Brant's Return

“Aaron? It’s Isabelle.”

There was a pause and some rustling and then Aaron sighed. “Hi, Is, what’s up?”

“I left a couple of messages for you this week.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry. I was going to call you back, I just . . . shit, why were you calling?”

I frowned. He sounded tired . . . defeated, and despite myself a trickle of sympathy moved through me. I stood straight. No, I would not feel empathy for a man who had been physically abusive to my friend. He should feel tired. He should feel defeated. He’d caused his own misery, and even worse, the misery of someone he claimed to love. I wasn’t going to comment on the fact that I knew what had happened between Paige and him. What was I going to do? Berate him over the phone? What good would that do? Paige had gathered the strength to leave, and that was the most important thing. It would be better if I got the information I needed from him and left it at that. “Aaron, I came across some of Ethan’s belongings that I hadn’t been aware of until now and . . . well, there was a bit of cash in it.”

There was silence on the phone for a moment. “How much cash?”

“Quite a bit,” I hedged. “A lot more than we had in our savings account when he died. It’s just . . . odd that he hid it from me, and I wondered if you knew anything about it because my next step is to go to the police.”

“No, Is, please don’t

do that. Listen, can we meet?”

“I can’t, Aaron, I’m leaving for New York in the morning and—”

“I can come out there. I only need a few minutes.”

I hesitated, feeling uncomfortable about meeting with Aaron face to face, but also needing answers. There were other people in the house, though. And Brant was here. I knew very well he’d want to be with me when I met with Aaron anyway. “Okay, fine. How soon can you be here? I have a lot to wrap up today.”

“I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

“Okay, see you then.”

I hung up with Aaron and sat tapping my pencil on the desk for a minute. Why did he feel the need to meet with me in person? It sounded like he definitely had some information, but why not just give it to me over the phone? I felt uneasy, mistrustful of Aaron, but perhaps that was because of what I knew about him and Paige. Before that, I’d always considered Aaron a good, upstanding man. I supposed people could be adept at hiding their true selves—especially from those who weren’t around them all the time.

I forced myself to focus on the Graystone Hill work I needed to do before we left and before I knew it, forty-five minutes had passed and the front doorbell was ringing. “Damn,” I muttered, picking up the phone and dialing Brant’s cell quickly. I tapped my knee as it rang, the knock at the front door sounding again. I knew Brant was somewhere on the property but I didn’t know where. His phone was either in his pocket or he’d stepped away from it. I left a short message asking him to come to the house and then hung up, hurrying to the door.

When I opened it, Aaron was there and he gave me what looked like a tired smile. “Hi, Isabelle.”

“Aaron.” I opened the door wider, feeling sort of awkward. He looked the same as always, the same guy who had grilled me hamburgers on his backyard grill, the same guy who had shown up with Paige at the hospital that awful, awful day. His eyes had been wide and unfocused, startled with grief. Paige was the one who’d had the presence of mind to collect the things I’d needed from my house, to fill out my insurance forms, to do the things I couldn’t do . . . Funny, the snapshots you carry with you out of the depths of hell. “Follow me to the living room? Would you like a glass of water or anything?”

“No, thank you.”

I led him down the hall to the living room and he took a seat in the armchair across from the couch. I took a seat on the couch, crossing my legs. He had asked to meet in person so I looked to him to begin, waiting as he looked off out the window for a second and then at me. “I don’t even know how to say this . . .” He sighed, pressing his lips together as he looked at me with what appeared to be genuine sympathy.

“Where did the money come from, Aaron?”

“From our investors—our clients.”

I blinked at him. “Ethan was stealing money from your clients?”

He sat back in the chair, his shoulders curling slightly. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t . . .” He released a harsh exhale. “God. I wanted to keep this from you, Is.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “I thought . . . I thought Ethan had been putting profit back into the business. When did you find out what he was doing?”

“Two and a half years ago. Six months after Ethan . . . died. I realized we were short money when a couple of clients were looking to cash out. I covered it and then I kept covering it, but eventually, I couldn’t anymore. Ethan had been running a Ponzi scheme. Do you know what that is?”

“I know the gist.”

“It collapsed, as he must have known it would. Only he was gone, and I was the one left holding the bag. The empty bag.” He let out a small laugh devoid of humor.

“You didn’t know anything about it?”

He shook his head and the look in his eyes was so bleak; if he was a liar, he was a damn good one. “I swear, Is. I had no idea.”