Authors: Lisa Roecker
This is WAR (4 page)
“And get this,” Hannah leaned closer to Rose, close enough for her to catch a hint of vanilla lotion. “The valets parked a brand-new BMW. James’s brand-new BMW. Apparently Trip got the old one.”
Hannah’s voice dripped with scorn. But she wasn’t fooling anyone. Rose knew if either of the Gregory boys offered Hannah a ride, she’d melt. And Rose couldn’t blame her. She had the same reaction to them. Everyone at the Club did. You hated them until they threw you that little scrap of hope. Then all bets were off.
Her face flushed at the thought of James in his brand-new car. If she hadn’t destroyed the napkin in her lap, she could have wiped the beads of sweat gathering above her lip. James was definitely the favored grandson, but Trip seemed pretty
content with his brother’s hand-me-downs. Of course, Rose imagined that if
her
sloppy seconds consisted of a BMW 3 series with a few thousand miles on it, she’d probably be pretty happy herself.
While Hannah jabbered on about the many features and upgrades in James’s new car, Rose couldn’t help but wonder which Gregory had offered Mari $5,000 to keep her mouth shut. The Captain himself? Or maybe it was Trip who was forced to do the dirty deed. She lifted her glass of water to her lips with shaking hands, and the nausea passed. No, it was probably James. Rose could imagine Mari turning him down, especially if he were drunk. He’d been fully sauced that night, after all. God only knew what he’d done to Willa on that little boat …
She cringed inwardly at the time she’d spent with him. Whispers in dark corners of the Club, meaningful glances exchanged over the pool. She had been so sure that he was different. That he was real.
“How can he even show his face?” Hannah asked as though she expected Rose to provide her with an acceptable answer.
She leaned over the bar, eyes narrowed toward the pool. For a second Rose thought she might know something, but then the girl took a step back and frowned. The closest Hannah ever got to an apology. Rose followed her eyes out the wall of windows to the pool deck. The sparkling water lay still, the only evidence the girls had been there was a trail of wet footprints along the surrounding stone.
“I guess it’s easy when you’re a Gregory?” Rose finally responded.
The words were barely out of her mouth before the carefully modulated hum of lunch was shattered by the sound of breaking glass.
All heads in the sunroom turned. Tanned necks stretched past the bar. A couple of ancient plastic surgery casualties even managed to raise an eyebrow. Rose swiveled toward the door just in time to see Madge in a kelly-green maxi dress, pool bag slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were fixed on Trip Gregory, while Lina and Sloane stood frozen behind her.
Trip had the decency to avert his eyes as he passed the girls and strode through the room. But his gaze flickered toward Rose for the briefest of moments, setting her entire body on fire. Her secret,
their secret
, was a target on her chest. It killed all the parts of her that were still alive.
By the time he made it to a lounge chair outside, throwing his long body onto it, Rose almost relaxed. But the sunroom was still frozen. Because Trip hadn’t been the one to break the glass; his drunken brother had. Rose felt the heat of eyes on her neck but kept her gaze trained on her lap. She knew exactly who was looking at her, but she was terrified of what her eyes would say if she looked back. Curiosity eventually
got the best of her. James swayed by the door using the frame to balance. He didn’t look at Madge or even acknowledge her friends. Instead he focused intently on Rose.
She looked away, praying Hannah didn’t notice him staring. Her heart thudded. Meanwhile, Madge stood her ground as every member and employee waited for her to react. Even from her perch at the bar, Rose could feel the tension. Lina leaned over and whispered something in Madge’s ear, bleached hair grazing freckled cheek. But Madge shook Lina’s arm from her shoulder and stood in the doorway like she was preparing to pounce. Rose allowed herself another quick glance at James. Her dark eyes met his blue, and she felt the familiar rush of heat. Like muscle memory, her body remembered what it was like to be close to his, and it reacted.
“
You
.”
The spell was broken. Madge hissed the word so quietly Rose almost thought she’d imagined it. Bunny Westinghouse, one of Mrs. Ames-Rowan’s oldest friends, must have sensed imminent disaster because she was out of her seat and at Madge’s side before James could even respond.
“I’m so sorry. This young lady is going through a very difficult time.” Bunny used her spindly arms to carefully guide Madge over the broken glass and away from James. She shot darts with her eyes at Hannah as though saying,
“Fix this.”
Hannah rushed to the door to fulfill her duty.
But before Rose could escape, James was there. Next to her. Impossible to ignore. He reeked of vodka, sweat, and desperation. Rose hadn’t noticed from across the bar, but his eyes were rimmed with purple circles. The wry laughter she’d seen dance there was gone. It was all bleary redness.
“I …” Before he could continue, Rose jumped to her feet and flew to Hannah’s side. Helping Hannah clean up
the broken glass seemed like her best option. But when she reached for a shard of glass the edge sliced her finger. Blood rushed to the surface before the pain even registered.
James appeared with a towel.
“You should watch yourself, Rose.” He stumbled a little, his lips twisted into an unstable smile. “I’m dangerous, you know.”
He reached for her, and Rose jerked her arm away, a drop of blood falling to the floor. Her stomach churned. She was 99% sure she’d throw up if he touched her. Luckily he just tossed her the towel and laughed when it landed on top of the broken shards.
The James that she had known all summer was gone. Or maybe he’d never really existed at all. She would never admit it to Mari or even herself, but when she had lied to her dad the night of Willa’s death, she had lied for James. Holding the towel to her finger, she couldn’t deny the facts any longer. She couldn’t pretend that the asshole staggering around the sunroom was innocent. When James stumbled past the table Madge, Lina, and Sloane now shared with Mrs. Westinghouse, Rose held her breath again. Everyone did.
Even though he was a drunken murderer, James Gregory was still the crowned prince of Hawthorne Lake. If one of the girls made a move, life as they knew it would end.
Rose waited, silently hoping one of them would race forward, claw at his jugular, tear at his heart. She wondered if grief could make a person brave. All three of them sat perfectly still. Anger and righteous indignation bubbled up in Rose’s chest. How could they sit there and tolerate a guy who should be in jail? They were
smiling
, even.
But when she looked closely at Madge, the towel around her finger darkening with blood, Rose realized the smile
never made it to her eyes. And then—so fast that if Rose had blinked a second earlier she might have missed it—Madge nodded sharply at Lina and Sloane. The girls’ smiles broadened ever so slightly in return.
The dated locker room was one of the few places in the Club where Rose felt comfortable. At least she could be alone there. Surrounded by faded pink floral wallpaper and the yellowing Formica countertops, Rose’s heartbeat slowed. The women of the Club were constantly petitioning for a renovation, but there was never money left in the budget after golf course repairs, new meeting room accommodations, and the countless upgrades to the men’s locker room. Muzak played softly in the background, and the air was heavy with the scent of potpourri. She hadn’t realized how much the morning—or if she were being honest, James’s presence—had shaken her. She needed time to think.
She did a quick sweep of the locker room. When she was sure she was alone, she slipped through a hidden door into the laundry room. Technically, the employees-only parts of the Club were off-limits to Rose, but the laundress always took a late lunch. Lately, the rhythmic beating
of the washers and dryers was the only noise that could drown out all the voices in her head.
The tension in her shoulders eased as she threw herself on top of a pile of freshly laundered towels heaped in the corner. She squeezed her eyes shut. The fluffy warmth of the towels, the drone of the washing machines … it was better than Ambien. Maybe she could sneak a nap and would finally sleep.
And then she heard the voices.
“She’s dead, and we know who killed her. We have to do something …”
Rose’s eyes snapped open.
“He killed my sister, and his brother is helping him cover it up.”
She stared at the vent in the ceiling. The voice belonged to Madge Ames-Rowan.
“But what about the police? Couldn’t we just talk to them? I mean, that detective seemed nice. He said he’d listen …” Rose could barely place the high-pitched, babyish voice of Sloane Liu. As many summers as she’d spent within an arm’s reach of the girl, she couldn’t remember ever hearing her speak.
“Impossible. You know who that detective is married to, right? You think they’d actually let a Club employee or her husband anywhere near him?” This voice was lower, raspy. It reeked of cigarettes at a bar all night. Lina Winthrop. It had to be.
“She’s right. The police aren’t an option. There’s not a single person on that boat who would dare accuse one of those boys of parking in a handicapped spot, let alone murder.” Madge’s voice was controlled. She sounded more like a beauty queen answering her final question than a grieving stepsister.
“But how do you know … I mean … we can’t be sure it was murder, right? It was probably just an accident. There’s no way he’d ever intentionally …”
There was a scraping and shuffling above. Rose had to stand up to try to make out exactly what was being said.
“… know exactly what they’re capable of. And I know my sister. There’s no way she fell off that boat, and even if she did, she won the two-hundred meter at the beginning of June. Something else happened, and whatever it was, it ended with James killing …”
Rose was out the door before Madge had even finished her sentence. She’d spent the last few weeks waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the chance to fix what was broken. This was it.
Madge was right. Her dad had good intentions, but there was no way in hell he’d end up charging James Gregory with murder. She was tired of the sleepless nights, of the guilt that felt like it was eating her alive from the inside out, of the disappointment in Mari’s eyes. Those girls might not know it yet, but they needed her.
She slipped out of the locker room and ducked into the parlor. It was empty, but she still cast a quick look over her shoulder before throwing her weight against the massive painting of Great Grandpa Gregory’s prize Great Dane, Wentworth, that lined the back wall. The wall creaked open to reveal a winding set of wooden stairs leading to the attic.
The girls had gone completely quiet above. Probably preparing to ream out the unfortunate housekeeper who had stumbled upon their little meeting …
But Rose wasn’t a maid. And the girls didn’t have the authority to kick her out. Well, not technically, anyway. Either way, she didn’t care.
She’d grown up watching waitresses submit carefully worded resignations. She’d seen the way the hands of the overweight old men would casually graze her mom’s body. And she could still hear her mom’s matter-of-fact warning, imparted on her twelfth birthday.
“There are certain situations that I can’t protect you from, Rosie. The Club has a lot to offer, but stay away from the dark rooms at the parties. If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, no one will be able to save you. Not even me.”