Page 20 of Whiskey and Whispers
Tate pulled into the hospital parking lot, turning off the car before answering.
“In the beginning, we’d get leads from people. We had an information hotline open, but honestly, it was mostly pranks and cranks. A couple of psychics said they could help us, but nothing panned out. It was pretty quiet until last year, when theyfound a body in the woods. It wasn’t her, but it made us decide to hire a private investigator.”
“You didn’t do that before?”
The Winslow family had the resources to have an entire team of investigators at their disposal.
“Dad said that he had private investigators work on the case and that they found nothing. We…let’s just say that we’re at a point that we can’t trust what my dad says.”
“Oh.”
Tate’s relationship with his father had never been a close or easy one. Joel Winslow was a difficult man at the best of times. He hadn’t much liked Cat when she was dating his son. He’d never said it out loud, but she’d received the message regardless.
You aren’t good enough for my son.
The day Tate had left for his fancy, out-of-state college, Joel Winslow had smiled like the cat that had eaten the canary. While she’d been crying at the airport, he’d been practically spitting feathers. He’d won. She’d lost.
Joel Winslow liked to win. He hated to lose even more.
If she and Tate had somehow managed to stay together, they would have faced an uphill battle against the family patriarch.
“You’re not going to ask any questions about that?”
“I don’t see any benefit to opening up that subject,” she replied. “Unless you want to talk about it.”
“Let’s just say that some things haven’t changed and leave it at that.”
“I heard he got married last year.”
She watched Tate’s expression closely, but he didn’t reveal much.
“Yes, he married Aunt Kimberly. She’s Mom’s sister, if you didn’t know. It’s messy, to be frank, and none of us wants anything to do with it. But you know my dad, he follows his own rules, and he doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.”
“It’s probably nice when you have fuck-you money,” she observed. “I’ve seen that in my career, sometimes for good and sometimes for evil.”
“That’s an excellent way to put it,” Tate laughed, a genuine grin on his face. “Fuck-you money. That’s a perfect way to describe it. Can I steal that? I’m going to have to, whether you let me or not.”
“It’s all yours,” she offered. “I didn’t make it up, I just remembered the phrase.”
“You don’t have fuck-you money?”
“Hardly,” Cat replied. “I made good money, but nowhere did I make that kind of cash. Plus, living in the city isn’t cheap.”
“I’m guessing you paid for your mother’s cancer treatments, too.”
She had, but no one had ever guessed that. Everyone had assumed that insurance paid for it. But that was just like Tate. He saw more deeply than most people.
Thanks to Cat’s modeling money, Grace Townsend had the best of everything—doctors, hospitals, chemo, even private hospital rooms that looked more like plush apartments. It had cost an arm and a leg, but it had been worth it. She would do it again in a heartbeat.
“She’s my mother,” Cat said awkwardly. “You’d do the same for your mom.”
“I would love the chance,” Tate replied so softly she barely heard him.
He pushed open the driver’s door of the vehicle.
“Are you sure you’re okay to go in there? I know you’ve spent some time in hospitals recently, and it couldn’t have been fun. No one will think less of you if you can’t go in there.”
“I’m fine.”
