Page 103 of Fall for Me

But there I went, getting melodramatic as fuck.

That’s why I didn’t stay long whenever I went back to Quince Valley. It was cleaner that I stayed here as much as possible.

I jogged past the beginnings of the hotel we were building. Right now, it was a massive structure of concrete footings, and a hive of activity. Trucks belched as they geared through the mud, and workers in yellow rain slickers like mine shouted at each other to be heard over the rain.

I’d asked Sarah and Dad to come up here next weekend to check out our progress. This project was going to serve as a proving ground for the Rolling Hills project, which was still in the permit application phase. When I’d shared some progress pics with the two of them on my last visit, over dinner at Dad’s place, he’d finally looked impressed rather than overwhelmed by the direction the business was going. I think he was relieved, mostly, that Sarah and I were leading the big projects while he was sticking to the familiar—the fine house builds and restorations he was known for.

I think he’d also been distracted by Sarah. He was acting strange around her, kind of stiff and over-accommodating. When she finally went to the bathroom, I gave him a sidelong glance. “Isn’t she a bit young for you?”

I’d pegged Sarah, a pretty, petite but reserved woman, at around my age. But Dad had huffed, “She’s my employee, for God’s sake. And she’s forty-one.”

I’d lifted a brow but hadn’t said more. Dad was still young, as far as dads staring down retirement went: he was turning 56 this year. But I was imagining things, though, obviously. He’d barely dated in the decade since Mom passed, and would never consider crossing lines like that.

“Anyway, I’ve got something for you.” He’d set two notebooks on the table; the first a basic spiral-bound dollar-store type number, the second leather-bound and old, yellowed at the edges.

“The cipher,” I said, looking at the one on top. I knew the newer one would be Dad’s notes. “Did you crack it?”

Dad frowned, and I knew he had.

“Well?”

“Jude’s going to be disappointed.”

“Why?”

“It’s not a personal diary. It’s more like… corporate espionage, I guess. From what I can tell, the person who wrote this, J.E.Q., was a wealthy businessman’s driver.”

“A chauffeur?”

“Yes. And it seems as though he was angling to take down his boss, who sounds like he was embroiled in several illegal activities.”

“Well, that’s interesting, I guess?”

“Sure, but Jude said there was some kind of murder in that room, right? None of the information in that book hints at that. Unless that’s how the chauffeur planned on taking his boss down.”

“No. I think there was some kind of love story involved.”

Dad nodded. Then he furrowed his brow, as if remembering. “There was one thing. This guy made a few observations about his boss’s wife. Said stuff about how she looked ‘fetching’, and how undeserving his boss was of her.” Dad had sat up, tapping a finger on the book. “And he said something about his ‘personal records’, which he’d kept in a…”—he flipped through his notes—“‘nearby locale’.”

“So, a personal diary, stored somewhere else?”

Dad shrugged, snapping his own notebook shut. “I dunno. If so, who the hell knows where? Did they find anything else in that room?”

I’d seen the room. I was there just after they’d found this book in the walls. I wasn’t sure if they’d looked more closely for any more clues.

“I don’t know, honestly. Everyone was so excited about finding this.”

“Well, it could be worth another look, even though it’s probably a dead end. But it was fun using Gramps’s books to crack the code.”

I’d handed the book to Eli the next day, along with Dad’s notes, before heading back here. I knew if I went to see Jude myself, he’d ask innocent questions about Chelsea, and that would lead nowhere good. Eli, at least, knew I didn’t want to talk about her. The only thing he’d let slip was she’d officially quit her job at the Rolling Hills, and that was only because he’d mentioned the new event planner.

I’d finally cleared the construction site, and the tent was only a thirty-second jog away now. But just then I heard someone cursing, and looked over to see Lucy, standing next to her car. She was struggling to pull the hood of her coat back up over her red curls while simultaneously attempting to get a giant golf umbrella up, all while holding the biggest white binder I’d ever seen against her chest.

I ran over. “Which one can I help with?”

“The umbrella,” she laughed. “And quick!”

Not that we both weren’t soaked already.

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