Best Forgotten, a Fic for Brandy, Pt. 9
More like a Halloween trick than a treat, this update.
I've had little time to write recently and even less inspiration, but I wanted to post at least a mini-update before the month ended. So here it is, mini indeed. In every way.
DisclaimerStill AU (oh, that nasty Caleb!), and the characters? Still not mine.
Best Forgotten, Part 9
Sandy’s nose twitched as he walked into the kitchen. “What is that?” he asked, sniffing suspiciously.
“Pancakes. Chocolate chip and/or banana.” Seth spun around, twirling a spatula. His grin, rusty and ashamed, teetered a little. “For you, oh wise one. I’m sorry that I ever doubted you-not that I ever believed you’d totally gone over to the dark side. Just, you know, slipped a little. Anyway, yeah, well, pancakes. With a heaping side of contrition.”
Something in Sandy’s face melted. Clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder, he bent his forehead to touch Seth’s. “No apology necessary,” he murmured. They stood like that for a moment, supporting each other, silent. Then Sandy smiled shakily, stepped back and grabbed a fork. “But pancakes are always welcome,” he declared. Spearing the top cake, he rolled it and took a huge bite. He glanced toward his bedroom after he swallowed. “Not bad, son,” he said. “It’s a nice gesture, making breakfast. Your mom will appreciate it.”
At the mention of his mother, a shadow crossed Seth’s face. He dropped his gaze, scraping a spot of batter off the stove. “So, um, about Mom,” he murmured. “Is she really good with this?”
Sandy rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sighed, his eyes troubled. “Yes,” he said slowly, “she is. Remember though, Seth, as far as she knows we’re only investigating Grady, not your grandfather. So watch what you say, all right?”
Seth nodded gravely and tapped his mouth. “Don’t worry, Dad. The Seth Cohen vault is officially locked,” he promised. “The words grandfather, Caleb Nichol, and chief suspect will not escape these lips.”
“Thanks, son. But speaking of your grandfather . . .” Sandy paused. With his fork, he absently crumbled the edge of his pancake. “There’s something you could do to help out today.”
“Really?” His face lit up and Seth began to bounce, jiggling the spatula. “Great! Absolutely, Dad, whatever it is, I am there. What’s my assignment?”
“Call your grandfather and tell him you want to go sailing with him today.”
“Okay! I can do that and-wait, what? That’s it? You want me to go sailing?” Visibly deflating, Seth let his spatula fall. It clattered loudly on the stove. “Dad, come on. That’s like, busy work. Playtime even, except for the Grandpa part.” His expression turned earnest and pleading. “I want to do something useful-something that will help us find Ryan.”
Sandy reached over to knead his son’s shoulder. “This will help us, Seth,” he said quietly. “I was thinking about it last night. Your grandfather made a big deal about how you turned down his offer to go sailing yesterday. So take him up on it now. He’ll have to say yes to save his credibility. And if your grandfather is with you, he’ll--”Sandy broke off abruptly at the sound of his wife’s footsteps, but Seth’s eyes brightened with comprehension.
“Be out of the office,” he whispered. “Got it, Dad. Operation CEOut. I’m on it . . . Hey, Mom! Good morning! Banana or chocolate chip?”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. What?” Looking wan and harried, Kirsten walked into the kitchen, but she had barely stepped inside before she wheeled around again. “Oh! I forgot my briefcase!”
Sandy’s anxious gaze followed her as she disappeared down the hallway.
Seth watched his father’s brow crease. “You worried about what’s gonna happen if we’re wrong, Dad?” he asked. “I mean, blowing this deal would cost the Newport Group millions. Plus, we’ll be no closer to finding Ryan.”
“I know.” Sandy’s shoulders slumped heavily. “But I’m worried what’s going to happen if we’re right too. It’s going to destroy your mother if Cal is involved . . .”
“Yeah, I suppose, but . . .” Seth trailed his thumb through a bit of spilled flour. “She wants Ryan home as much as we do. Right?”
Sandy’s jaw tightened and he turned back to his son. “Yes,” he replied firmly. “She does.”
“Okay. So. So, good.” Sighing with relief, Seth leaned against the counter. “Now, mom’s got her assignment, I’m on Grandpa Distraction Detail. What are you going to be doing today, Dad?”
Sandy poured himself a cup of coffee. “Oh,” he said casually, “I thought I’d stop by and see Jack Bremer.”
“Excellent idea! Who’s Jack Bremer?”
“Your grandfather’s pilot.”
“Ah! Got it!” Seth nodded sagely, then frowned and shook his head, his eyes blank. “No I don’t. Why do you want to see him?”
“Well,” Sandy replied. He sipped his coffee, his mouth quirking into a faint smile. “This family trip to San Francisco was your grandfather’s idea, so I assume that he plans to let us use the company plane. I figured I’d drop by to confirm the arrangements. And maybe in the course of the conversation--”
“You could do some stealth Sandy Cohen style interrogation? Why? You think grandpa’s pilot might know something?”
Sandy’s brows rose above his mug. “Something like that,” he admitted. He was about to explain when the doorbell rang, and Kirsten reappeared, briefcase in hand, her head bent over a sheaf of papers. Sandy’s expression changed abruptly. “Make your mother eat something, son,” he urged quietly. “I’ll be right back.”
Seth saluted. As his father left, he flipped a warm pancake onto a plate and set it in on the table with a flourish. “Breakfast, Mom,” he sang. “I’d ring a gong, but we don’t seem to have one.”
“What?” Kirsten glanced up, distracted.
“Breakfast,” Seth repeated. He waved a cup of coffee under her nose. “You know-most important meal of the day? Personally made by moi . . . Come on, Mom. Have a pancake. I made chocolate chip. Your favorite.”
A tremulous smile softened Kirsten’s face. Dropping her papers and briefcase on the counter, she cupped her son’s cheek and kissed him. “I love you, sweetie. You know that?” she murmured.
Seth leaned into her palm for a moment. Then he straightened up, grinned and stuck a fork in her hand. “Really? Well, prove it,” he ordered. “Eat.”
Her lips still crimping, Kirsten cut a small piece of pancake, but she had only eaten three bites when Sandy returned to the kitchen. Charlie followed, the heels of her business-like navy pumps clicking efficiently. At the sound, Kirsten stiffened. Her fork clattered to the table, her food forgotten, as she whirled around. A question etched itself in her eyes, but before she could say anything, Charlie shook her head.
“No, Kirsten, Seth, I’m sorry, I haven’t found Ryan,” she said gently. Her tone conveyed her own obvious disappointment. Then it sharpened. “But,” she added, “I can tell you where he hasn’t been: Ryan wasn't part of a drug deal in Mexico, and he wasn’t spotted near the Texas border. I finally got confirmation from the local authorities. The police reports Grady showed you? They’re all forgeries. Ryan wasn’t involved in any of those crimes.”
“I knew it!” Seth blurted.
Sandy silenced his son with a glance, even as he put an arm around Kirsten. “What else, Charlie?” he prompted. He knew his investigator well. He could see that she had more to tell them.
Charlie frowned. She tugged absently at her silk scarf before answering. “I don’t know if this is good news or not,” she confessed. “But I’ve had the tests double-checked, Sandy, and that note Ryan supposedly wrote? It didn’t come from his computer.”
“What? But then where? Who wrote it?” Kirsten demanded.
“I don’t know yet,” Charlie admitted. “But at least now we have proof that--”
“Ryan didn’t,” Seth concluded. Triumph, confusion, and fear warred in his voice.
“No,” Charlie agreed. “Ryan definitely did not write that note.” The implication of her words echoed through the room. Before Seth could interrupt again, she rushed to clarify, “I know that fact suggests foul play, but I don’t want you to panic. Ryan still might have left voluntarily. All we know for sure is that somebody else wrote the note, and that Grady lied about Ryan’s fingerprints being on it.”
At the words “foul play,” Kirsten sank onto a stool with a stifled whimper. “He lied about everything,” she whispered. “All along, he’s been trying to make us believe the worst about Ryan. Grady must have written that note so we would think he stole the cash and . . . oh, God, Sandy!” She gazed up at her husband, her face pale and pleading. “He might have done something to Ryan! We’ve got to go to the police with this!”
“It wouldn’t do any good, Kirsten,” Charlie told her quietly. “All we can prove is that Grady gave you false information, and my guess is that he’ll have some story to explain that. There’s nothing that links him directly to Ryan.”
“But he must know something!” Kirsten protested. At a loss, she clutched Sandy’s hand. “There must some way we can. . . Dad! He can help! We need to tell Dad what Grady’s done.”
“No,” Sandy said flatly. “We can’t do that.” He kept one hand on Kirsten’s shoulder, kneading it with slow, reassuring strokes, but his expression turned grim.
“But why not? Once he knows about Grady--Oh!” Kirsten jerked away, stricken. “You think he already does,” she said slowly. “Sandy, no. You can’t believe-I know Dad hates Ryan, but he couldn’t . . . he wouldn’t do this. He’s my father!”
“Sweetheart--”
“Sandy is not implying that Mr. Nichol is involved,” Charlie interjected swiftly. She glanced at Sandy, her eyes shrewd, and he nodded, instantly silent. “But you’re right: Grady might know something about Ryan’s whereabouts. Think about it, Kirsten. We have an advantage right now. Grady doesn’t realize that we’re onto him. That means he might slip up and give something away that could lead us to Ryan. But if your father confronts him directly--”
Kirsten twisted her rings. “He’ll cover up and all we’ll get are more lies,” she concluded. “I understand. I won’t say anything to Dad . . .” She paused and her gaze fell, shadowed by fear. When she spoke again, the words crept out in a whisper. She sounded as if she were talking to herself. “He can’t be involved with this himself. He can’t. Ryan is just a boy! I know Dad can be cutthroat in business, but this-to be so cruel, to deliberately force . . . No. He couldn’t . . . He knows how we all feel . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and Kirsten caught her breath. Shards of memory, broken and dangerous, pricked her consciousness:
Suddenly, unwillingly, she remembered Shane, Hailey’s first boyfriend, the one who had a pierced eyebrow and three tattoos. Her father had detested him on sight, but Hailey defiantly insisted on seeing him anyway. Then, out of the blue, both of Shane’s parents lost their jobs and, within a month, their house as well. They’d had to move out of Newport. Hailey swore up and down it was their father’s doing, but Kirsten had defended him fiercely. Who would go to such lengths to break up a teenage romance? Hailey was just being over-dramatic. Wasn’t she?
Only . . .
There had been that man, Mike, a new waiter at the country club, who startled her father by clapping him on the back. He turned out to have known Caleb when they were kids. Friendly and talkative, he had shared stories of their impoverished youth-funny stories all about their wild antics. Kirsten recalled everyone at their table laughing-everyone except her father. His face remained icy, tight-lipped, and furious.
Now she remembered something else too: his small, furtive smile a week later, when they heard that Mike had been arrested theft. Why had he looked like that-so smug and satisfied. It was like he wanted Mike in jail. But they were friends, weren’t they?
And then-Kirsten flinched as the memory slithered out from some dark, hidden place-there had been that scrap of conversation she had overheard years ago. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. For some reason-had she woken up from a bad dream?-she’d gone to her parents’ room after bedtime. Their door had been closed, but even from the hallway she could hear raised voices inside.
The sounds stopped her where she stood.
They didn’t make sense.
Her parents never shouted.
It took a moment before any words penetrated her shock.
“. . . shot himself, Rose,” her father was saying, his tone crisp and impatient. “Obviously he was weak as well as incompetent, and he was hardly a friend of ours. I fail to understand why you’re being so emotional about this.”
“Because it’s your fault, Cal!” her mother had cried. “You know it is. You drove that poor man to suicide! And you're happy about it!”
Kirsten had recoiled. She didn’t understand why exactly, but all of a sudden she felt terrified. As quietly as she could, she had tiptoed back to her own bed, burrowed under her blue comforter, and willed herself to forget what she had heard.
She had too, until this moment.
Instinctively she shrank away from the memory, but something about it pursued her.
What was it?
What else had her father said? There had been something . . . It felt important, and it was so tantalizingly close--
“Kirsten? Kirsten? Honey, are you all right.”
The sound of Sandy’s worried voice pulled Kirsten out of her haze and back into the kitchen. She shivered. For just an instant, she hesitated, her eyes closed. Then she gave a short, defeated sigh; it was gone completely, that elusive something she felt she should remember. Taking a deep breath, she stood up. Her tremulous tone hardened as she spoke.
“I’m fine,” she replied. She lifted her chin resolutely and picked up her briefcase. “We’re going to be late. Charlie, are you ready?”
Charlie yanked back her unruly hair, twisted it into a knot and skewered it to the back of her head. “Now I am,” she said, shrugging on the tailored gray blazer she had been carrying. “What do you think? Do I look corporate enough to be Mrs. Cohen’s assistant at The Newport Group?”
Sandy nodded. His smile both warm and strained, he draped one arm around Charlie and the other around Kirsten. “You both look like women who can get the job done,” he said. “Come on, I’ll walk you out. Seth?”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m on it.” Seth caught his mother’s perplexed glance and gestured to the cluttered counter and stove. “Clean-up detail,” he explained. He waited until the adults had left before he muttered grimly, “And then comes the real dirty work-getting grandpa out of the office so Charlie can search it. There has to be something there that will help us find Ryan.”
TBC
I've had little time to write recently and even less inspiration, but I wanted to post at least a mini-update before the month ended. So here it is, mini indeed. In every way.
DisclaimerStill AU (oh, that nasty Caleb!), and the characters? Still not mine.
Best Forgotten, Part 9
Sandy’s nose twitched as he walked into the kitchen. “What is that?” he asked, sniffing suspiciously.
“Pancakes. Chocolate chip and/or banana.” Seth spun around, twirling a spatula. His grin, rusty and ashamed, teetered a little. “For you, oh wise one. I’m sorry that I ever doubted you-not that I ever believed you’d totally gone over to the dark side. Just, you know, slipped a little. Anyway, yeah, well, pancakes. With a heaping side of contrition.”
Something in Sandy’s face melted. Clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder, he bent his forehead to touch Seth’s. “No apology necessary,” he murmured. They stood like that for a moment, supporting each other, silent. Then Sandy smiled shakily, stepped back and grabbed a fork. “But pancakes are always welcome,” he declared. Spearing the top cake, he rolled it and took a huge bite. He glanced toward his bedroom after he swallowed. “Not bad, son,” he said. “It’s a nice gesture, making breakfast. Your mom will appreciate it.”
At the mention of his mother, a shadow crossed Seth’s face. He dropped his gaze, scraping a spot of batter off the stove. “So, um, about Mom,” he murmured. “Is she really good with this?”
Sandy rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sighed, his eyes troubled. “Yes,” he said slowly, “she is. Remember though, Seth, as far as she knows we’re only investigating Grady, not your grandfather. So watch what you say, all right?”
Seth nodded gravely and tapped his mouth. “Don’t worry, Dad. The Seth Cohen vault is officially locked,” he promised. “The words grandfather, Caleb Nichol, and chief suspect will not escape these lips.”
“Thanks, son. But speaking of your grandfather . . .” Sandy paused. With his fork, he absently crumbled the edge of his pancake. “There’s something you could do to help out today.”
“Really?” His face lit up and Seth began to bounce, jiggling the spatula. “Great! Absolutely, Dad, whatever it is, I am there. What’s my assignment?”
“Call your grandfather and tell him you want to go sailing with him today.”
“Okay! I can do that and-wait, what? That’s it? You want me to go sailing?” Visibly deflating, Seth let his spatula fall. It clattered loudly on the stove. “Dad, come on. That’s like, busy work. Playtime even, except for the Grandpa part.” His expression turned earnest and pleading. “I want to do something useful-something that will help us find Ryan.”
Sandy reached over to knead his son’s shoulder. “This will help us, Seth,” he said quietly. “I was thinking about it last night. Your grandfather made a big deal about how you turned down his offer to go sailing yesterday. So take him up on it now. He’ll have to say yes to save his credibility. And if your grandfather is with you, he’ll--”Sandy broke off abruptly at the sound of his wife’s footsteps, but Seth’s eyes brightened with comprehension.
“Be out of the office,” he whispered. “Got it, Dad. Operation CEOut. I’m on it . . . Hey, Mom! Good morning! Banana or chocolate chip?”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. What?” Looking wan and harried, Kirsten walked into the kitchen, but she had barely stepped inside before she wheeled around again. “Oh! I forgot my briefcase!”
Sandy’s anxious gaze followed her as she disappeared down the hallway.
Seth watched his father’s brow crease. “You worried about what’s gonna happen if we’re wrong, Dad?” he asked. “I mean, blowing this deal would cost the Newport Group millions. Plus, we’ll be no closer to finding Ryan.”
“I know.” Sandy’s shoulders slumped heavily. “But I’m worried what’s going to happen if we’re right too. It’s going to destroy your mother if Cal is involved . . .”
“Yeah, I suppose, but . . .” Seth trailed his thumb through a bit of spilled flour. “She wants Ryan home as much as we do. Right?”
Sandy’s jaw tightened and he turned back to his son. “Yes,” he replied firmly. “She does.”
“Okay. So. So, good.” Sighing with relief, Seth leaned against the counter. “Now, mom’s got her assignment, I’m on Grandpa Distraction Detail. What are you going to be doing today, Dad?”
Sandy poured himself a cup of coffee. “Oh,” he said casually, “I thought I’d stop by and see Jack Bremer.”
“Excellent idea! Who’s Jack Bremer?”
“Your grandfather’s pilot.”
“Ah! Got it!” Seth nodded sagely, then frowned and shook his head, his eyes blank. “No I don’t. Why do you want to see him?”
“Well,” Sandy replied. He sipped his coffee, his mouth quirking into a faint smile. “This family trip to San Francisco was your grandfather’s idea, so I assume that he plans to let us use the company plane. I figured I’d drop by to confirm the arrangements. And maybe in the course of the conversation--”
“You could do some stealth Sandy Cohen style interrogation? Why? You think grandpa’s pilot might know something?”
Sandy’s brows rose above his mug. “Something like that,” he admitted. He was about to explain when the doorbell rang, and Kirsten reappeared, briefcase in hand, her head bent over a sheaf of papers. Sandy’s expression changed abruptly. “Make your mother eat something, son,” he urged quietly. “I’ll be right back.”
Seth saluted. As his father left, he flipped a warm pancake onto a plate and set it in on the table with a flourish. “Breakfast, Mom,” he sang. “I’d ring a gong, but we don’t seem to have one.”
“What?” Kirsten glanced up, distracted.
“Breakfast,” Seth repeated. He waved a cup of coffee under her nose. “You know-most important meal of the day? Personally made by moi . . . Come on, Mom. Have a pancake. I made chocolate chip. Your favorite.”
A tremulous smile softened Kirsten’s face. Dropping her papers and briefcase on the counter, she cupped her son’s cheek and kissed him. “I love you, sweetie. You know that?” she murmured.
Seth leaned into her palm for a moment. Then he straightened up, grinned and stuck a fork in her hand. “Really? Well, prove it,” he ordered. “Eat.”
Her lips still crimping, Kirsten cut a small piece of pancake, but she had only eaten three bites when Sandy returned to the kitchen. Charlie followed, the heels of her business-like navy pumps clicking efficiently. At the sound, Kirsten stiffened. Her fork clattered to the table, her food forgotten, as she whirled around. A question etched itself in her eyes, but before she could say anything, Charlie shook her head.
“No, Kirsten, Seth, I’m sorry, I haven’t found Ryan,” she said gently. Her tone conveyed her own obvious disappointment. Then it sharpened. “But,” she added, “I can tell you where he hasn’t been: Ryan wasn't part of a drug deal in Mexico, and he wasn’t spotted near the Texas border. I finally got confirmation from the local authorities. The police reports Grady showed you? They’re all forgeries. Ryan wasn’t involved in any of those crimes.”
“I knew it!” Seth blurted.
Sandy silenced his son with a glance, even as he put an arm around Kirsten. “What else, Charlie?” he prompted. He knew his investigator well. He could see that she had more to tell them.
Charlie frowned. She tugged absently at her silk scarf before answering. “I don’t know if this is good news or not,” she confessed. “But I’ve had the tests double-checked, Sandy, and that note Ryan supposedly wrote? It didn’t come from his computer.”
“What? But then where? Who wrote it?” Kirsten demanded.
“I don’t know yet,” Charlie admitted. “But at least now we have proof that--”
“Ryan didn’t,” Seth concluded. Triumph, confusion, and fear warred in his voice.
“No,” Charlie agreed. “Ryan definitely did not write that note.” The implication of her words echoed through the room. Before Seth could interrupt again, she rushed to clarify, “I know that fact suggests foul play, but I don’t want you to panic. Ryan still might have left voluntarily. All we know for sure is that somebody else wrote the note, and that Grady lied about Ryan’s fingerprints being on it.”
At the words “foul play,” Kirsten sank onto a stool with a stifled whimper. “He lied about everything,” she whispered. “All along, he’s been trying to make us believe the worst about Ryan. Grady must have written that note so we would think he stole the cash and . . . oh, God, Sandy!” She gazed up at her husband, her face pale and pleading. “He might have done something to Ryan! We’ve got to go to the police with this!”
“It wouldn’t do any good, Kirsten,” Charlie told her quietly. “All we can prove is that Grady gave you false information, and my guess is that he’ll have some story to explain that. There’s nothing that links him directly to Ryan.”
“But he must know something!” Kirsten protested. At a loss, she clutched Sandy’s hand. “There must some way we can. . . Dad! He can help! We need to tell Dad what Grady’s done.”
“No,” Sandy said flatly. “We can’t do that.” He kept one hand on Kirsten’s shoulder, kneading it with slow, reassuring strokes, but his expression turned grim.
“But why not? Once he knows about Grady--Oh!” Kirsten jerked away, stricken. “You think he already does,” she said slowly. “Sandy, no. You can’t believe-I know Dad hates Ryan, but he couldn’t . . . he wouldn’t do this. He’s my father!”
“Sweetheart--”
“Sandy is not implying that Mr. Nichol is involved,” Charlie interjected swiftly. She glanced at Sandy, her eyes shrewd, and he nodded, instantly silent. “But you’re right: Grady might know something about Ryan’s whereabouts. Think about it, Kirsten. We have an advantage right now. Grady doesn’t realize that we’re onto him. That means he might slip up and give something away that could lead us to Ryan. But if your father confronts him directly--”
Kirsten twisted her rings. “He’ll cover up and all we’ll get are more lies,” she concluded. “I understand. I won’t say anything to Dad . . .” She paused and her gaze fell, shadowed by fear. When she spoke again, the words crept out in a whisper. She sounded as if she were talking to herself. “He can’t be involved with this himself. He can’t. Ryan is just a boy! I know Dad can be cutthroat in business, but this-to be so cruel, to deliberately force . . . No. He couldn’t . . . He knows how we all feel . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and Kirsten caught her breath. Shards of memory, broken and dangerous, pricked her consciousness:
Suddenly, unwillingly, she remembered Shane, Hailey’s first boyfriend, the one who had a pierced eyebrow and three tattoos. Her father had detested him on sight, but Hailey defiantly insisted on seeing him anyway. Then, out of the blue, both of Shane’s parents lost their jobs and, within a month, their house as well. They’d had to move out of Newport. Hailey swore up and down it was their father’s doing, but Kirsten had defended him fiercely. Who would go to such lengths to break up a teenage romance? Hailey was just being over-dramatic. Wasn’t she?
Only . . .
There had been that man, Mike, a new waiter at the country club, who startled her father by clapping him on the back. He turned out to have known Caleb when they were kids. Friendly and talkative, he had shared stories of their impoverished youth-funny stories all about their wild antics. Kirsten recalled everyone at their table laughing-everyone except her father. His face remained icy, tight-lipped, and furious.
Now she remembered something else too: his small, furtive smile a week later, when they heard that Mike had been arrested theft. Why had he looked like that-so smug and satisfied. It was like he wanted Mike in jail. But they were friends, weren’t they?
And then-Kirsten flinched as the memory slithered out from some dark, hidden place-there had been that scrap of conversation she had overheard years ago. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. For some reason-had she woken up from a bad dream?-she’d gone to her parents’ room after bedtime. Their door had been closed, but even from the hallway she could hear raised voices inside.
The sounds stopped her where she stood.
They didn’t make sense.
Her parents never shouted.
It took a moment before any words penetrated her shock.
“. . . shot himself, Rose,” her father was saying, his tone crisp and impatient. “Obviously he was weak as well as incompetent, and he was hardly a friend of ours. I fail to understand why you’re being so emotional about this.”
“Because it’s your fault, Cal!” her mother had cried. “You know it is. You drove that poor man to suicide! And you're happy about it!”
Kirsten had recoiled. She didn’t understand why exactly, but all of a sudden she felt terrified. As quietly as she could, she had tiptoed back to her own bed, burrowed under her blue comforter, and willed herself to forget what she had heard.
She had too, until this moment.
Instinctively she shrank away from the memory, but something about it pursued her.
What was it?
What else had her father said? There had been something . . . It felt important, and it was so tantalizingly close--
“Kirsten? Kirsten? Honey, are you all right.”
The sound of Sandy’s worried voice pulled Kirsten out of her haze and back into the kitchen. She shivered. For just an instant, she hesitated, her eyes closed. Then she gave a short, defeated sigh; it was gone completely, that elusive something she felt she should remember. Taking a deep breath, she stood up. Her tremulous tone hardened as she spoke.
“I’m fine,” she replied. She lifted her chin resolutely and picked up her briefcase. “We’re going to be late. Charlie, are you ready?”
Charlie yanked back her unruly hair, twisted it into a knot and skewered it to the back of her head. “Now I am,” she said, shrugging on the tailored gray blazer she had been carrying. “What do you think? Do I look corporate enough to be Mrs. Cohen’s assistant at The Newport Group?”
Sandy nodded. His smile both warm and strained, he draped one arm around Charlie and the other around Kirsten. “You both look like women who can get the job done,” he said. “Come on, I’ll walk you out. Seth?”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m on it.” Seth caught his mother’s perplexed glance and gestured to the cluttered counter and stove. “Clean-up detail,” he explained. He waited until the adults had left before he muttered grimly, “And then comes the real dirty work-getting grandpa out of the office so Charlie can search it. There has to be something there that will help us find Ryan.”
TBC