Page 16 of The Inquirer

“I’m surprised it took you this long to come crawlin’ back.”

Of course, that was what he’d think I was doing here. I let him keep going, though. He liked the sound of his own voice, and I’d learned young that if I kept quiet, he’d give me more information than if I asked outright.

“Everyone has their rebellions,” he continued. “Well, except your sister, but we all know you and Ashley aren’t anythin’ alike. I suppose you got all the negative that was supposed to go into her too.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d tried baiting me by pointing out the ways I failed to live up to Ashley’s standards. I hadn’t fallen for it since I was a teenager, but he never stopped trying.

“Now, I can’t give you back everythin’ I gave her. That just wouldn’t be fair. So, she’ll keep the bulk of the estate, includin’ the house, but I’m willing to reinstate your ability to withdraw from the general account. Plus, I’ll leave a quarter of your previous inheritance to you again. That’s all I can do, though. Your sister deserves a reward for never havin’ been disloyal to this family.”

Dad looked pleased with himself, but that wasn’t going to last long.

“I’m not here about money,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Or you putting me back in your will.”

His smile froze, like he couldn’t understand what I was saying, or he’d understood it but had no idea how to respond because he’d never imagined I’d turn down his offer of reinstatement. I was leaning toward the latter, and it made me wonder if he’d ever really understood me at all.

Either because she knew me better and wasn’t surprised or because she was better at hiding what she was thinking, Mom recovered first.

“Why, son, if you’re not here for that, then why are you here?”

There’s a certain sugar-sweet tone that women in the South use for phrases like ‘bless your heart’ that lets anyone familiar with the culture know that they’re only a minute away from being bitch-slapped either literally or figuratively, depending on the severity of the offense and the relationship to the person speaking.

As a kid, I’d gotten a hand across the face more times than I could count after hearing Mom say something in that tone. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but definitely enough to make my eyes water. Still, it didn’t intimidate me the way it once had.

“I’m here to tell you that your ruse with Nyx Phoenix won’t work.”

I’d spent the entire drive here trying to figure out the best way to word this conversation. I needed to make it a statement rather than a question since my father saw asking questions as a weakness. Better to pretend that you’re certain of something even if you’re not one hundred percent than to give someone a way to circumvent the answer. I didn’t necessarily agree with his way of thinking, but one of the other things I’d learned growing up in this family was how to use a person’s character traits to steer them in the direction I wanted.

“What is a ‘Nyx Phoenix?’” Mom asked, frowning. Well, frowning as much as her Botox and other fillers would allow.

I suppressed a sigh. “All right, maybe you don’t know her name, but how many other private investigators from New York have you hired to prevent me from making my film?”

My parents exchanged glances that looked puzzled, but I didn’t buy it. Conversations like this with them weren’t verbal brawls, beating each other bloody with words. They were chess matches. Moving forward, then back, sidewise, sacrificing pawns for the end goal.

“Why would we hire a private investigator from New York?” Mom asked.

“I asked myself that same question.” I shifted my attention from her to my father. “At first, I thought she must’ve lied about where she was from, but that would’ve been too elaborate a set-up, even for you. Now, I think you did it because I wouldn’t believe anyone from this area since you have your fingers in every proverbial pie.”

Dad folded his hands on his stomach. He was still an impressive six feet, four inches, but his once athletic build was now softer, giving him a bit of a paunch. He’d hurt his knee two years ago and exercising had been difficult ever since. He’d told reporters that he’d had an accident while playing basketball with his grandson. I suspected it’d been something more along the lines of trying to keep up with whichever twenty-something he’d been sleeping with at the time.

“That’s an interesting accusation,” he said. “Did this PI say she was workin’ for us?”

“No, but I’m sure you paid her good money to keep quiet.”

“If she didn’t name us, then how can you know that we hired her?” The question came from Mom this time.

“You aren’t denying it,” I pointed out.

Dad shrugged. “Let this be my official declaration then. Neither your mother nor I hired anyone to do anything to you.”

“You’re both mad that I’m making this film.”

“We’re…unhappy that you want to damage the names of so many prominent families in Savannah,” Mom corrected. “Many of whom are your friends.”

I didn’t point out that those people were their friends, not mine. That detail wasn’t important at the moment. “Too many families try to sweep the past under the rug, try to pretend that there aren’t any skeletons in the closet.”

Dad leaned forward, his blue eyes cold. “Listen here, young man. You can’t just go around spreadin’ rumors to get attention.”

I shook my head. They’d never really understood what I was doing or why. “I would never say that things are facts unless I have the proof to back it up.”

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