Unraveled (The Untangled Series Book 1) Page 9

  She was photo shoot ready, leaning into Evers, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his chest. As she murmured in his ear the bitter flavor of jealousy coated my tongue.

  I cleared my throat and said as neutrally as I could, "Excuse me."

  Cynthia turned to look at me with a smile, but Evers started and stepped back. He would have extricated himself from Cynthia's embrace if she hadn't tightened her fingers on his shirt, keeping him in place.

  My brain blanked out. Her red nails against his white shirt, the perfection of Cynthia and all the gorgeous that was Evers—they were a supernova of beauty, incinerating everything in their path, including me.

  I stood there, staring, and all I could think was that they looked like some glamorous, perfect version of Barbie and Ken. Cynthia was the kind of woman who could claim a man like Evers. Not me. Never me.

  Cynthia raised an eyebrow. "Summer? Did you want something?"

  I cleared my throat, realizing that I was standing there with my mouth open, staring at both of them like an idiot.

  What did I want? Why was I here?

  I'd walked in, seen them together, and every cell in my brain had shorted out. Clearing my throat again, I said with a stutter, "I, uh, um, wanted to give you an update on the party."

  I'd rather hide in my office until I forgot the burn of seeing Evers with Cynthia, but I did have to update her on the party, and I might as well do it while I was standing there like a fool.

  Evers stepped back, gently removing Cynthia's hands from his shirt. He looked at me for a long moment before he said, "I'd better get back to work," and strode from the room.

  I watched him go, noting that the abrasions on his neck were perfectly camouflaged by the collar of his shirt. I wanted to follow him, ask how he felt, if it hurt, if he was okay.

  Cynthia also watched him go, her eyes on his ass. When he cleared the door, she let out a low whistle of appreciation, then shrugged one perfect shoulder and lay down on the padded lounge chair beside her.

  I cleared my throat again. "Bad timing. I'm sorry."

  Cynthia waved a hand in the air "It's fine. I'll get to him later. Now, update?"

  Back on familiar ground, I ran down the list of things I'd done to get the party organized. Cynthia smiled in appreciation when I finished.

  "Summer, you are a miracle worker. I knew you could make it happen. And music? What are we doing about music? I don't think I want a full band, but I don't want a stuffy string quartet or something like that."

  "I figured that, and I found a small group, no vocalist, that does popular covers. Mostly oldies. Some new stuff. All of it upbeat and lively."

  "That sounds perfect."

  She lay her head back against the lounge chair and closed her eyes, for a moment looking like she was about to take a nap. Faint shadows lurked beneath her eyes, showing through her almost flawless makeup.

  "I'll get back to work—"

  "You and Evers know each other, don't you?" Cynthia interrupted, her eyes popping open, her clear, green gaze focused on me. Before I could answer, she said, "Oh, that's right, your friend is married to his brother."

  Glad for the simple explanation, I agreed. "Yes. We met a few years ago."

  "And that's it? You're just friends because his brother married your BFF? You never…"

  "We're just friends," I said, hoping Cynthia would buy it. I wasn't a very good liar, and I couldn't think of any way to explain my relationship with Evers that wouldn't open a door into a conversation I didn't want to have. Not with my employer. Not with anyone.

  Cynthia tapped one red nail against her raised knee and turned her eyes to the door through which Evers had so recently disappeared. "You don't mind if I make a run at him?"

  Her eyes flashed back to me, reading every nuance of my expression as I struggled to hide my feelings. Pasting a bland smile on my face, I shrugged a shoulder and said, "Sure. He's a big boy."

  "That he is," Cynthia agreed. "We had a thing, a long time ago. Nothing serious, but I wouldn't mind doing it again. For old times’ sake. He might be just what I need."

  The thread of sadness in her last words pulled at me. I found myself asking, "Are you okay about Clint? That he's here?"

  Shutters came down over Cynthia's bright eyes and she studied her nails, buffing a nonexistent smudge. "I wish he'd just give up already. He keeps emailing me. Leaving messages. He says the relapse was a lie. That the press made it up."

  "And the girl?" I asked, softly.

  "He swears that was a lie, too. She was looking for publicity and set the whole thing up."

  "Do you believe him?"

  "I don't know," Cynthia said, her voice small and sad.

  Suddenly angry at Clint, I reminded her, "Calling you is breaking the terms of the restraining order. If you turn your phone records over to the police and report him—"

  Cynthia's eyes flashed up to me and the sadness in them made me want to give her a hug. I held back, sensing she didn't want that kind of sympathy right now.

  "I don't want to call the police on him, Summer. I want my husband back, but the man I married is gone. The man I married didn't have a drinking problem. He didn't do drugs. He didn't sleep with half of L.A. to hurt me. Now I just want it to be over."

  "Hopefully, soon it will be. Then you can move on," I said, torn between wanting Cynthia to be happy and feeling sick at the idea of her finding that happiness with Evers.

  As if conjured by my thoughts, Evers strode through the open door, his eyes on alert, face blank. I recognized that look. Something had happened.

  "Cynthia, I need to borrow Summer. Griffen is in charge of the staff. He's got everything under control, and you'll be fine until we get back."

  "What happened?" I asked. It couldn't have anything to do with Cynthia or he wouldn't need me. Which could only mean it was…

  "There's been a break-in at your father's place."

  My stomach sank. A break-in at my father's place could be a coincidence. Or it could be further evidence that Evers was right, and my dad really was in trouble.

  "Evers, can't someone else handle it? If it's a break-in, can't you just call the police?" Cynthia asked, her eyes studying both of us.

  "No, we can't," Evers said without further explanation. "Cynthia, I mentioned this might happen. We'll be back later. Until then, Griffen has everything under control." Looking at me, he raised an eyebrow. "Summer? Let's go."

  Chapter Twelve

  Summer

  Questions flooded my mind. I wanted to badger Evers with them, to find out everything he knew about my father. At the same time, I didn't want to talk to him, which made questioning difficult.

  I followed him to his car in silence, clutching my phone in my hand, and decided to take the easy way out. We'd have a long drive to my dad's place.

  Mumbling under my breath, "I have to make a few calls," I pulled out my phone and hit the number of the florist. We were reviewing the list of flower arrangements when Evers left I-85 for the road to Augusta.

  Where was he going? We'd need to stay on I-85 to get to North Carolina and the small mountain town where my Dad had been living for the past few years. I ended the call with the florist, made a few quick notes on my phone, and set it in my lap.

  "Where are we going? This isn't the way to my dad's."

  "Not your dad's place in Asheville. Your dad's place in Atlanta."

  "My dad doesn't have a place in Atlanta," I said, confused.

  My dad didn't have enough money to have a second home. The look Evers gave me was gentle, with just a touch of pity.

  "He bought it a few years ago."

  "But why—" I cut myself off and fell silent. So many why's.

  Why would my father get involved in criminal activities with Evers' dad?

  Why would my father have a second home and not tell me about it?

  Why would my father do half of the shit he did?

  I'd never had an answer for the last question, and I don't know why I
thought I'd find one for the first two. My father had always lived in his own orbit, his own needs his main concern.

  "So, where is this place of my dad's? And how did you know it's been broken into if no one's called the police?"

  "It's a little bit outside Stone Mountain, and we had it wired. Just in case. Your dad hasn't been back in a while."

  Evers' comment tugged my memory. Something about my dad I couldn't remember. Something about him being out of town. I shook my head. It would come to me eventually. Between juggling the details for this party and dealing with Evers, my nerves were fried. My brain wasn't much better.

  If we could just get through the party on Friday, I could relax. A little. There was still my missing dad, Evers, and Clint Perry to worry about. Relaxation seemed very far away.

  Evers must have known where he was going. He navigated through the suburban streets and country roads easily, finally pulling to a stop in front of a brick ranch house that looked like it hadn't been touched since the fifties.

  Weeds grew high in the yard. The bushes beside the front door were overgrown. A crack in one of the front windows spread like a spider web. The curtains were pulled, blocking the view inside.

  I followed Evers to the front door. I barely had time to wonder how we were getting in when he pulled out a key and unlocked the door.

  "How do you have a key to my dad's house?"

  Evers didn't answer, just slanted me a look. "The place is empty. We already checked for evidence, lifted a few prints, but we don't have much. The two who broke in wore masks and gloves. Almost nothing to go on."

  "Then why am I here?" I asked, looking around the disaster of my dad's small house with dismay and more than a little embarrassment.

  "Take a look around, and see if anything is out of place or doesn't belong. If there's something missing that should be here."

  A hysterical giggle erupted from my chest.

  See if anything was out of place? Everything was out of place.

  Couch cushions tumbled on the floor. Drawers upended, their contents scattered all over. Beneath the mess of the break-in, it was clear that my father hadn't cleaned his house… ever.

  A glass bong sat on the coffee table, lighter beside it, the bowl still half-packed with pot. A half-empty baggie was carelessly covered with a magazine. Whoever had broken into the place, they weren't interested in drugs.

  "Evers, I wouldn't know where to start. I've never been here before."

  "It looks like he left in a hurry." Evers poked his head in the bedroom, took a quick pass at the bathroom and commented, "All his stuff is still here."

  I followed him into the bedroom and saw what Evers meant. A stick of deodorant, toothbrush, and toothpaste sat on the bathroom counter. A used towel hung on the rack. His shoes sat by the side of the bed as if he'd toed them off before laying down.

  It looked as if he'd gotten up and walked out the door fully intending to come back. Instead, he'd disappeared. Had something spooked him? Had he left alone?

  I couldn't begin to guess. I opened a drawer in his dresser to find a pile of unmatched, yellowed socks mixed with worn boxers. He hadn't bothered to hide the small baggie of pills or the folded wad of cash. I didn't touch either, just let out a long sigh and said, "Evers?"

  Evers came up behind me, studying the contents of the drawer. My cheeks flushed with shame. This was my dad. Drugs, cash, and secrets, barely hidden in a careless mess.

  "He wouldn't have left that behind," Evers commented.

  "Probably not," I agreed. Not the cash or the drugs. Definitely not both.

  I stood in front of his dresser, staring at the pile of loose change on top, thinking. Something wasn't right. I picked up a key ring I didn't recognize. A sinking feeling hit my stomach when I saw what was beneath.

  "Dad's ring," I whispered. Evers picked up the gold ring and turned it in his fingers.

  "I've seen this ring before."

  "What do you mean you've seen this ring before? It's my dad's ring. He's worn it for as long as I can remember. He never goes anywhere without it."

  "It's not your father's ring," Evers said quietly. "It's your grandfather's."

  "My grandfather's? How do you know that?"

  Evers held out the ring, turning the monogram in the light so I could see it clearly.

  MWC

  "Marshall Carlisle Winters. Clive's father. Your grandfather. Marshall Winters was Daniel and Amelia's Winters' brother. The black sheep of the family. He left home when he was young and never went back."

  I stared at Evers in disbelief. I didn't know who Daniel and Amelia Winters were. I knew I was related to the Winters family of Atlanta in some way, even knew the names of the current generation. More than that? I was in the dark. My blank stare must have told Evers that I was lost.

  "You really don't know? You don't know any of this?"

  "No. I never knew my grandfather. My dad never talked about him. He never talked about any family. Always said we were on our own."

  Evers turned the ring over, studying it. "Your grandfather, Marshall Winters, was the oldest child in his generation. The story is he went to Korea in nineteen fifty with the Army, came home with a Korean bride, and his father went nuts. Kicked him out. From what I get, Marshall, Daniel, and Amelia's parents were old-school. Intolerant and inflexible. Marsh took off with the wife and disappeared.

  "Amelia and Daniel looked but couldn't find them. He showed back up in nineteen sixty-three with no wife. Stayed less than a month—he was drinking, there were drugs, a big family fight, and Marsh disappeared again. We traced him to San Francisco. He became kind of a counterculture hippie hero for a while. Married another hippie, and they had your dad in sixty-five as far as we can tell."

  "I knew he lived in San Francisco when he was young. He said his father died when he was a teenager. I don't know what happened to his mother," I said absently, my mind reeling.

  "Your dad never made any attempt to contact Hugh and James. Or Amelia. You moved all the way to Marietta, right in their backyard, but you didn't contact them either. We waited. Assumed you would, but you stayed away. Why?"

  "My father made me promise not to," I said quietly, trying to make sense of what Evers was telling me. Did that make the youngest generation of Winters my second cousins? I'd have to look it up. Either way, we were related far more closely than I'd guessed.

  "What do you mean your father made you promise not to?" Evers asked, sliding the ring into his pocket. I thought to object. If anything, the ring was mine, not his. But more than ever, I wanted to find my dad, and Evers was my best bet.

  "I don't know. When he found out I moved here he was furious, told me not to get any ideas, that they weren't our family, that if I tried to talk to them, they'd just throw me out. He made me promise, made me swear I'd stay away. He got so worked up over it I agreed. Honestly, I didn't realize quite who they were until I got here. I mean, I'd heard of them—everyone's heard of them—but in Atlanta, the Winters are like royalty.

  "My idea about touching base, giving them a call, seemed stupid. They must have family coming out of the woodwork looking for a handout. I didn't want them to think I was looking for something. I figured my father was probably right, and I'd made a promise, so I stayed away."

  "They could have helped your career," Evers commented.

  My spine went poker-straight. "I've done fine without them."

  "You have. More than fine," Evers said, and a swell of pride filled me. "But I don't get why your father made you swear not to see them. It doesn't make sense."

  "I always figured he held a grudge. Or something happened he didn't want to tell me about. Maybe he tried to see them, and they threw him out?"

  "Not as far as I know. James and Hugh are gone, but my Dad didn't have any notes in the file about Clive making contact."

  "How long have you been watching us?" I asked, thrown by the idea that Evers' father had a file that went back to a time when James and Hugh still lived.

/>   "My father is paranoid," Evers said in answer. I took that to mean that I didn't want to know. A startled laugh escaped me. "What?" he asked, looking at me with a raised brow, a shade of worry in his eyes.

  "Just thinking how thick my dad's file must be. All the trouble he gets into. His friends."

  "He's not the average dad."

  "No," I said, thinking of my childhood wish for a normal dad. One who would take care of me instead of needing me to watch out for him. "No, he's not."

  "The Winters know you're behind Cynthia's party. They know who you are."

  "I assumed they knew who I was since they had you spy on me to make sure I didn't cause any trouble," I said bitterly. Evers didn't contradict my harsh words. Instead, he surprised me.

  "They want to meet you. I tried to talk them into waiting until we know what your father is mixed up in, but they don't care. Aiden said it's time."

  "Why? Why now? If they've known all this time who I am, that I was around, why wait?"

  Evers rubbed a hand against the back of his neck and looked away. "It's partly our fault. You seemed innocent enough, but your dad has always been sketchy. They've had enough scandal in their lives. When you turned up, practically on their doorstep, I talked them into waiting. Then, by the time I was sure you weren't a threat, your dad—"

  Evers shook his head. "Maybe we're all a little overprotective. I was a kid when James and Anna were murdered and in college when Hugh and Olivia died. The media were relentless. Vicious. Your father is a loose cannon, and when we saw what he was capable of, we wanted to keep him far away from the family."

  "And that meant keeping me away," I said, putting the pieces together.

  "We could have handled it differently," he admitted. "Maybe we should have. Jacob liked you when he met you during Axel's thing. He voted to bring you into the family."

  "And you talked him out of it," I said flatly.

  "Not at first. Not until I looked into your dad."

  I sighed. I wanted to be angry. Looking around the shabby, sordid disaster of my father's life, I couldn't argue with the Sinclairs wanting to keep us away from their friends.