Page 53 of The Caress

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

KEIR

It’s been too long since I’ve made an appearance at the NewsCorp headquarters. There’s a mountain of paperwork on my desk and a stack of messages that will take me weeks to get through, but that’s fine.

I have all the time in the world. I sure as hell don’t want to go back home.

"How could she have done that?" I inquire aloud to my empty office. "How could she betray my trust like that?"

I’ve asked myself those same questions a million times while I drove from the castle to my office in Glasgow, but I still haven’t come up with any good answers.

Maybe there isn’t a logical, reasonable answer at all. Maybe I don’t know anything about the woman who has been living under my roof and taking care of my child.

No.

I refuse to believe that. There’s no way my judgment is that bad, is there? There’s no way she could pretend to be someone else—someone who cared about me and Isla for that long—right?

My eyes settle on a stack of articles and photos on the corner of my desk. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll gladly sift through it if I can stop tormenting myself with these tiresome, repetitive thoughts.

There’s a note from Evan, the journalist.

Lord Greyrose, thank you again for speaking to me. I was wondering if you might be interested in sitting down for a face-to-face interview at some point soon as well. I think the public would really enjoy a look at your family’s long history of being at the center of Scottish politics and business. I’ve included several old news clippings that we might reference during the interview. Pick the ones that you think will be interesting to talk about, and we’ll go from there.

I grimace as I set the note aside. This is the kind of self-serving fluff I hate. The kind of pseudo-news I’ve banished to the wee hours of the morning and night on all the NewsCorp stations and affiliates.

And it’s exactly the kind of fluff I need right now. I’ve done some serious damage to my family’s reputation over the past few months, mostly thanks to my stupid, short-sighted involvement with Ella. If I can repair some of that damage with a fluff piece, I’m all for it.

I start flipping through the old newspaper clippings and see one of my parents with a man who looks familiar.

Too familiar.

Eerily familiar.

"Oh, fuck," I mutter as I squint and recognize him.

It’s Max.

The same man my mother allegedly ordered to be run down.

I check the date on the article. Eleven years ago. "Christ, how long did they know the guy?"

Were they friends? They’re all smiling in the photo. It's way too easy for me to imagine my mother laughing and fawning over Max while plotting his death behind his back.

Did she know about the sex tape, too? Did my father know? Was that why they had to get rid of Max? He stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have seen. So he knew way too much?

So many questions. All the plausible answers point in the same direction. Right back to my parents.

I set the photo aside and flip through the remaining articles until I find the one I’m looking for. The one with a date and a picture that places my family in New York at the same time Max was struck down and killed.

I carefully fold the photo and the article and put them in an envelope. I then write my own note and call for my assistant by pressing the intercom button.

"Get me Evan O’Connell’s address, please. And call a courier. I need to have this letter delivered today. Within an hour."

My mind is reeling from everything that’s happened today. Between Ella’s father’s surprise visit and the things I found out about my own parents, it feels like every new revelation is sicker and more twisted than the one before.

I need time and space to think, to sort out the mess I’ve made of my life. I don’t have the luxury of taking that time anymore, though.

The first thing I have to do is get Ella out of my life. Then I have to figure out what to do about my brother and my parents.

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