself comparing the woman beside me to the teenager I remember. And that doesn’t serve any purpose right now.
The drive to the estate is short, by design. I own every high-end custom house in this hilly neighborhood above the city, as well as the people living in them. Above it all squats the Warwick estate, a sprawling collection of buildings surrounded by walls and hedges high enough to shroud it from view. In theory, this was the safest place for Raleigh when she declared she was leaving the estate a couple years ago. The house I chose for her was far enough away to have as much privacy as this life could afford, but close enough for me to respond to an alarm faster than any emergency vehicle.
As I reach the massive iron gates, Iris’s car pulls in ahead of mine. Clara’s breath catches at the sight of the main house. All these years, did she think it wouldn’t be rebuilt after her goddamn uncle left it in ruins? Or maybe it’s the shock of entering a familiar estate, dominated by a whole new house, that has her mouth hanging open.
My hands clench a little on the steering wheel. I don’t like thinking of this as a homecoming for her, not when she was part of the reason it was destroyed in the first place.
The only reason the Speare family wasn’t crushed moments after its founding was because my father retreated. While he wasted months licking his wounds over the betrayal of his best friend, Morgan Speare solidified his connections and stole blocks upon blocks of the city from us. I told my father this more times than I can count, but he lost himself in blueprints and building materials and left the war to me. I’ve been fighting it ever since.
“The rose bushes survived.”
I glance sharply at Clara. They’re the first words she’s said since she got in the car, and she seems to catch herself. She looks out the passenger window, avoiding my gaze with determination.
“My mom,” she whispers, “really loved the rose bushes.”
I remember Terra Speare watering the bushes herself, despite the robust group of landscapers and gardeners that maintained the old estate. As a ward of my father and the sister of his right hand, single mother to her only daughter after her husband was hit by a car and killed, she had the freedom to do whatever she wanted, but she chose to dirty her hands in the garden almost every day.
And she betrayed that freedom by walking out with her brother.
We cruise up the gravel drive and around the main house to the garage. I don’t have to look at Clara beside me to feel her shrinking down into her seat. I’m glad she understands that there’s no escape from here, but what’s important is that she starts answering my goddamn questions.
As soon as we park, Raleigh is at my car door. “Tommy-”
“Iris,” is all I need to say before Iris has her hands set firmly but gently on Raleigh’s shoulders. “We’ll talk later,” I reassure my sister, who scowls at me as she lets Iris guide her into the house.
When I turn back to the car, Clara is staring at me from the passenger seat like she’s expecting me to shoot her right there. I could tell her I wouldn’t want to go through the trouble of scrubbing blood out of the upholstery, but I don’t. Instead, I walk around the hood and open the door for her.
“Follow me.”
Clara hesitates, but she knows there’s nowhere else to go. She unfolds herself from the seat and shuffles behind me as I lead her into the house.
It’s nearing three in the morning, so the moon lights our way through the quiet halls. When my father rebuilt the place, he stole the book from Frank Lloyd Wright and transformed a Second Empire-style house into a sprawling modern monstrosity. On its face, it’s an intimidating crisscross of black and white beams and gray brick walls. Its interior is broken up by skylights looking down onto interior courtyards, and the walls looking out over the backyard and the rest of the estate are made entirely of one-way windows. I don’t care for the style, but it did inspire my father to create the perfect room for less trustworthy guests, one I’ve put to use a few times over the years.
My room is located in the west wing of the house. One windowed side looks out on the backyard, and another looks onto a small courtyard cut into the side of the house. Across this divide sits another bedroom, a lavish guest suite with its own bathroom, dressing room, and snack lounge.
It’s to this room that I bring Clara.
I can tell she’s surprised when I open the door for her and she doesn’t see a cell on the other side. She steps slowly inside, inspecting the polished wood floors, the huge bed, and the wall of windows looking over the courtyard. She sees the windows of my room, but she doesn’t know it’s mine, and she can’t see inside. I watch her shoulders relax the tiniest bit, and know I’ve successfully lowered her guard.
I close the door behind me and lock it. The sound of it is loud in the moonlight and shadow of the room. Neither of us has bothered to turn on the light. Clara’s arms are wrapped tight around her middle, but I don’t let that show of fear deter me.
“It’s been a long time,” I say, softening my words. These are my first words to her since ordering her into the car. I don’t want her to be afraid right now; I want her ready to open to me like a flower.
