“New Years Eve in Eighty-one.” Pen opened her mouth to say something else, but she hesitated.
“You’re about to tell me something that’s going to break me down, huh?”
“I’m sure as hell hoping it won’t.” She nibbled her bottom lip anxiously. “Do you want to hear it tonight?”
Shrugging, I sighed. “Go ahead. Give me everything.”
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with Robin for a few days—you never know if she might be a talker—but no luck so far.” Spreading her fingers on the bar counter, she blew out a slow breath. “I think Finley Scott might be your sister.”
My back straightened, and I blinked. Searching my best friend’s slate blue eyes closely, my heart dropped to my stomach. “You’re not joking, are you?” I eventually whispered, my voice hoarse.
“Afraid not.”
Over the last several days, I knew Pen had been working on figuring out the elusive Finley Scott, but I hadn’t stopped to consider she might reach a conclusion that would forever link Oliver’s ex-girlfriend to me.
I took another careful look at the photo, focusing my attention on my dad’s hand on Robin’s waist. It was a friendly enough gesture, but who the hell knew if it had eventually crossed into something more. Refolding the paper, I returned it to Pen.
“Dammit,” I snapped.
Grabbing her glass, she held it between us like a shield. “Don’t take out the messenger!” She downed most of her wine and placed the glass on the middle of the counter. “Trust me, I don’t want it to be true. Still ... given when this picture was taken, it’s a possibility. Your dad might have hooked up with Finley’s mother and that might be why Margaret’s funneling money to her and Michael.”
“I guess it sort of makes sense.” As much as I hated to admit that, it was the most believable theory either of us had reached to date—even if it did curl my stomach and my chest into a series of knots. “But it still doesn’t explain why Margaret would give her money. If anything, I’d think she’d loathe Finley even more.”
Like she loathes me, I added silently.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Pen replied. When I started breathing heavily, she jerked my bottle off the counter and pressed it against my palms. “Drink.”
I didn’t argue. As soon as the beer was gone, I plunked the bottle on the countertop and signaled the bartender. “Linc will be here next week, right?”
She rolled her eyes and ruffled her brown hair. “Thank God. I still haven’t been able to get in touch with him, but my mom said he’ll be out of training soon.” When Pen had come home to find me sobbing uncontrollably last week, the first thing she suggested was that we get in touch with her brother and hand over everything we had on Margaret and the Scotts.
Linc, however, was nowhere to be found—we’d later discovered he was doing a training exercise—and I was still cursing myself for not talking to him earlier.
“Is it sad I’m ecstatic about admitting my fuck-ups to a federal agent?” Peeling the label off my empty bottle, I twirled it around my fingers. When I continued, I changed the subject because Finley was on my mind. “You’re not going to ask me to get a piece of her hair, are you?”
Choking on her wine, Pen shook her head hurriedly. “Unfortunately, my reach doesn’t extend into the DNA world. By time we got the results back it might be too late.”
Sighing, I covered my face with my hands. I was probably smearing my makeup all over the place, but tonight I didn’t care. “Since we’ve found so much in Margaret’s home office—do you think there might be anything else in there that might confirm whether or not she’s my ... sister?”
“Maybe. Do you think you can get back in there or is Oliver going to be an issue?”
So far, he’d kept his word. He hadn’t gone to Margaret or the authorities. But he also hadn’t spoken to me. Everything that had happened was a disaster of my own making, and I’d already started paying for my mistakes.
Setting my new beer in front of me, the pierced bartender winked encouragingly before shuffling over to another set of customers. Uninterested in his attention, I traced the letters on the cold bottle with my fingertip, coping with the harsh reality of Oliver’s departure and the idea that Finley Scott’s mother might have had an affair with my dad.
The idea that Finley might be my sister.
The hits kept coming, but to my relief this wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the others. I still had Margaret to deal with. And I had a week left before her son exposed me to the world.
Discovering I might have a bitchy sister who used to date the man I couldn’t get out my head seemed tame in comparison.
“Gem,” Pen began softly beside me, snapping my attention back to the present, “do you think he’ll give you any trouble?” she repeated.
Closing my eyes, I moved my head from side to side. “Not yet. I’ll get back into that office. I don’t know when, but I’ll get in.”
*
Finley had spared no expense on the thirtieth birthday bash Oliver wanted no part of. With the open bar and another celebrity DJ she claimed she was a close friend of, the large courtyard at my father’s Bel Air home was transformed into a winter wonderland. Plush black and white benches surrounded the center of the square, and every twenty minutes, a cleverly hidden machine tossed out a new whisper of snow.
After having spent some of my childhood years in wintry locales following my parents’ divorce, I had to admit it was breathtaking—even if it was simulated. Unfortunately, I wasn’t at Oliver’s soiree for the booze, dancing or fake snow. I was here to greet his guests with a warm smile and to direct them toward the party.
And once that was done, my goal was to get inside Margaret’s office while she and Finley were busy downstairs.
Sidling up to where I was studying the guest list on the iPad I’d been provided, Finley sighed dramatically. “You’re the most overdressed doorwoman I’ve ever met.”
Out the corner of my eye, I observed her outfit. Dressed in a gown that easily cost Margaret a small fortune, the slim brunette was admittedly stunning in a black, one-shoulder sheath dress.
Turning to the woman who might be the closest relative I had alive, I lifted my shoulders and pressed my lips into a line. “I liked the way it looked on me.”
“It’s the wrong color,” she pointed out in a saccharine voice, gesturing to my strapless bandage dress.
The party was a black and white affair—which wasn’t a surprise considering the seventh floor at Emerson & Taylor was a tribute to both colors. Taking the rebellious route, I’d selected the sexy watercolor Ombré number for its vividness. It reminded me of the Westley and Buttercup painting that hung in my Las Vegas apartment.
Always a romantic, I admonished myself, staring quietly ahead at the stars sprinkling the night sky. “Don’t you have a party to supervise?”
“I’m looking for our guest of honor,” she responded through clenched teeth. Smoothing her bobbed hair, she readjusted the strap of her dress. “When he gets here, let me know. I’ve got to track down my little brother before he gets into the champagne.”
Fifteen minutes ago, I’d briefly spoken to Mason Scott when he walked out the front entrance with his earbuds and iPod in hand, but I wasn’t about to tell Finley that. The kid seemed like he wanted a break, and with nobody at the party paying attention to him, he deserved it.
Especially since Pen and I would be turning over all the documents we’d uncovered soon, implicating his father and sister right alongside my stepmother.
“Don’t forget to find me when he gets here,” Finley told me once more.
“Good luck with that search,” I said softly through my teeth as she stalked inside the house. The sound of footsteps drew my attention from the back of her dress to the task at hand—the exclusive guest list.
Plastering on a bright smile, I confirmed the newest partygoers—one of Oliver’s former teammates who’d gone pro and his wife and explained how to find the courtyard. “Once you go in, take a left as soon as you pass the staircase. The courtyard is at the end of that hall. Just look for the garden full of snow.”