“Picked up a couple things,” I announce, adjusting the bag on my shoulder. “Where do you want me to put them?”
“Ransom.” Claire jumps out of her seat. “Thank God you’re here.”
Her hand grips my wrist.
Even if it is wrong, even if I am going to hell, it’s worth it for that look in her eyes. The relief when she sees me. Like I’m her hero come to rescue a kitten out of a tree.
That’s worth a trip to hell, I reckon.
She pulls at my arm. “Come.” Like a dog, I follow her. But not after snagging a piece of bacon off her plate—can’t let it go to waste, right?
Even if Everett frowns at me for it.
Claire pulls me up the stairs and into her father’s old study. Everett, the tall shadow, lurks a step behind us.
“I’ve been thinking,” Claire says. “Daddy kept records of everything. Everything. He was meticulous. If he owed someone money or he’d gone into debt or…whatever the case…it’ll be here. Somewhere.”
“Somewhere,” I echo.
The study is thick with books. Journals. Record logbooks. Stuffed into shelves, cluttering the desk, piled in corners.
I drop my bag. “Let’s get to work, then.”
32
CLAIRE
Together, the three of us dismantle Daddy’s study.
We empty the filing cabinets and skim through his heavy, dusty ledgers.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Ransom asks. He’s sitting in one of the high-backed leather chairs, flipping through an old accounting book.
“Something,” I mumble. “Anything.”
Daddy has accounting books reaching as far back as the eighties. I’ve got three stacked on the desk beside me and one open in front of me. In dismantling Daddy’s desk, I’ve found a stubbornly locked drawer (annoying), a stack of unopened mail, and his secret liquor stash.
It only feels right to drink while I work.
I feel Everett watching me.
He keeps trying to feed me, but I can’t bring myself to swallow any more of his bullshit. Even if my stomach pinches in protest.
So I have a liquid breakfast instead.
Expensive whiskey. Neat.
Everett crosses the room. His long legs make quick work of the small space. He stands in front of Daddy’s framed Belleflower Queen poster. It’s original artwork. Each year has its own unique design. They’re collector’s items. This is a rare one—one of the first Belleflower Queen posters.
“Your people take the Belleflower Festival seriously,” Everett says.
It’s still so fucking strange to hear him speak without a British accent.
Everything about him tilts my axis.
I put my whiskey glass to my lips. “Ransom,” I say. “Give him the song.”
Ransom has one leg folded over the other, the ledger sitting in his lap. As he turns the page, he hums, his voice a low, brassy thing: