My stomach drops when I get to the fourth page in the album—a mug shot of my father along with the headline: LOCAL MAN ARRESTED IN MURDER OF MEREDITH HILLS TEEN.
Meredith Hills Police have made an arrest in the murder of seventeen year old Cynthia Rose. After a thorough investigation, they have determined Ms. Rose was lured to the quarry by her older brother, Rich, where a physical altercation ensued and she was then strangled. A witness confirmed the two had not been on speaking terms and had been disputing over ownership of a personal property item. Multiple witnesses also said the night of the homicide, Rich Rose had been using illegal substances at a local party. Surveillance footage from Monreaux Quarry shows the blue and white 1986 Ford pickup belonging to Rich Rose at the scene of the crime.
All these years, not once did my parents tell me my father was actually arrested for Cynthia’s murder …
Knowing my father and the kind of man he is—and I have no doubts about how much he loved his little sister—there’s no way he’d be capable of doing something like that.
I don’t need to read another clipped article to know that my father is innocent, that he was set up.
Still, I’m ravenous for information. To piece together and make sense of all the things I never knew until now. But as I flip to the next page, my father’s headlights fill the living room window.
He’s home early.
My stomach flips, and I scramble out of my comfortable spot.
Closing the album, I return it to the TV cabinet, turn out the light, and head to my room.
It makes sense now—their over-protectiveness through the years. They must have been terrified of losing me the way they lost my aunt. And, knowing what the Monreauxs were capable of doing and the power they held over local law enforcement, I understand their intentions.
All of those exchanged glances that I could never quite interpret, finally make sense. Their hushed tones any time they vaguely discussed that dark period of their lives is now understandable. The reasons I was warned to stay away from that family at all costs...
My stomach in knots, I lie on top of my hot covers, warm air blowing in my face from the fan on my dresser.
I never should have snuck into his pool.
I never should have gone to that party.
And I sure as hell never should’ve given him my number.
My parents were right—Monreauxs are not to be trusted.
Chapter Nine
August
* * *
“Morning, August,” the white-haired receptionist in the front lobby greets me Thursday morning. She doesn’t point out the fact that I’m ninety minutes late or that my father would shit a brick of he saw me with my shirt untucked. He loves to remind me I’m a “practicing professional,” whatever the fuck that means.
“Morning, Rhonda.” I head to the elevator, sunglasses still covering my eyes. I find it helps with avoiding eye contact and uncomfortable small talk.
I fucking loathe small talk.
I arrive at my corner office with the generic mahogany desk and the stiff leather chair and the company-issued iMac and tug the wooden blinds shut.
I’m not here by choice.
My father requires that I show my face a minimum of twenty hours a week so he can write off my “internship” on his corporate taxes, but on the plus side, I earn a handful of college credits for literally doing nothing, so it’s not the worst thing in the world.
Double checking the lock on the door, I return to my assigned seat and pull up a private browser on my phone. I’ve been on the hunt this week for a Sheridan-looking cam girl, but every site I’ve found has been a dead-end.
I tap on the image of a full-lipped blonde with natural tear-drop tits when a message pops up on my screen.
ROSE GIRL—Your shirt is ready. It’s at the Budget Cleaners on Broadway. I already paid. You can pick up whenever. Thanks again for letting me borrow it.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
ME—I was hoping for an in-person delivery.
ROSE GIRL—Sorry to disappoint you. Been a busy week. Take care!
I chuff, rotating in my chair, knee bouncing as I ponder my next move. A rush of adrenaline passes through me, the way it used to when I’d storm out onto the football field before a big playoff game. Sheer determination. Plays mapping out in my head in real time.
ME—My brother’s band is in town Saturday. I have an extra ticket.
ROSE GIRL—How fun for you!
ME—Come with me.
ROSE GIRL—I told you the other day, I have plans.
ME—And I told you I don’t believe you. Be ready to go by 7. I’ll pick you up.
ROSE GIRL—Not lying. I do have plans. Family outing.
I exhale through clenched teeth.
ME—Surely you can work it out so you’re back in time for the show? I’d hate for you to miss out …