Uncovered (24 page)

He’d been human, just the same as
Margaret and myself.

“And you laced it with something and
watched him die?” I guessed. She didn’t respond, and the silence was a greater
weapon than her words—her silence broke me down another notch. “And then you
confided in Michael Scott because he was your lover. He turned on you.” I took
another nervous glance at the door behind her. “He turned on you, and you’ve
been paying him off all these years.”

Where are you, Linc? Where the fuck are
you?

“You don’t know a thing,” my stepmother sneered,
but she palmed her eyes with her empty hand. “I’ve never let that man touch me.
I can’t even stand him for what he did to me.”

Keep her talking
, I told myself.
Keep her talking and
get all the answers
. “What do you mean?”

She squeezed her eyes together to subdue
her tears. “I’m not some whore like his—”

“Like his ex-wife?” I asked, offering
Pen’s theory of Finley Scott being my sister. When Margaret’s eyes remained shut,
I eased out of my seat, inching quietly in her direction.

“Like his daughter.” Her lashes parting,
she looked at me hard. “Like that cunt Finley. That whore whose been living in
my
house, making claims to
my
son.”

I froze as she lifted the pistol to me
again. “What?” I gasped, struggling to wrap my head around her words. “But you
tried to
force
her on Oliver.”

“I like my freedom more than I despise
that woman.” Studying my expression, Margaret raked her hand over her face, and
I could see she was breaking. Why else would she still be here with me instead
of running? Unless of course, she had no plans to run at all.

Another jolt of panic pierced my chest.

“Finley Scott screwed my husband. She was
screwing my son, and she fucked my husband, and then I had to support her and
your dad’s
bastard
for the last fourteen years. All because she and her
father had the power to bring my world crashing down.”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

A wave of nausea swept through me, and my
legs threatened to give out—not from the fact a gun was pointed directly at my
chest, but at what Margaret had just told me. Finley Scott wasn’t my sister.
She’d been involved with my father when she was a teenager.

And she’d given birth to his child.

An image of a lanky teenage boy with dark
blue eyes shoved into my thoughts, and I shook my head wildly. “Mason Scott?” I
wheezed, and an equally harsh noise erupted from Margaret’s throat. 

“Her father promised to help me clean up
the mess, and in the end, he cleaned me out.” At last, she pulled the door open.
“You want your money? Start with her.” As she exited the office, her parting
words sent a chill down my spine. “If you follow me, I’ll shoot you.”

Frozen in place, I heard the sound of the
elevator opening and footsteps rushing closer to the office. I was about to let
her go—there was nothing I could do with a damn gun pointed on me—and hope like
hell Linc was about to take her down. Then, I heard a familiar voice that
tightened a vise around my heart.

“What the hell do you think you’re
doing?” Oliver shouted, and the clacking of Margaret’s pumps heading toward him
hammered in my ears.

“Get out the way, Oliver.”

My legs shakily moved me toward the door,
and when I tripped into the hallway, the wide blue eyes I’d fallen for shifted
over her shoulder to take me in. He jerked his head back toward the office all
the while creeping closer to his mother.

“Mom … put down the gun, okay?”

She darted her gaze between us and
realized she was caged in. “Move out the way, Oliver.” When she gave him a
pleading look, he responded with a stony expression.

“Give me the gun.”

In the distance I could hear the elevator
opening yet again and footsteps—multiple footsteps. My body sagged in relief
against the doorway, and I watched Oliver’s face relax too. 

Linc was here, and it was all over now.

No matter what my stepmother would be
found guilty of, I had all my answers. Everything I’d come to Los Angeles for.

Spinning toward me, Margaret’s blue eyes
stabbed into me as she angled her body and lifted her hands. Everything that
happened next felt like slow motion.

The gun pointed at my head.

Oliver yelled out something, but his
voice was inaudible over the deafening rush of adrenaline pumping through me.

And then, the shot echoed everywhere.

Uncover.
Expose. And get the hell out of there.

I’d successfully accomplished two of the
objectives Pen and I had come up with, but I found it impossible to do the
third. And even though I’d convinced myself I’d be able to sleep at night once
I discovered
everything
there was to know, for the first couple nights
after what Pen had referred to as the “Showdown at the House of Emerson &
Taylor,” rest wasn’t an option.

There was still too much negativity
haunting my thoughts.

“Are you going to stay here?” Linc asked
me three days later, gesturing around the small apartment that had been my base
the past couple months. “Or do you plan on moving to your
old
… house?”

He was referring to my father’s house.
The house he’d shared with both my mother and Margaret. Although I’d known it
belonged to me for a while now, the idea of moving in still felt foreign to me.

Running my tongue over my dry lips, I
moved my head in a motion that was neither a shake nor a nod. To be honest, I
hadn’t even considered taking possession of that house yet—I was too busy
reeling over my stepmother’s confessions and my near death experience that had
immediately followed.

I shuddered to think where I might be
right now if Linc hadn’t shown up, lodging a bullet in Margaret’s shoulder.

“Maybe one day.” I combed my fingers
through my unbrushed hair and brought my knees to my chest, scuffing my festive
socks along the warm leather of the chair beneath me. “Will it take a long time
for Margaret to heal?”

“Not nearly as long as you’d think.”

The vindictive part of me wished that
weren’t true, but I shoved it back down. “And Oliver?” I lifted my face so I
could stare into Linc’s green eyes. I’d asked this question more than once over
the last couple days, and like before, the man I’d once looked up to as a
brother gave me the same answer.

“Your stepbrother—” he began, but I shook
my head.

“
Oliver
.” Saying his name constricted
my ribs. I hadn’t heard from him since the night he came to Emerson &
Taylor. Pen assured me he was giving me space, but I was doubtful.

I was sending his mother to prison.

And yet I still wanted him so much it
hurt.

“
Oliver
will be fine.” Linc rubbed
his scruffy chin thoughtfully. “He was grazed, but he’s fine. Remember, I told
you he gave us his statement yesterday.”

I remembered. And I remembered him
telling me how Oliver—beautiful Oliver with his smooth words and demanding
hands—had helped me implicate Margaret for everything she’d admitted inside her
office.

“He had his ‘Pen’ set up a camera in her
office a couple weeks ago,”
Linc
had informed me, unable to hold back the expression of relief.
“We’ve got
everything she said to you on tape, Gemma.”

“Easton,”
I’d said simply, picturing the boyishly
handsome charm of the IT guy who’d hacked into Margaret’s email time and time
again.
“So, she’ll go away for a long time, huh?”

“And Michael, too. Finley is cooperating
in hopes that she can strike up a deal.”

Now, as Linc and I sat across from each
other in silence, my thoughts wandered to the woman—no, the teenager—my father once
had an affair with. A brutal pain clenched my stomach when I thought of the boy
she and her father had passed off as her brother for nearly fourteen years.

Although Mason barely knew me, I couldn’t
stand the idea of that kid being left alone in the world. I wouldn’t have
wished that on anyone.

He was my brother, and that made him my
responsibility.

“What will happen to Mason?” I heard
myself say aloud. “Does he have anyone to live with?”

Linc leaned back on my couch and rubbed
his hand diagonally over his exhausted face. “Finley Scott’s mother flew in
from New York.”

The quietness resumed between us, but every
few seconds, our eyes touched. I tried not to think of how Linc had betrayed
me, starting this entire mess to benefit his own career. I tried to remind
myself that, in the end, his call had helped me find answers—even if those shreds
of reality were enough to break the composure of even the most solid person. 

 “I have to leave soon,” he finally said,
and I nodded briskly, watching him as he stood and walked toward me.

“I’m sure you have a lot of work to do
since you just cracked a huge case.” When his face fell remorsefully, I shook
my head to put a stop to his apology. There was only so many times I could
listen to Linc tell me he was sorry without having a full-blown meltdown. “I’ll
eventually figure out how to deal with what you did. I just need time.”

And I needed time to deal with the crushing
fact I might not see Oliver again. The pessimistic side of me had already
prepared myself for the inevitable—if he hadn’t contacted me so far, why would
he change his mind?

Ducking his head, Linc did the walk of
shame to my front door. “Take all the time you need. Tell Pen to give me a call
when she gets up,” he said, his voice fraught with emotion.

Burying my face in my hands, I didn’t
dare look at him as he silently let himself out.

*

The
next evening, Pen and I were in the middle of dinner—and drinking the whiskey
concoctions she swore would knock me right out the second my head hit my
pillow—when the doorbell rang.

Taking note of my slumped shoulders, she
hopped from the table and held her finger up. “If this is another reporter, I’m
going to shank them,” she warned under her breath.

The media frenzy over Margaret
Manning-Emerson getting arrested had been insane, and of course, I was in the
middle of it all. So far I’d managed to avoid the cameras, but I knew they’d be
in my face eventually.  

I tossed back the rest of the hot toddy
Pen had made for me, cringing when the whiskey burned my throat. “You didn’t
get lost on the way to the door, did you?” I yelled.

A moment later, I heard her soft exhale.
“You should
so
come look at this.”

Alarmed, I pushed away from the table and
padded around the corner, stopping short when I noticed the deliveryman pushing
a cart full of blue and ivory flowers into my foyer.

My throat constricted.

“Gemma Emerson?” He turned to Pen, who
immediately jabbed her finger at me, widening her eyes in excitement.

With every shuffle of my feet on the
laminate floor, my heart beat a little faster, a little harder. “Yes?” I
breathed.

“Can I get your signature on this?” He
handed me a thick tablet, which I accepted. As I moved my shaky finger along
the digital line—signing Gemma Emerson, not Lizzie Connelly this time—Pen
started to unload the vases onto our coffee table. Dazed, I offered the tablet
back to the delivery guy who gave me a smile before leaving.

Sliding onto the couch, I stared at the
five vases lined up neatly in front of me.

“Mr. Sex-In-A-Business-Suit?” my best
friend wondered aloud.

I shrugged, but who else would send me
flowers like these?

I plucked the card from the arrangement
closest to me, opening the envelope to find one word followed by his signature.

What.

One-by-one, I unsealed the rest of the
cards, leaving them in a pile on the table.

Fix.

I.

Break.

I.

My pulse raced beneath my skin when I
pieced the puzzle together. “I fix what I break,” I whispered out loud, causing
Pen’s dark eyebrow to jerk up. “He … it’s what he said to me the first day he
met
Lizzie
. When he made me drop my phone, he told me he fixed what he
broke,” I blurted, glancing between the flowers and Pen.

My best friend’s expression softened.
“Oh,
wow
. Gemma, this is good.” She nodded slowly. “
This
is
romantic.”

Arranging the cards into an ordered stack,
I held them close to my chest, not wanting to let go. “I should call him,” I
said at last. I should have called him when I started worrying about his lack
of contact, but fear was a crazy bitch.

“Yes, you should,” she agreed. When I
didn’t make an effort to move, she reached into her pocket and handed me her
own phone. “Here, I’ll make it easy for you. Call him or I’ll be forced to do
it for you.”

I got off the couch, a small smile
playing at my lips as I walked in the direction of the hallway. “I’ll use mine
this time, but thanks.” Peeking over my shoulder to examine the meaningful look
she cast my way, I added, “I promise I’m going to call. I just don’t want
whatever software you have on your phone recording my conversation.”

“I’m really not
that
bad!” she
yelled behind me.

Shutting the door to my bedroom, I grabbed
my iPhone off the charger. I hovered my fingers over the screen, but when I saw
I already had a new text from Oliver, I eased down on my bed, releasing a heavy
breath.

The Heritage ballroom. 10 PM tonight?

Dragging my gaze to the top of the
screen, I saw it was already close to nine-thirty. I knew I looked like hell.
The past few days had taken a toll not only on my mental state but also my
appearance.

But I had to see him.

Rushing into my closet, I messaged him
back, electricity rushing through my fingertips with each stroke.

I’ll be there.

*

Thanks
to a helpful distraction on Pen’s part, I managed to avoid the few reporters
who’d been camped out in my apartment lobby hoping to get a statement from me.

Fifteen minutes after ten, I rolled into
the Heritage parking lot and left my Mini Cooper beside Oliver’s Viper at the
ballroom entrance. Dropping my keys in my purse, I smoothed my palms over the
plain wrap dress I’d thrown on in a hurry before heading into the glassed-in
venue.

The site of Margaret’s Halloween charity event
was completely silent, but I quickly figured out where to find him. The door
leading to the balcony was wide open, and my heart skipped a beat because I
knew that just up those stairs—in the area where we’d once danced—stood Oliver.
Waiting for me. Waves of fear crashed heavily through me, but I made it to the
top of the staircase, squeezing the doorknob with all my might.

What if he asked me here only to confirm
what I’d pessimistically convinced myself of?

But what if I didn’t go in at all? Could
I really live with not knowing?

I turned the knob and stepped quietly
inside.

Just like the first night I came up here,
he was leaned against the balcony, staring down into the quietness. He was
dressed simply, in jeans, his Redwing boots, and a black tee that hugged his
biceps. I decided then and there that even if this were the last time we spoke,
I’d remember the way he looked. The way he smelled.

The way he made me feel.

Settling my brown eyes on the bandage
wrapped around his upper arm, I pressed my hand to my chest.  “I’m sorry you
got hurt,” I whispered.

He whirled around to look at me, his face
an avalanche of emotion that turned the slight pull in my ribcage into a harsh tug.
Why did he have to look at me like that?

“Me?” He asked incredulously, his blue
eyes narrowed. “Gemma, I’m
fine
.”

“You shouldn’t have come,” I said, but he
strode over to me, framing my face with his large hands, bringing our mouths
closer. “You should have—”

“Stayed away?” he countered, his warm
breath spreading over my skin. When I nodded, he let out a choked noise. “Hell
no, Gemma. I should’ve been there earlier.”

His harshly spoken whisper made me dizzy
all over. Parting my lips to speak, he slanted his mouth over mine. His movements
were cautious, drawing me into him with a gentleness that made me feel like I was
breaking.

In a way though, I was.

I was breaking for him.

Drawing away, he rested his forehead to
mine, locks of his light brown hair blending with my own. “I would’ve came to
you, but I wasn’t sure—” He squeezed his eyes together, fighting for control.
“I wanted to give you the choice to see me. I didn’t want to force you.”

For the first time in days, my world was
turned upside down for all the right reasons. His mouth covered mine again—this
time more demanding—and I was barely aware we were moving until I felt the soft
cushion of the balcony’s loveseat against my back.

I broke this kiss, leaning away from him
to catch my breath. “Linc told me you gave them your statement,” I said
tentatively, and he nodded. “And that you had Easton set up cameras in Margaret’s
office. You’re the reason why her confession about my dad was recorded.”