Chapter Four

Mila pulled the SUV in back of a rented truck and I glanced to my right at the quaint, two-story cottage in the heart of Brentwood where I lived with Brock the past three years. I didn’t know what I expected as I stared at the white exterior and navy blue door. It looked just like it did less than two weeks ago when I hurried down the cobblestone walkway, pulling my luggage behind me, and jumped into this very car so Mila could drive me to the airport instead of First Congregational Church in the heart of Los Angeles where I was to be married. It was as if the past few weeks never happened.

“You don’t have to go in if you think it’ll be too much.” Mila reached over from the driver’s seat and squeezed my bicep. “I know what stuff is yours. I’ll box it all up.”

“No,” I sighed. “I need to do this. This is all part of my journey.”

Taking a deep breath, I placed my hand on the handle and opened the door, stepping onto the sidewalk. I paused before heading up the walkway, staring at the front of the house. The grass was perfectly manicured. The flowerbeds by the entrance were pristine, not one petal out of place. I helped Brock pick this house out of the dozens of homes he’d looked at. It was on the smaller side, only two thousand square feet, but it had an irresistible charm that was hard to find in the land of cookie-cutter houses and HOAs. At one point in my life, I imagined growing old here. Now it seemed like a foreign place.

I continued up the walkway with Mila as Steven jumped out of the truck and joined us. When I noticed a light snap off in one of the windows on the second floor, I furrowed my brow. Mila must have seen it, too.

“Did you know he would be here?”

I slowly shook my head. “No. When I texted him yesterday, he said he was in D.C. until Friday. That’s why I chose to come today.”

“Then it’s a good thing Steven came with us.”

My heart thumped in my chest, my hands growing clammy, my stomach rolling at the thought of facing Brock, of staring into his eyes…eyes that were nearly identical to Dante’s. How would I react? Would I break down? Would it make Brock feel like he won?

A part of me wanted to turn around and text Brock to just toss my things so I wouldn’t have to see him. I didn’t exactly care about my clothes or anything else. But I also knew this was part of cutting the chains tying me to my past. I needed to face Brock again, to let him see he didn’t scare me, that I wasn’t going to hide from him, regardless of his behavior in Rome.

Squaring my shoulders, I steeled myself. “Let’s get this over with.” I reached into my purse and grabbed my keys, stepping onto the front stoop. Just as I was about to insert the key into the lock, the door opened. Brock stood before me, his dark eyes narrowed, a sanctimonious, self-righteous expression on his face.

“Ellie.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So nice to see you again.”

“Shut it, Brock.” I pushed past him to stand in what used to be my home. Looking around, I realized it had never been a home. I never felt comfortable here. I was never able to just relax on the couch and watch TV or read a book. And God forbid I ever put my feet on the furniture. Brock would call a cleaning crew to have the entire place sterilized.

“I’m trying to be civilized here. I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”

I reeled around, my nostrils flaring as I glared at him. I had so many comebacks on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to ask him where his civility was when he decided to break into Dante’s apartment and attack me. Where it was when he clamped his teeth on my neck and drew blood. Where it was when he put me in a chokehold and cut off my oxygen. But I didn’t. I kept what happened to myself…for now. I had to believe he’d eventually pay.

I clenched and unclenched my fists, then fixed my face into a congenial smile. He wanted to get a rise out of me. I refused to give him that. “I’m just a bit surprised you’re here, Brock. We agreed on this date and time because it worked with both our schedules. I was under the impression you would be in Washington.”

“A few things came up requiring my attention here. I was just on my way out. You know… Work. That may seem like a foreign concept to you now that I hear you’re unemployed.”

As much as I would have loved to smack that arrogant smirk off his face, I just kept smiling. “Do you have nothing else to occupy your time that you still keep tabs on me?” I continued past him and onto the spotless cream carpeting of the living room.

“Ellie!” he exclaimed.

A mischievous grin crossing my mouth, I slowly turned around. I thought he was about to have a coronary based on the expression he wore — his eyes wide, his jaw hard, every muscle in his body tight.

“Your shoes! You know—”

“Oh, how silly of me.” I covered my mouth with my hand in a show of feigned remorse. “I forgot the rules.” I took my time returning to the entryway, every step on the carpet like another slash of the knife against his skin. I glanced past Brock to see Steven and Mila trying to hold in their laughter. It was a struggle for me, too, but seeing the vein in Brock’s neck bulging with irritation and rage made it all worth it.

I slipped my sneakers off my feet, then turned back to Brock. “Don’t you have to get going?” I lifted my brows, placing my hands on my hips. “You know… Work.”

He glanced nervously between the door and living room, unsure whether he should stay or leave, worried what else I would do to his precious house, what other germs I would bring in.

His lips curling into a snarl, he leaned toward me, his face less than an inch from mine. I flinched. When Steven started forward, I held up my hand, stopping him. I wasn’t scared of Brock. He had controlled me for the past ten years. No more.

“If there’s so much as a fingerprint on the counters when I get home, you’ll regret you ever met me.” He pulled back, glaring at me.

“Oh, Brock. I already do.” I spun around, heading into the living room and toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sitting in front of it to start sorting through my books. “Have a nice day at work, sweetie.”

I felt his eyes on me for several more seconds, then the front door slammed. I peeked over my shoulder at Steven and Mila, an infectious grin on my face.

“That…was…awesome,” Mila exclaimed, kicking off her shoes and rushing toward me, dropping to the floor to hug me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk to him like that before,” Steven commented, carrying the bundles of boxes and packing tape we’d brought with us.

“I haven’t. And it felt damn good. Now I can’t wait until dinner at my parents’ tomorrow night.” I began placing some of my books into the box Steven had just assembled.

“I still don’t know why you’re going over there,” Mila sighed, shaking her head.

I stopped what I was doing. “You just saw why. I need to cut the chains they’ve had shackled around me my entire life. This is how I do it. Not by avoiding them. By facing them head-on. By showing them they can’t control me anymore. Trust me.”

I returned my attention to the box. I couldn’t exactly come out and tell them the real reason I wanted to see my parents. That I needed to find out the truth about my father’s supposed involvement in Lilly’s death.

“It’s going to infuriate my mother when she realizes I’m no longer going to behave like the well-mannered woman she thought she’d raised. That Ellie is gone. This new Eleanor drinks hard liquor. She swears. Hell, maybe she’ll even smoke a cigar or two. And she certainly doesn’t give a damn about what any of them think of her.”

Mila swiftly flung her arms around me again. “God, I’m so glad you got good and fucked by Dante Luciano. He’s replaced that stick up your ass with something better.”

“Mila!” I admonished, giggling to myself.

“A ginormous cock.”

“I can’t believe I married you,” Steven interjected, laughing.

“You’re horrible,” I added.

“But you both love me.”

I met her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Sure do, babe,” Steven answered, leaning down to kiss her temple.

We spent the next several hours combing through everything in the house, tossing my things into various boxes — donate, garbage, keep. The stack of boxes containing items I planned to keep was drastically smaller than the others. Most everything here held a memory I wanted to forget. Honestly, there was nothing in this house I couldn’t live without, but I needed to be here in order to bid farewell to the last ten years. This was an important step, regardless of how much it seemed like a waste of time.

“I think that’s it.” I turned to Mila and Steven, placing the last pair of shoes in one of the boxes. Brushing my hands on my jeans, I looked around the master bedroom, not seeing anything else of mine hanging around.

“We’ll bring these boxes out to the truck,” Mila said. “Do one last check and make sure we got it all. You want to make sure you don’t leave any dildos or butt plugs hanging around. Or, better yet, maybe you should. I bet Brock would burn the house down if he saw them.”

“Get out of here, Mila.” I pushed her into the hallway, her laughter echoing as she followed Steven down the stairs.

I walked toward the reading nook in the corner, which used to be my special little oasis of calm in this house, a place I’d hide to stay away from Brock’s critical eyes. I was going to miss sitting in this chair, reading whatever book had my attention that particular day, looking out at the rose garden in the back yard.

I took a minute, my eyes scanning my surroundings. It was a little bittersweet, but in a good way. There was not one ounce of fear, of worry, of trepidation over the idea that I essentially now had no home, no job, no car. I had absolutely nothing to my name, but I didn’t need material things to be happy. I had something better. I had love. And, as cheesy and cliché as it sounded, that made me richer than I’d ever been.

Drawing in a satisfied breath, I took one last look, then walked out of the bedroom, closing the door, along with this chapter in my life. As I made my way toward the stairs, I hesitated just outside Brock’s office, instantly reminded of his earlier admonition that I not leave so much as a fingerprint on his untarnished counters. A devious grin tugging on my lips, I crossed the threshold and proceeded to his cherrywood desk, not one speck of dust visible on the surface. I sat in his oversized leather chair, spinning around in it. He’d lose his mind if he knew I was in here, which was precisely what I wanted.

Licking my finger, I slid it down the wood, smearing the spotless desk. Then I ran my fingers all over his computer screen, the streaks glaring against the darkness of the monitor. He was going to have a complete meltdown when he came home tonight and sat in this very chair to check the latest stocks, as he did every night. I wished I could be here to see his panic, to see his face turn white with disgust over something as simple as a few fingerprints.

Just as I was about to get up and leave, I furrowed my brow, noticing the top left drawer was slightly ajar. Normally, I would have let it go, but this was Brock. He never left doors or drawers open. Ever. Unless I’d interrupted him when I showed up, which caused him to be careless.

I raised my hand to the drawer, my pulse gradually increasing as I pulled it the rest of the way, revealing a mess of papers. The state of disarray only confirmed my assumption that I must have interrupted him. He never would have left these in such a haphazard state.

Picking them up, I flipped through them, trying to make sense of it all. There was what appeared to be background checks on over a dozen people, along with surveillance photos, some of meetings between one person in particular and my father. It made it look like Brock had been spying on him. Why? Did he know something?

I couldn’t make heads or tails of what all these photos and background information could mean. Maybe it was just a coincidence and completely irrelevant to everything I’d learned. But as I neared the end of the pile, I realized this wasn’t just a coincidence. Gasping, I dropped the papers when I came across a photo. I’d never seen the woman, but I’d heard the name…Cynthia Edelman. The woman who’d called Dante to try and steer him in a different direction. The woman who’d been corresponding with my father. The woman who had committed suicide on the night she was supposed to meet with Dante.

My eyes raked over her features. Although she was in her early fifties, she didn’t look a day over forty. Her lips were full, her gold-speckled eyes large. She had dark hair that contrasted her fair skin. And she had a beautiful smile. I didn’t even know this woman, but I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss over her death.

Was this the reason Brock had returned from Washington? Based on all the papers in front of me, he must have figured out something was going on. He had records of Barnes Pharmaceutical employees, including a full background check on Cynthia Edelman. But that wasn’t the only pharmaceutical company he had records on. He had reports on various other drugs released from over a dozen companies, from over-the-counter fever reducers to chemotherapy pills, like Sprylif, the drug Dante believed killed his daughter.

My mind spinning, I took my phone out of my back pocket, snapping photos of everything. When I reached the last few papers, my brow furrowed as I stared at two surveillance photos — one of my father walking into Barnes Pharmaceuticals, the other of him leaving. It didn’t seem like these were too incriminating. There could certainly have been an innocent explanation. So why would Brock have them?

I spied the time and date stamp on the lower right-hand corner of both — 8:02 PM and 8:25 PM on March 14th of this year. After snapping a photo of the image, I flipped to the next paper, scanning the coroner’s report of Cynthia Edelman’s death that ruled it a suicide. I looked at the time of death. 8:20 PM. Then I noticed the date — March 14th.

I continued flipping through the rest of the papers, stopping when I came across the police report of Cynthia’s death. Apparently, her assistant found her in her office the following morning. She had been so shaken up by the scene that she’d taken a leave of absence. According to her employment record in Brock’s possession, she was still on that leave.

With everything I’d learned in Italy and now here, the likelihood that Cynthia Edelman was murdered grew stronger and stronger. It was a bit suspicious that my father had been seen walking into and leaving Barnes Pharmaceuticals on the night Cynthia Edelman, a woman he had sent threatening emails to, took her own life. Something didn’t add up here.

“Ellie?” Mila shouted from downstairs. “Are you coming?”

“Just a minute,” I called back, grabbing my phone and snapping photos of the autopsy report and the remainder of the papers. Then I put the file back into the drawer, closing it all the way, as Brock normally would have. I didn’t know what was going on, but I didn’t want him to think I knew anything. There was no telling what he would do with that information.