“I’m glad you had the idea for the injunction,” I tell her, sipping the English breakfast tea. It soothes my throat, which feels a little worse for the wear after my speech.
She pauses, looking uncertain. “It wasn’t my idea, dear.”
“Oh.” Sutton must have been modest when he said she filed the paperwork. “Someone suggested that you file the injunction?”
That makes her laugh. “Suggested? No, he wrote it himself. Had the society’s name on the paperwork. All we had to do was bring it to the courthouse.”
“Sutton can be efficient when he wants to be.”
There’s a long pause, where Mrs. Rosemont studies her cup of tea as if it holds the secrets of the universe. “I’m not sure I should tell you this.”
Unease moves through me. “Tell me what?”
Her gray eyes are soft. “It wasn’t Sutton who wrote that injunction and gave it to me.”
“Then who?” Except I already know. There’s only one person who would figure out the exact method of stopping construction. Only one person who didn’t seem at all surprised that it happened. “Christopher.”
She nods. “Mr. Bardot called me that night. We had to wake up a judge, which was something I helped with. There were other things we needed—the testimony of the partner, for one thing. Sutton Mayfair was called in for that.”
My hands feel cold. And then numb. “I don’t understand.”
“I asked him why,” she says, her voice thoughtful. “He didn’t explain himself. I don’t think a man like that explains himself very often.”
Why had Christopher stopped his own construction?
And why had he hidden that fact? Why signal the construction crew to begin when he knew it would end at any minute? Was he hoping to finish quickly? No, that’s not possible. It would have taken too long. And he didn’t have to file that injunction. The library would be a pile of rubble and dirt right now if he hadn’t done that.
It feels like a betrayal to even stand outside his condo.
Some part of me knows I shouldn’t ask this question. This is the railing of the yacht. And beneath me, black water and sharks. Even being here means I might fall.
My arms don’t move when I tell them to knock. My legs don’t move when I tell them to leave. My body is in full rebellion, keeping me rooted to this spot. I’m the one turned to stone.
The door swings open, and dark eyes widen. Christopher.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” I say, hiding my nerves behind a flippant smile. Oh yes, I’m used to this. Brushing past him is easy, even with the big box he’s holding. Maybe because of it. He can’t put it down quick enough to stop me. I push myself up on his granite bar top, swinging my legs.
He follows me more slowly, setting down the box he’s carrying beside a stack of others. “If you’re here about the trust fund—”
“I talked to the hospital. They told me you approved the funds for the butterfly garden. I told them to name it after Daddy, because it’s his money.”
Those dark eyes give away nothing. “Your mother’s in the trial?”
“We discussed it, but she doesn’t want to do it. And I’m okay with that.”
He swings away from me, toward the bank of windows. “I have a lot to do today.”
“Are you moving?” The boxes already say the answer is yes. Not that many boxes for a nice big condo, but he isn’t a man with that many things. That’s strange for someone who wants money, who’s earned a fair amount of it. It makes me wonder why he wants money, if not to spend it.
He sighs. “I suppose I can tell you, since you’re here. I’m leaving Tanglewood.”
The news hits me like a wrecking ball to the stomach. “Why?”
A short laugh. “That’s a question I’ve been asking myself frequently.”
“And the answer is…”