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PROLOGUE
Three years in the past
She couldn’t be dead.
It wasn’t possible.
Hendrix stared at the man, his expression impossible to decipher. Eleanor had been so full of life and vitality. How could that be gone? How could she be gone?
An overhead light was flickering, casting the ghoulish white of the hospital corridor in an inconstant glow. “Where did it happen, officer?”
Constable Dick Warren rubbed a hand over his chin and regarded the brother sympathetically. The man was tall – well over six foot – and the officer had to crane his neck to meet his eyes. “The bend at Castle Creek.”
Hendrix knew it well. “What were they doing at Castle Creek?”
The police officer’s expression was apologetic. “Star gazing, I suspect,” he employed a euphemism because it didn’t seem like the right time to make a joke about the famous make-out spot. The only reason people went to the viewing station on the outskirts of town was to have a little backseat action.
Euphemism or not, Hendrix understood. Hendrix knew.
He knew because of the kind of man William Ansell-Johns was.
Rich.
Arrogant.
And totally convinced of his right to mess around with whomever he wanted. Even Hendrix’s sister. He’d taken her to the lookout, slept with her, and then got her killed.
His fists were formed before he could recognise just how angry he was.
“Where is he?”
“The driver?” Warren eyed Hendrix with caution. “Still getting checked out.”
“Is he hurt?”
Pity flashed briefly on the cop’s face. “Not really. A fracture in his arm. Cracked ribs. He had an airbag.”
Hendrix’s eyes flew wider. “And she didn’t?”
Constable Warren shook his head. “No.”
Hendrix spun away, his face a mask of rage and devastation. His usually tanned skin was pale now. His breath was ripping from his lungs, burning as it travelled up his body and out of his mouth.
“What happened.” Not a question. It was a statement.
Officer Warren, despite the gravity of the moment, could not help observing him with interest. Hendrix Forrester was a celebrity around these parts. He was the local boy who’d come from one of the poorest families in the area and gone on to own his own top tier Manhattan law firm. He was the boy who’d never really fit in to the straight laced well-to-do seaside town, and with good reason. He didn’t belong. He was too energetic, too rebellious, too intense for a sleepy place like this.
He’d been made to feel like garbage his whole life. A mother who’d died young, and a father who’d worked two menial jobs to keep things together. And yet he’d made good on his potential despite all that.
He’d had it all. Hendrix Forrester was worth a fortune, and he had women beating a path to his door – if officer Warren’s wife was to be believed, anyhow.
Except now, he had nothing. Nothing except grief and fury.
“I said, what happened.”
Dick expelled a sigh. “We’re still working that out.”
The certainty that there was more to it than a case of poor driving or bad timing lodged in his gut. He’d smelled a whiff of alcohol on William Ansell-Johns every time he’d spoken with him. He’d cautioned Eleanor against seeing him, and he’d thought she’d listened. He’d gone back to his Manhattan penthouse and he’d imagined his sister was doing the right thing. Making good decisions, studying and spending time with her sensible best friend Andrea. Not running around with a no-good, binge-drinking, frat boy.
“I want a report on his blood alcohol level.” He turned only his head, to pierce the constable with the intensity of his stare.
Dick’s neck went a shade of mottled pink. “Son, it’s a police matter now.”
Hendrix didn’t react. His eyes, so dark they were almost black, stayed pinned to the constable’s face. “She was my sister. It is a family matter.” His eyes flashed with sudden pain. “He killed her.”
The Constable didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His silence spoke volumes. He couldn’t reject the statement. More than likely, it was accurate to a fault. The bend was sharp, but locals knew to take it with care. The car had, according to witnesses, been travelling too fast. There’d been two empty bottles of champagne and a half-drunk vodka in the back of the car.
And the victim had been pregnant.
That wasn’t conclusive proof, of course. There was still every chance she’d been drinking.
Except Dick knew Eleanor. She was a good kid. Not a drinker. Not a party animal. She wouldn’t have been drinking in her condition.
“She wasn’t meant to be with him.” Grief was taking over anger, and it made Hendrix’s voice quieter. Dick wasn’t even sure if the lawyer was speaking to him, or simply thinking aloud.
Dick’s sigh was soft. “Did you know about the baby?”
Hendrix’s face recoiled as though he’d been punched, hard. “Baby?” He narrowed his gaze, quickly regaining control of his emotions. “Whose baby?”
Dick ruffled a hand through his thinning hair. “Your sister’s. She was pregnant.”
