Enemy Dearest

Or maybe he’s thinking about Monreaux Corporation, what’s going to become of it when he’s rotting in a jail cell. I’m not sure what’ll happen to it. If it’ll get liquidated to pay off all the lawsuits that’ll be thrown his way in the near future. But I don’t care.

I don’t need his dirty money.

It can’t buy any of the things I’m interested in—love, happiness, true contentment, peace of mind.

Those things are priceless.

Mary Beth made the right choice marrying for love and not money.

“Do you have anything to say or would you like me to keep going?” I ask.

“You need to be very careful, August,” he says.

“Is that a threat?”

“Clearly you know what I’m capable of. You’ve seen the evidence. Tread lightly. You’re my son, but at the end of the day, a man’s got to look out for number one.”

“Don’t you ever feel bad? About all the lives you’ve destroyed? The lives you’ve taken?”

“Bad things only happen to bad people, August.” He clucks his tongue.

I always knew my father was different, but now I know exactly what he is: a narcissistic megalomaniac with a God complex.

“So help me, August, if you take me down, I’m taking you down with me,” he says. “Stay out of my way, and you’ll have the world eating from the palm of your hand. The choice is yours.”

“How could you do that to your own wife and daughter?” Any minute the police will be busting through here. This could be the last chance I get to ask the question that’s been keeping me up at night these last couple of weeks.

“Your mother was planning to leave me,” he says with a shrug. “I strongly advised her not to, told her it wouldn’t be safe. She didn’t listen. If you’ve an ounce of intelligence in that thick skull of yours, you’ll do the same.”

“So you’ll kill me too?”

“I’ll do what I have to do.”

“All right.” I head to the hall. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

A second later, the main entrance doors swing open, slamming against the walls, and foyer fills with uniformed officers. I point them toward the study, and I stand back, blending into the dark fixtures and furnishings as I watch them place him in cuffs.

He shoots me a smug glare on his way out, and he walks with the confidence of someone with a whole team of lawyers on speed dial. But even the best of the best won’t be able to get him out of this.

We have a fucking mountain of evidence on him.

As soon as they’re gone, I call Uncle Rod and share the good news. Then I shoot a text to Soren, letting him know Dad got arrested so he hears it from me before he sees it on TV. I don’t give Gannon the same courtesy—he’ll find out soon enough from one of his minions at the corporation. Nor do I let Cassandra know. For starters, I don’t know where she is. And second, she’s not my concern.

I help myself to my father’s closet, punching in the code to his safe, which he told me once several years ago when he was drunk. Astoundingly, it still works. The door beeps and pops open. I sort through the watches, jewelry, and cash, until I find my mother’s diamond engagement ring, and I tuck it in my pocket.

Someday, when the time is right, I’ll have the stone reset into a new design for Sheridan.

I lock the safe and head downstairs, swiping my keys off the counter before heading to my car. Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the Roses’ driveway, making my way up the front walk, my heart in my throat.

Sheridan’s car is here.

Her parents’ car too.

I ring the doorbell, clear my throat, and wait.

A second later, a tall, thin man stands behind the storm door.

He steps onto the porch. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, hi. I’m August Monreaux,” I say. “And I am deeply in love with your daughter.”

“Rich? Who’s out there?” A woman’s voice calls from inside. A moment later, she steps out from behind him.

“August Monreaux, ma’am. It’s nice to finally meet you.” I extend my hand.

“He came to tell us he’s in love with Sheridan,” he says to her. I don’t know them enough to read their expressions or interpret the glances they exchange.

“I’d also like you to know, that my father is currently under arrest for the murders of Cynthia Rose and Elisabeth Monreaux,” I add.

Mary Beth braces herself against her husband, her jaw slack.

Rich stands, unblinking, unmoving.

“On behalf of the Monreaux name, I’d like to apologize for any hardships that have been put upon your family as a result of my father’s acts. We’re in the process of setting up a victim compensation account, and I’d be happy to direct you to our attorney for further information.”