Page 5 of The Night We Lost Him

“Well, do you have any evidence at all that someone else was there with him that night?”

“No,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean anything. You know how Dad was about privacy. There was limited security at Windbreak, except by the front gate. And just because someone didn’t come through the front gate doesn’t mean they didn’t get in there another way. I can think of several.”

“Sure. But… who would even want to do this?”

“Do you remember our father?” he says.

It’s a joke and it’s not. Even staying far removed from my father’s business affairs, I knew enough to know that he had a particular way of doing things, which made him respected by some, but disliked by others. Professionally. And personally. His supporters called him exacting, his critics exhausting. A famous story was that the day before he was set to open a property in Napa Valley, just outside of St. Helena, my father did his final tour of the grounds and was unhappy. There was a new construction project on Highway 29 that you could hear from the main pool. So he pushed back the opening by six months (until said construction would be completed), turned over the entire staff, and personally rebooked every opening-weekend guest at other luxury hotels in Napa Valley, footing the bill himself. Also, of course, he offered a complimentary weekend stay at the hotel as soon as he did open the doors. Once the pool was quiet.

Sam walks around the island and reaches into his messenger bag. He pulls out a blue folder, places it on the countertop in front of me. There’s a thick pile of papers inside. He motions for me to open it.

“What’s this?”

“The most recent copy of Dad’s will, among other things. Did you know he changed it earlier this year?”

I shake my head. I didn’t.

“I don’t know what it said before he made the alterations or why he made the changes. None of the lawyers will tell me anything, obviously.”

I look up at him, processing what he’s suggesting.

“Is there something weird in there now?”

“Not on the face of it,” he says. “No.”

“Then I don’t follow you.”

“My working theory is that there may have been something weird in there before he decided to change it.”

“That’s quite a theory. What does Tommy think about this?”

“At the moment, I’m not so interested in what Tommy thinks about anything.”

I clock the edge in his tone. “What’s that mean?”

He shakes his head, ignoring the question. “You’ve got to admit the timing is odd,” he says. “Dad changes his will for the first time in decades and then he just dies not too long after…”

I look down at the blue folder. I’m unwilling to open it just yet, as if doing so will make Sam think I’m agreeing with him. I don’t want to make any sudden moves that put us on the same side of this, a side he seems to be clinging to for air.

“How do you even know this?” I ask instead. “About the lawyers?”

“I have access to his calendar. Dad and Uncle Joe had eight meetings with Dad’s wills and estates team over the course of several weeks. That much time? That had to have been… a reimagining.”

He looks like this proves something, but all I can think is that a series of meetings with lawyers and an altered will (a will that could have been altered for a variety of reasons) sounds less like evidence of a murder plot and more like a grieving son reaching wildly for answers. A grieving son who is also a corporate heir.

“Look, Nora, before you go thinking that I’m stirring up trouble or trying to settle some personal score…”

I put my hands up in surrender, even though this is exactly what I was thinking.

“I wasn’t,” I say.

“Sure you were,” he says. “But, just so you know, there is no score for me to settle. If anything, opening this whole thing up will only cause problems.”

“How’s that?”

“Dad walked us through what he was planning. It was copacetic. No party fouls. We got equal shares. Me and Tommy…”

Tommy, who is two minutes older than Sam but has always behaved as though it is closer to ten years. He earned a JD/MBA straight out of college, married his long-term girlfriend, and rose to the top ranks at Noone Properties, all before his thirtieth birthday. Tommy, who, my father would joke, came out looking more like my twin than like Sam’s. The two of us have the same dark hair and eyes, same long legs and athletic build. It must have somehow come from our father’s side of the family, even though you’d think both of us looked more like our mothers. But the resemblance is undeniable—something identical weaving through our facial structure—the turnup around our mouths, our cheekbones. Though any other similarities, at least those that are readily apparent to me, end there.

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