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“It does, thanks." I key the address into my phone and grab the paper, my mind mentally walking through the next steps. I should call Jillian. Get her involved, or at least in the loop before I head wherever Brant is.
I come to a sudden stop before the door, and he bumps into me from behind.
"What?" He steps back. "Everything okay?"
I stare at my phone screen. The first search engine result is the property appraiser site for San Francisco County. 8912 Evergreen Trail is a home, purchased for seven million dollars a decade ago by Jillian Sharp.
I yank at the front door, my fury propelling me forward.
"What's wrong?" Marcus calls after me, and I glance back to see him in the door, his hands braced on either side of the frame.
I pause and swivel back toward him. I thrust the paper at him. "Call them back. Find out how long his car has been there. Then text me and let me know."
“That’s going to cost you another—” His hands raise when he sees the fire in my glare. "Okay. Just joking. I'll call them."
"Now!" I bark out, my steps increasing to a jog as I head toward my car.
* * *
My suspicions are confirmed when the text from Marcus comes through, the message displaying on my windshield’s heads up display.
SINCE FRIDAY NIGHT
My fury, which had been building in my chest since the moment I identified her address, whipped through me like a snapped wire. That bitch had stood on her front porch and lied to me; his car probably hidden away in one of the adjacent garages. She’d let me stand there guilt-stricken and led me to believe that Brant was wandering around lost, unsure of who he was, in the middle of apsychological breakbecause of my actions. That smug, judgmental glare, while he had been inside her house the whole time. Had he stood at one of the large upper windows and watched me? Is he mad at me? Is she using this time to turn him against me? I need to know what is being said and where his mind is. If he’s in a strong place or a weak one.
Early traffic is beginning to clog the 101 as I head toward Jillian’s neighborhood. I should have recognized the address the moment it had been announced by the Aston Martin representative. Granted, Brant and I have driven to her home so often that I knew it by sight, not address. Still … I bite my lip and try to organize my thoughts. I roll my shoulders, trying to relieve the tight bundle of muscles that was cramping along my upper back.
Okay, I told myself. It’s okay. Soon, I will see him. He’s safe. He’s not lost. His mind must be intact if he is at Jillian’s.
I just need to talk to him. To bring him back, because without him, I’m lost.
Chapter 70
Jillian lives in Nobb Hill, one of the snootier areas of San Francisco, if I have any right whatsoever to call anything snooty. I pull into her drive and park in the circular drive, shutting off the engine and staring at the ultra-modern house. There is a white late model BMW parked on the black pavers beside me. I look at it with new interest, trying to remember if it had been there yesterday. Coming up blank, I take the steps toward the front door. On the entry level, I pause and consider the fact that it’s barely seven a.m.
I try the level handle, unsurprised to find it locked. I glance at my phone, double-checking the time, then press the doorbell. Repeatedly.
My trepidation over the early hour disappears the moment Jillian swings open the large door. She’s already dressed, her hair in place, full makeup on. Her curious look turns to an impressive show of faux alarm upon seeing me. "What's wrong? Is it Brant? Did you find him?"
An incredulous laugh bubbles up my throat at the questions, delivered so convincingly, and I can’t believe that she’s continuing this façade. So much for expecting her to be contrite and honest.
I force the laugh down. If she wants to play that game, so can I. “No." I tuck an unwashed strand of my hair behind my ear, aware that hers looked salon-fresh. "I haven't. I’m really worried. May I come in?” I’m not an actress, but the words came out pretty well, my rage disguised as concern.
Her dark red lips pin together. "It's awfully early, Layana. The staff isn't even up yet."
I call bullshit on that. Jillian demands secretaries at BSX arrive by 6:30 AM. Her house staff probably starts their day before the sun rises. I shove the door open and squeeze by her, ignoring her huff of annoyance. "I just need a minute, Jillian. I'm going crazy with worry."
"Well, please keep your voice down," she says stiffly. "This needs to be a short visit."
Short visit, my ass. I pause in the entry foyer and wait for her to shut the door. She turns to me and gestures toward the parlor.
* * *
It’s time for me to admit that I have underestimated this woman. I’ve stood opposite of her for three years but haven't appreciated the extent of her deception. Now, I know the truth—that Brant is here, or has been here—yet I'm almost persuaded by her acting. I sit in her formal sitting room, listen to her smooth lies, and start to feed her rope, curious where she plans to take this. I feed her foot after foot and watch as she sits in a plush red upright chair, ties a complicated noose around her neck and hangs herself.
It's a masterful act. One that goes through irritation, then sympathy, then a full breakdown of tears over 'where our boy could be'. She’ssoworried for him. Terrified. And such the perfect portrayal of a loving aunt. I watch her performance with dead eyes, horrified by the ability of this woman who has orchestrated Brant's life for two decades. She’s run BSX during that time. Protected his secrets while spinning lies of her own. I sit beside her, grip the velvet arm of a chair, and wonder where in the home Brant is.
Once the noose is tied, once I know her selfish loyalties, once I fully understand my enemy …
