Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Inside, the house is too bright, the lights all on like someone is afraid of the dark. There’s the faint sound of NPR from the kitchen—always on, even at this hour, even if the only audience is the refrigerator. Andie’s voice is nowhere to be heard, and the only smell is the antiseptic tang of lemon cleaner and the sweet, old-lady perfume of the cleaning crew who finished up at five. We cross the entry hall, shoes thudding on the marble, and I notice a giant bouquet of flowers on the side table, listing sideways in its vase, tulips and lilies slumping like they’re too tired to keep up the charade.
The study is at the end of the main hall, door already cracked. Inside, the room is just like always: wood-paneled walls that suck in the light, leather armchairs that look like they’ve never been sat in, shelves of books that are less about reading and more about the weight of knowing. My father sits behind the desk, elbows on the blotter, one hand curled around a black pen and the other resting on a cut-glass tumbler of scotch. The amber in the glass looks like trapped fire. There’s a lamp on the far corner of the desk, shade drawn low, and everything outside its pool of light is shadows and edges.
He doesn’t look up when we enter. He doesn’t have to.
Hunter takes the armchair to the right, sprawling back like he owns it. Lachlan stands, awkward, in the doorway for a beat before settling in to the chair opposite. I stand dead center, the only place that feels neutral.
For a long moment, nothing moves except the second hand on the grandfather clock in the corner.
My father glances up, eyes sharp behind his readers. His gaze lands on me first, then on the men, then back again. “Stella,” he says, voice as cool as the lake in late autumn.
“Dad,” I say, and my voice is too loud, too fast. I clamp down on it. “We need to talk.”
A half-smile—almost clinical—ghosts across his face. “So talk.”
My chest tightens, and I realize I’m holding my purse like a weapon. I set it on the floor, flex my hands to get the feeling back. “Why didn’t you tell us about Lachlan?” The words come out brittle, splintered at the edges. “Why did you get him that job at Trinity? And why the secrecy?”
Hunter shifts in his seat, the leather creaking. Even Lachlan tenses, arms crossed over his chest, but he says nothing.
Thomas sets down his pen, folding his hands. For a moment, he just studies me, as if he’s memorizing the lines in my forehead, the way my chin wobbles when I’m about to lose it. “Brenda called me. We don’t talk regularly, but we do talk on occasion, and she was worried about her brother. She said he needed a hand, and she’d heard good things about Trinity. I did what anyone would do: made a call.” He shrugs, like it’s the smallest thing in the world. “It’s not uncommon.”
The clock ticks louder now. A click for every second of silence.
I open my mouth, then close it. “You could have told us.”
He looks at me—at all of us, really—and sighs. “Nobody wants to be a nepo baby these days, Stella. It’s toxic. And nobody wants to hire one, either, so I thought it best if it went unsaid. For Lachlan’s sake as much as mine.” His gaze shifts to the pastor, and it’s not unkind. “I knew you’d succeed, O’Toole. That’s why I put your name forward.”
The blond man stiffens. “Thanks,” he says, and it’s a verdict, not a gratitude. “But you didn’t have to,” he adds, jaw working.
Thomas shakes his head, the motion slow and deliberate. “You’re right, but the church needed someone, and you were a reasonable fit. Why not you?” He leans back, as if daring someone to challenge his logic. “I didn’t do anything but make sure your resume was seen by the right people.”
Another silence. The scotch glass glints in the low light as Thomas rotates it, the slow arc of liquid sticking to the side.
I stare at the glass, wondering if he’s even tasted it.
The silence is oppressive now, thick with the smell of old leather, paper, and the faint, medicinal burn of scotch. I can see every detail in the room: the way the lamplight glances off the beveled edge of the desk, the deep gouge in the wood where Thomas once slammed the phone down in a rage, the way Hunter’s knee bounces even though his face is completely still.
But my father’s eyes come back to me, and the look is different now—softer, maybe, or just tired. “You’re not here about Lachlan,” he says. “Or not just about him.”
My face goes hot, the blush racing from my chest to the roots of my hair. Hunter glances over at me, and I feel the weight of his gaze as if it’s a hand on the nape of my neck.