Page 10 of Painted

“Have fun,” he called after her as she stepped out into the cool night.

“You, too,” Rebecca called back.

Rhys waved, but before he could step back, a middle-aged man in a suit stepped onto the terrace and headed for the door, so he stayed where he was to hold it.

“Evening,” the man said as he crossed into the house, nodding to Rhys.

“Hello,” Rhys greeted him. Then, because the man looked nervous and utterly out of place at an arts center in his smart London suit, Rhys followed that with, “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” the man said. A beat later, he extended his hand and said, “I’m Martin Flint.”

The man stood there as if Rhys should know who he was. “Alright,” he said, letting Mr. Flint’s hand go after shaking it.

Flint stood there a moment longer, then said, “I’m here to discuss the memorial benefit?”

Something cold and jagged shot down Rhys’s spine at those words. “The memorial benefit?” he asked.

“And fundraiser, yes,” Flint said, tugging at his suit anxiously.

The name Flint suddenly felt a little too familiar. He’d heard it before, seen it on paper, on the police report.

Mariel Flint was the name of the woman who had been driving the other car, the one that had lost control and smashed into theirs that night. Mariel Flint had been driving with twicethe legal limit of alcohol in her bloodstream. She’d been killed instantly. Raina had had to endure twenty minutes of agony before joining her.

“We’re planning a memorial for my sister and Raina Hawthorne-Turner,” Flint went on. “And a fundraiser for CADD.”

“CADD?” Rhys asked, his voice hoarse and his instinct to grab the man by his suit and toss him right back out into the evening he’d crawled in from strong.

“Yes, the Campaign Against Drink Driving?” Flint shuffled nervously, like he sensed everything roiling within Rhys and was preparing for fight or flight. “I’ve been working with the organization since the accident to bring more awareness to the problem of drink driving. I can only do so much on my own, but when I saw the story about the Hawthorne Community Arts Center in the news, it occurred to me that we might be able to form some sort of partnership to raise both money and awareness for the cause.”

“We’re not interested,” Rhys said, his voice dark and wounded. He stepped back toward the door, like he would hold it open to get rid of Flint. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“Oh, er, I’m afraid there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” Flint said, more anxious than ever.

“No misunderstanding,” Rhys said, practically shaking with rage.

The man’s sister was the reason his sister was gone, the reason Nick was a widower, the reason Raina’s kids had lost their mother before either of them was old enough to remember her. They’d grow up with a hole in their lives, just like he’d live the rest of his life with a black space where the one person he’d always been able to confide in should be.

“Oh, I see,” Flint said, as if the bastard thought he’d realized something. “You weren’t expecting me.”

“No,” Rhys said, unable to come up with words to elaborate on just how much he hadn’t been expecting to be blindsided by rage and grief and tragedy that night. “You can leave now.”

“Excuse me,” Rhys’s mum’s indignant voice jerked his focus away from the jagged ball of negativity that had encompassed him. She glanced at Rhys as though he were the one who had committed some sort of crime, then turned an apologetic smile on Flint. “Welcome, Mr. Flint,” she said.

“You were expected by us,” Rhys’s dad said, stepping up behind his mum and shaking Flint’s hand when she was done.

“Why wasn’t I consulted about any of this?” Rhys asked.

Immediately, he wanted to smack himself for sounding like a cross between a stuffy old bat and a whiny child.

“Do you really want me to answer that question, love?” his mum asked, one eyebrow arched, her smile sharp.

“No,” Rhys said with a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Mr. Flint here contacted your mother and me a few days ago about the possibility of hosting a fundraising event for CADD at Hawthorne House,” his dad told him, clearly annoyed by his outburst. “We thought it could be a fitting way to pay tribute to Raina and Mariel, and to raise money for a worthy cause at the same time.”

“I can see that,” Rhys said, still battling with his emotions.

Itwasa worthy cause. Anything that might prevent another family from experiencing a loss like the one the Hawthorne’s had suffered was worthy.

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