Bed of Lies (7 page)

“I haven't decided yet,” Terrence said, as he reached for another half-empty bottle. “When I do, I'll let you know.”

Terrence watched as his brother loudly swallowed, like he was fighting back a myriad of emotions. Instead of seeing pity in Evan's eyes, he saw a desolate sadness that almost made him regret what he had just said—almost.

“Fine,” Evan murmured as he walked back across the living room toward the front door. “Whenever the time comes, I'll have someone come and pick up your body before it starts to stink and we get complaints from the neighbors.” He reached for the doorknob, then paused. “But just remember this, Terry. Whenever I was at my lowest point, whenever I felt like I'd be better off dead, you were always the one to give me a pep talk and set me straight. You were the one who gave me perspective about being with Leila and told me that none of what other people thought about us mattered. You're the one who told me to pull it together and go after what I wanted or just stay fucking miserable. Now you're at your lowest point and you won't even listen to your own advice. You'd rather listen to the voices of people who feel sorry for you, but those people mean
nothing
to you! You're listening to them instead of the people who really care!” He shook his head again in bemusement. “That doesn't make you a loser, Terry. It makes you stupid and a fucking hypocrite!”

He then opened the door and slammed it closed behind him. The sound of the television filled the empty room.

Terrence lowered his head at his brother's words.

Yes, his body was broken. There was no getting around that truth. But did he finally have to admit that his spirit was broken too? Did he need help to heal it?

“You need something,” a little voice in his head said. “Because what you're doing ain't working, bruh! What you're doing will have you dead in a year!”

After a few minutes, Terrence reached for his cane again and slowly hoisted himself to his feet. He limped toward the coffee table, where his mail sat along with the discarded referral that Dr. Sidda had written. He made his way to the granite kitchen island, where his cordless phone was perched. He settled himself onto one of the barstools and slowly dialed the number Dr. Sidda had written.

“Uh, h-hello,” he said to the woman who answered. “I'd . . . I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Meredith Sweeney.” He listened to the voice on the other end of the line, then nodded. “Yeah, whatever slot you've got, I'll take it. The sooner the better.”

Chapter 7

Evan

E
van closed his eyes as his head fell back against the leather headrest.

“Where to next, Mr. Murdoch?” his driver asked.

“Let's just head home, Bill. I'm exhausted,” he muttered. And he was.

Evan had had plans to go to his office in Arlington even though it was the weekend. He had wanted to get some badly needed work done, but that no longer held any appeal for him. Besides, he wouldn't be able to concentrate. His thoughts would keep coming back to his brother, Terrence.

Evan felt like he was watching his brother drowning, but instead of Terrence reaching for the life preserver that was thrown to him or even fighting the current on his own, Terrence seemed to be waiting patiently for the raging river to drag him under. It was painful and heartbreaking to watch.

I wish I could reach him
, Evan thought as the car made a left turn onto the roadway that would take him back to Murdoch Mansion.
I wish he would listen.

But Terrence had always been cocky and stubborn. Neither one of those traits did him any favors in his current predicament.

The sorrow Evan felt for Terrence was only equaled to the rage he now had for their half-brother, Dante. While talking to Terrence's lawyer about the lawsuit the other woman in the car crash had filed, the lawyer had mentioned in passing the name of her attorney.

“Dante Turner,” the lawyer had said. “He's with Nutter, McElroy, and Ailey.”

The instant Evan had heard his half-brother's name, his jaw tightened. “Yeah, I've heard of him.”

“I asked around about him to see if he's a reasonable guy,” the lawyer had continued, unaware of Evan's growing anger. “Maybe he'd be willing to lower the four million in punitive damages that she's asking for. I asked if he might force it to go to trial, which isn't ideal since the police still haven't been able to determine who was at fault in the accident.” The lawyer had paused. “I want to warn you that none of what I've heard from my colleagues about Mr. Turner was good, Mr. Murdoch. They said he's one mean son of a bitch—
and
he's money-hungry.”

Of course, Evan knew all of this already. Dante had gone out of his way to ruin the lives of his siblings—from having an affair with Evan's wife to trying to blackmail and bully Paulette into selling him all her shares in Murdoch Conglomerated. And he had done it out of sibling rivalry and to exact some revenge on their deceased father, which was so delusional it wasn't even funny. Now it looked like Dante had turned his laser sights on Terrence and of course, it had to be the moment when Terrence was most vulnerable and the least likely to defend himself.

Evan gritted his teeth again as he glared out the Town Car's tinted window at the passing cars and scenery. His fists tightened at his sides.

He wanted to wring Dante's neck. He wanted to punch his half-brother in the face over and over again. He had let Dante off the hook too easily in the past. It was time he dealt with him once and for all.

“So, what are you going to do?” the voice in his head mocked. “Put a hit out on him? What are you? Michael Corleone?”

No, Evan wasn't going to order a Mafia hit, though frankly, with the right amount of money, anything was possible. He would find a way to take care of Dante. He just needed time.

Evan's cell phone began to ring. He opened his eyes and sighed before glancing down at the phone screen. When he saw the name on his caller ID, he frowned. He slowly raised the phone to his ear.

“Charisse?”
he said, not succeeding in keeping the shock out of his voice.

“Hi, Ev, how . . . how have you been?” she answered timidly.

Evan hadn't heard from his wife, Charisse, in months—not since she had entered rehab to avoid jail time for a drunk-driving incident. From what he had heard, she had already fallen off the wagon. She had just finished another thirty-day program and was living with her mother again in her childhood home.

“Why did you call me, Charisse?”

There was no need to be civil. They hadn't been civil for most of the years that they were married; he didn't see any reason to start now.

Evan heard her anxiously clear her throat on the other end. “I just . . . I just wanted to talk to you. I
need
to talk to you, Ev.”

“About what?”

“About us. About our marriage. I need to—”

“We don't have a marriage. Let's be honest. We haven't had a real marriage in years. And if you'd finally sign and send back the documents my lawyer sent to you, we would be well on our way to being legally separated, divorced, and out of each other's lives permanently.”

“I'll . . . I'll send you the papers if you agree to talk to me.”

“We
are
talking,” he said tightly.

“I mean really talk. We can't do this over the phone. I need to see you in person . . . please,” she whispered, sounding desperate.

Evan's frown deepened. What was this about? Why was she reaching out to him now? He wondered if she was stalling. Maybe she wanted to negotiate more alimony or more of their marital assets.

Fat chance of that
, he thought. She had forfeited all her rights to negotiation when he caught her having sex with Dante, and he had the cell phone pictures to prove it.

“Ev, are . . . are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here,” he muttered, though he didn't know why. He should have hung up on her already.

“So, will you meet me? Will you do it?”

He sat quietly for several seconds and then finally exhaled and nodded. “Fine, Charisse, if you'll sign the goddamn papers, I'll agree to meet you. We can do it next week.”

“Okay, that works,” she mumbled, not sounding the least bit victorious even though he had given in to her. “I'll see you next week, then.”

Evan hung up without saying good-bye. The instant he did, he felt his fatigue grow. He glanced out the window and saw his mansion coming into view—its soaring portico and neat green hedges. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was finally home.

“Is Ms. Hawkins around?” he asked his housekeeper as soon as he stepped through the doorway.

The petite woman nodded. “I believe she's upstairs in your room, Mr. Murdoch. Do you want me to tell her you're looking for her?”

“No, I'll find her myself. Thanks.” He headed toward the staircase leading to the west wing. The housekeeper nodded again before shutting the front door behind him.

A faint smile came to Evan's lips. Leila was in their bedroom.

Good
, he thought.

With the day he was having, Evan was badly in need of some sexual healing. He could envision Leila in her walk-in closet, peeling off the jeans and blouse she had worn that day to her doctor's appointment. He could take her right there on one of the cedar shelves where she organized her sweaters and pashmina shawls. Or maybe she had decided to take a quick shower. He could step in naked with her, lather her from top to bottom with soapy water, and have her in the shower stall, right against the glass tile.

As he climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time, he fantasized about the numerous ways he could make love to his fiancée: missionary, up against the bedroom wall, or doggie style on their Egyptian cotton sheets. Just thinking about Leila moaning beneath him made his pulse race. It made him hard as granite.

He rushed down the corridor to their bedroom. When he threw open the door, he started to tug the hem of his shirt out of his pants. “All right,” he called out, “I hope you're ready for what I'm about to—”

Evan's words faded when he saw his fiancée smiling and lying on her stomach across their California king–sized bed. She wasn't alone.

“Ready for what?” Leila asked, pushing herself up to her elbows. She raised her brows expectantly.

Izzy, who was sitting on the bed facing her mother, turned to stare at Evan as she bit into an Oreo cookie.

A board game sat between Izzy and Leila. It looked like a Monopoly set, though the pieces and board itself were covered with some girlie iconography Evan vaguely recognized. Disney princesses, it looked like. Two opened Coke cans sat on Leila's end table. The flat-screen television seemed to be blaring the lyrics from the Disney movie
Frozen
.

Evan had rushed upstairs to make love to his fiancée, but that obviously was out of the question right now. He felt his hard-on deflate like a balloon.

He nervously cleared his throat. “Nothing! Ready for nothing,” he lied before forcing a smile and stepping farther into the room. “How are you, Isabel? What are you and your mom up to?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “We're playing a game,” she said between cookie munches, sounding mildly annoyed that he would ask such a stupid question. She then turned back around to face the board.

“I promised Izzy that I would play Monopoly with her,” Leila explained.

“And I'm winning!” Isabel said proudly, brandishing a multicolored stack of fake bills.

Leila chuckled, leaned forward, and kissed Izzy's forehead. “Yes, you are definitely winning. You are kicking Mommy's butt up and down this board!” Leila's smile faded and she became somber as she gazed over Isabel's head at Evan. “So, how'd the talk with Terry go? Did he hear you out?”

Evan had told Leila that he was on a mission today to get his brother out of the funk he had been wallowing in for months. Now he had to tell her that he hadn't succeeded in his mission. He walked toward the bed and shook his head. “Terry's too stuck in his self-pity to listen to me.”

“Your turn, Mommy,” Isabel said, breaking into their conversation.

“But you have to keep trying, Ev,” Leila insisted. “We both know the only person who could ever reach Terry would be you.”

Evan tiredly closed his eyes. “But he has to want to get better, Lee. I can't force him to do it.”

“Mommy, your turn,” Isabel repeated before pointing down at the Monopoly board.

“I
heard
you, Izzy,” Leila said tightly before bestowing a stern gaze on her daughter. “Evan and I are talking right now. All right? We're going to play again in a sec.” She then returned her attention to Evan. “So, is he going back to physical therapy? I know it was painful for him, but it got him walking. Is he—”

“He won't even leave the house.” Evan opened his eyes and slumped back against one of his dressers. “He didn't look or smell like he had washed in days. But he's not on painkillers anymore. At least, there's that. We don't have to worry about him swallowing a handful of those.”

“Jesus,” Leila whispered breathlessly, pushing herself upright. She looked horrified. “Do you really think he's that bad off?”

Evan shrugged. “I don't know, Lee. I just . . . I just don't know.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Why is this happening? Just when things start to settle down, something pops up to send the whole family into—”

“Your turn! Your turn!
Your turn!”
Isabel started to shout, slamming her fists on her thighs.

“Izzy, stop it!” Leila ordered. “Stop yelling like that. You're acting like a baby and you're being rude. Stop it now!”

“No,
he's
being rude!” Isabel shouted, jumping to her feet and glaring at Evan. “We were playing a game and he stopped us!”

“Izzy,” Leila began with tightened lips, “you had better apologize right now to Evan, or I will cancel your party in a few months, because birthday parties are for good girls. I will—”

“No!” Isabel screeched. She then flipped over the board game with a swipe of her hand, sending little princess figurines and cards flying across the plush carpet and the silk duvet. Leila jumped back in surprise. Evan went rigid. “No! I won't apologize!” Isabel screamed. “And you can't make me!”

Evan couldn't take it anymore. He had walked around on eggshells with this kid for months, trying his best to be patient and supportive of her, but he had officially hit his limit. She wasn't a sad little girl who was trying her best to adjust; she was a manipulative little tyrant, and he was tired of her bullshit.

“Izzy, don't you ever,
ever
talk to your mother that way again. Do you understand me?” he said in a booming voice and with an icy coldness that he had learned well from his father.

It was the same voice that had made Evan tremble in his sneakers when George Murdoch had used it with him when he was a little boy. Evan watched now as Isabel started to shake in front of him on her skinny legs, as she gnawed her chapped bottom lip.