Abby's eyes widened. "My father took money?" She looked at Harrison. "Did you know this?"
"Yes," he confessed, and shot Ethan an angry glance. "I didn't think you needed to know that."
"She has a right," Ethan said, his tone utterly devoid of feeling. "Finish the story."
Harrison's sigh was harsh. "He took money, Abby. And stock tips. Father made sure he could invest the funds and turn it into a neat little fortune. That's how he purchased the restaurant—
and the house. His retirement pay never would have allowed him to do that."
Abby felt shaken. She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. "All this time," she said to Harrison. "You've always known this."
"Yes," he said.
"And when he was killed? Did you know why?"
Harrison shook his head. "No, I didn't."
"There was a lot of money involved," Ethan said.
"Yes." Harrison rubbed his hands on his trouser legs. "Jack Lee had begun passing stock tips to his war buddies. Those poker games in the back room of the restaurant—" He shook his head. "They didn't play poker, Abby."
"Illegal trading?"
"Yes."
"I see." Her blood had started to run cold. "The jack of spades," she said softly.
Harrison gave her a sad look. "Do you know what that means?"
"No. Dad said he'd picked up the nickname in Vietnam."
"Not exactly. My father was part of a group of men who'd made
their fortune off the military-
industrial complex. For reasons I never fully understood—maybe they thought of themselves as high-stakes gamblers—they used playing cards
to distinguish themselves in correspondence. Father was always referred to as the king of spades."
"And my father," Abby said, "was the jack?"
"Something like that. Jack Lee used the jack of spades as his calling card. Everyone in his inner circle knew what it meant. After my father died, Jack developed
enough contacts to keep his in
vestments going, but pressure was starting to mount."
"The Feds got suspicious," Ethan said.
"The investigation—" Deirdre glanced at Harrison. "That wasn't an IRS audit, was it?"
"No," he concurred. "The year before your father's murder," he told Abby, "federal investigators came to see me about alleged insider trading and the possible involvement of some of our top executives. The Justice Department had initiated a crackdown on all white-collar crime. Every successful company in the country—and especially those wit
h ties to the defense industry—
was suspect."
"Dad was implicated?" Abby asked.
"His name came up. The investigators felt sure they could get him to wear a wire, use him as an informant."
"Oh, my God." She shivered. "He agreed, didn't he?"
"Yes. But something went wrong. The night of the murder, the entire case was coming to fruition.
I think they were expecting to blow things open. Your father and his friends met in the back room like always."
"They let him get killed." Abby's heart was pounding so hard, she could hear the blood pumping in her veins. "No one protected him."
Harrison's face showed his anguish. "I never could find out exactly what happened. By the time I heard about it, the facts were buried somewhere in the federal case files." He held out his hands in a helpless gesture. "I knew that my father—and I, to some extent—was at least partially to blame. The only thing I could do was to give you a job and try my best to protect you."
Abby sank back against her chair in disbelief as a string of random memories assailed her. So many things made sense now. The endless red tape she'd encountered during the investigation. The way important evidence had apparently been overlooked. The confusing circumstances surrounding the murder and the apparent ambivalence of the Chicago police. She struggled to assimilate everything Harrison had told her.
"There's something I don't understand," Deirdre interjected. "You said earlier that someone was blackmailing you, Harrison. What is that about?"
He looked absolutely defeated. "A few months ago, I got a letter threatening to expose all of this. The person was going to tell you," he said to
Abby, "about your father's involvement. I didn't want you to find out like that. I thought a onetime payment would take care of it."
"The blackmailer got greedy," Ethan said.
Harrison nodded. "He wanted more. And soon I saw that there was only one honorable way out." His gaze turned pleading as he regarded Abby. "I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. I've done some terrible things." He glanced at Ethan. "You may never forgive me for some of them, and I suppose you've got a right to that. But for the first time in thirty years, I felt like I had the chance to redeem myself. I kept thinking about Lina telling my father to go to hell and take his money with him. She wouldn't have let some bastard blackmail her."
He sighed. "I knew the only way out of this situation without hurting either one of you"—he glanced apologetically at Deirdre—"or without exposing the entire nasty mess to the family, was to liquidate the company. If I'd sold it then, there would still be eno
ugh capital left to make me vul
nerable to the blackmailer. But if news of the devastation of the Montgomery fortune got out, I'd be free of it."
"You were willing to lose everything?" Deirdre said.
"I knew you'd all be protected. I've spent years ensuring that ev
eryone would have sufficient as
sets to live in comfort. There might have been
some trimming, but no Montgomery would have suffered."
"So you were deliberately sabotaging your accounts?" Abby asked.
"Yes," he replied. "And well enough so that no one noticed." He looked at Ethan. "Until you."
Abby thought that over. Had she not brought Ethan into the picture and subjected Harrison's business ventures to such close scrutiny, he probably could have gotten away with it. The stock would have dropped far enough to warrant an unfavorable sale, and though he would have lost most of his stake in the company, he wouldn't have been destitute.
Suddenly she realized there was still one question as yet unanswered. "Then who left the jack of spades at my house, Harrison, and why did it turn up now?"
fourteen
R
achel brushed one hand over the tablecloth in an absent rhythm. "Ethan?"
"Hmm?" It was Sunday night, and in the wake of Harrison's confession, his relationship with Abby had settled into an uneasy calm.
Abby had been understandably overwhelmed by yesterday's events. Ethan had never intended for her to learn the truth from anyone but him, but in the end, it seemed best that Harrison himself had delivered the blow. Ethan had come to Chicago ready to show Abby the evidence he'd accumulated. He'd already known the majority of Harrison's story, having pieced together the missing information about Jordan Fisk from his conversation with Hansen Wells, and the truth about her father's hand in Harrison's deferment from
Carter Jameson. His plan had been to lay it out for her, piece by excruciating piece, taking care to paint a picture she could live with.
He had not been prepared to open the wounds of his own past, especially not when Abby already had him reeling. Harrison's story had hit him with the force of a five-star hurricane. Fresh on the heels of the way Abby had forced herself through his defenses and stormed the door of his emotional restraint, he'd been unable to defend himself from the memories Harrison had evoked.
The tone in Harrison's voice when he spoke of Lina had left Ethan
feeling starkly alone. He'd fi
nally had to put physical distance between himself and Abby by moving to stand at the window, abandoning her to face Harrison's truth on her own. Ethan had spent the time shoring up what was left of his defenses so he could face the desolation he'd experience when she realized he'd been investigating her—and had known details he hadn't revealed. He'd been prepared for her rage.
Instead, she'd retreated into a contemplative shell that both alarmed and disconcerted him. He didn't know how to interpret the shifting emotions he saw in her gaze, nor the turmoil that seemed to shimmer just beneath the surface. She was hurting, but he was unable to offer her solace. If he pushed her too hard, she might demand answers from him that he could not yet give her. He
was no more ready to talk about Harrison's revelations than she, and so he let the subject drop, though it hung over their heads like the sword of Damocles.
He was more determined than ever to answer the question she herself had asked: why had this come up now? Abby had seemed to take it for granted that he would share her bed, but she'd been distracted and edgy. He hadn't made love to her. And she'd withdrawn even further today. By the time Rachel returned from her weekend away, things had grown unusually tense.
"Did you want something?" he asked.
Rachel was sitting at the table, watching him through narrowed eyes. "Are you and Abby, you know, doing it?"
He raised one eyebrow. He should have been prepared for this, he thought in retrospect. "That's a very personal question."
She didn't blink. "Are you?"
"I'm not sure I'm going to answer that."
He saw a flash of irritation in her expressive eyes. "I'm not a little kid—you know? I know how things work."
"I guess you probably do."
"But you aren't going to tell me."
"I'm not telling you because it's none of your business—not because you aren't old enough to understand."
Rachel's gaze turned shrewd. "You
are
doing
it!" she exclaimed.
"I thought so." Ethan didn't re
spond. She continued. "I was kind of sure after the Memorial Day thing, but when I got home tonight, it was really obvious. She was just acting weird."
"Weird?"
"You know—like she's in outer space or something."
Ethan decided not to ask how that had contributed to Rachel's conclusion. Rachel shrugged. "Abby hasn't really been with a lot of guys before. She doesn't go out much."
"I know that."
"It's sort of my fault. I mean, after our parents died, Abby had to take care of me and everything." She lowered her gaze to the table, whose grain pattern she rubbed with her thumb. "There aren't a whole lot of guys willing to put up with something like that."
"I don't think your sister regrets any of it," he said carefully. "Except that you didn't have a chance to know your parents."
Rachel didn't respond for a long time. When she looked at him again, he noticed the sadness in her hazel eyes. For the first time, he clearly saw her resemblance to Abby. He'd been looking at that same sad expression for the past twenty-four hours. "She was a freshman in college when it happened," Rachel told him. "She was going to be a lawyer."
He hadn't known that. He added it to his growing list of Abby's secrets. "She would have been a good one," he said with a slight smile. "She argues well."
A small laugh escaped Rachel. "God, you can say that again."
"She quit college after the murder," he said. It wasn't a question.
"She had to go to work. If she hadn't—" Rachel shook her head. "Things would have been different."
"Do you know how much your sister loves you?" he asked.
"Yeah, I know. It still makes me feel bad sometimes."
"It shouldn't. She doesn't regret any of it."
Rachel frowned. "It just doesn't seem fair, is all. I mean, Abby's never had time for guys and stuff. Except for LuAnne, she doesn't even have a lot of friends. She had to leave work and, like, pick me up at day care or take me to the doctor or something. And she doesn't date—like hardly ever. I mean, there's that one guy from the company, David Wilcox, but that's not like a
date
date."
Ethan was beginning to be awfully glad he was having this conversation. "No?"
"Uh-uh. There just, like, friends, you know? I mean, if Abby needs a guy to go with her to some foundation function or something, she calls David."
"Have you met David?" he asked.
"Sure. He's a loser. He's got beady eyes, and his clothes are, like, sick—you know?"
Ethan decided he didn't need interpretation for the teen slang. It stood nicely on its own. "So you don't think Abby was serious about him?"
Rachel snorted. "Are you kidding? Abby would never go for a guy like that." She shook her head. "But it's different with you. She likes you." Rachel gave him an affirming nod.
"I like her too."
"She gets all, like, hairy when you're around."
"Hairy?"
"You know. Like at Carlton's party. She, like,
swooped
on Harrison the minute he got cranky. The last time I saw Abby do that was when one of my teachers told her I needed therapy. She gets all crazy and defensive—like she wants to deck somebody
.
"
"Ever seen her do it?"
"Slug someone? No. But I've seen her come close a couple of times."
"Your sister is pretty fierce about the people she cares for."
"And you," Rachel said. "She's fierce about you."
Ethan nodded. "I've noticed."
"So I was just wondering
…
I mean, if you guys aren't doing it, then what
are
you doing?"
"There's more to a relationship than sex," he said bluntly.
"I know."
"Glad to hear it."
She drummed her fingertips on the table. "I wasn't talking about that. I just want to know what you think is going to happen with you and Abby."
The look of determination in her eyes finally made him realize what Rachel was after. She was asking what his intentions were toward her sister. Ethan thought it over, then sat up straight in his chair. "I'm deeply involved with your sister," he told her.
"How deeply?"
"Long-term deeply."
Rachel contemplated his answer. "What are you going do about it?"
"We haven't decided yet. We're working that out."
"You live in California," Rachel pointed out.
"At the moment."
Her eyes widened. "Would you move here?"
"I don't know. How would you feel if I did?"
"It could be okay. Kind of weird, maybe. It's always been me and Abby."
Not a ringing endorsement. "Do you remember anything about your parents, Rachel?"
"Not really. It's always been harder for Abby."
"Do you remember anything about the night they were killed?" he asked carefully.
She shook her head. "Sometimes I think I should. Everybody said I was supposed to be really freaked or something. That whole closet thing—" She waved a hand. "I don't know. It's like it never really happened to me."
"No bad dreams?"
"No. I'm not even afraid of the dark."
"It's okay, you know—not remembering," he said gently.
She looked away. "It might have helped them catch the guy if I could have told them something."
"They put a lot of pressure on you, didn't they?"
"I guess. I do remember that we went to the police station a lot. I didn't like it there."
He could well understand that. "People would ask you a lot of questions."
"Yes. And they usually wouldn't let Abby stay with me."
Ethan could only imagine the terror that a three-year-old child must have felt. "When did it stop?"
"Abby made them. She had this huge argument with this one guy who was around all the time. She told him he couldn't talk to me anymore."
"And things got better."
"Yeah. Abby went to work a little after that. I was in day care a lot. She made me see a shrink for
a while, just to make sure I wasn't, like, totally freaked."
Ethan nodded, thoughtful. "Do you ever talk about this with your friends, Rachel?"
"It comes up sometimes. I mean, nobody else ever had anything like this happen. They start asking a lot of questions when they realize I don't have parents—just Abby."
Just Abby, he thought. The center of her universe. No wonder his relationship with her sister made Rachel nervous. "You're always going to have Abby, you know," he told her.
"Sure. I know." She didn't sound convinced.
"Even if you get stuck with me in the bargain, it doesn't mean you won't have Abby."
She scrunched up her face. "I understand. It's just that
…
I don't really know what to do. I mean, Abby's never had a boyfriend before. Not like a real one. So it's kind of different."
Ethan heard the slightly wistful note in her voice and recognized it immediately. Loneliness. How well he knew the feeling. Rachel had had Abby to herself for a very long time, and the thought of sharing Abby was making her understandably anxious. "I can understand that."
"You're okay, though. It's not like you're a creep or anything."
He bit back a smile. "Thanks."
Rachel shook her head.
"
I
didn't mean it like that."
"I know."
"My friend Barb, her mother is divorced. And Barb says that when her mother started seeing her stepfather, they kind of expected her to stay out of the way a lot." She pinned Ethan with a look too shrewd for her thirteen years. "Barb was always making plans to come over to our house and stuff—like she didn't want to be home on weekends."
"Must have been a pain for Barb."
"Yeah. I wouldn't like that," she told him.
"Then don't do it." He held her gaze. "No one wants you to."
She seemed to process what he'd said. "But, um, don't you guys want to, you know—"
"Sometimes," he admitted. "But I'm not going to kick you out of the house because of it."
"Oh."
A fragile bridge of trust seemed to have spanned the gulf between them. "However," he added, sensing that Rachel had exhausted the line of questioning, "there are a couple of rules."
Her expression turned wary. "What kind of rules?"
With a slight smile and a bit of surprise at his insight, he placed both of his palms on the table. "For starters," he said, "boyfriends have to be fed."
Rachel looked momentarily confused; then he saw her lips begin to twitch. "Fed?"
"Yes. That's a secret about men, Rach—you might as well learn it now. We're always less cranky when you feed us."
"Are you telling me that you're dating Abby so I'll cook for you?"
"No, but it's a definite plus." He tilted his head to one side. "I mean, think of the money I save not having to take her out all the time."
Rachel giggled. "Yeah, but you have to fly in from California."
He shrugged. "A small price to pay for your cooking."
"Wait until Abby sticks you with the grocery bi
ll.
"
That made him laugh. "Expensive?"
"Huge," Rachel told him. "Monsieur Billaud only knows recipes with gourmet ingredients. I'm glad he pays me for working in the restaurant, 'cause otherwise there's no way we could afford the food." She gave Ethan a conspiratorial look. "Did you know that you can spend eighteen dollars a pound for certain kinds of steak?" She sounded horrified.