Page 1 of Liars and Liaisons

PROLOGUE

The Arcadian Woods are haunted.

Not by ghosts, of course, but by the poor decisions of those who’ve made their home within the thick, deciduous forests. The throngs of black oak and wintergreen trees trap secrets in their branches, like fishing nets designed to capture and never release.

Nature can only harbor so many sins before it inevitably turns evil.

That alone should keep people away—should make throwing parties at my family’s secluded mountain estate difficult. It doesn’t. In fact, it’s almost too easy to fill fourteen thousand square feet with music and laughter from hundreds of strangers, as if they find the very danger of the woods enticing.

Makes it entirely too easy to plot their collective demise.

The various rooms on this level of the main house are currently littered with the evidence of every party I’ve held since my arrival. Red Solo cups are haphazardly strewn about, lampshades are torn, couches are drenched in the distinct scent of sex and drugs that only bacchanalian-style festivities can produce.

It’s alarming, truly, how easy it is to lure people here. Duris is supposed to be a wildly superstitious town, and yet mere hours ago, this place was crawling with every degenerate within a seventy-mile radius.

Not that I mind their willingness. Being back is easier to stomach when I’m not forced to sit with my thoughts and wait for them to wind around my sternum like poisonous vines, threatening to squeeze the life right out of me.

I should be so lucky.

Heat from the fieldstone fireplace before me caresses my face. The flames crackle, loud and extemporary, like the snapping of bone. The den—a small octagonal-shaped room off the main foyer with shell-shaped wall sconces; dark, textured wallpaper; and dusty vintage furniture—provides poor acoustics for the flickering sound. Instead of rising up to disappear into the domed glass ceiling, each pop and snap lands squarely on my shoulders—a maddening assault.

My fingers hover over the white keys of the ebony upright piano that I’m seated at. An antique Fischer that’s been in the family since the late nineteenth century. The glossy keys are worn and familiar beneath my touch, but I find myself unable to press down and play.

Truthfully, I haven’t plucked a note in weeks.

Not for lack of trying, but because nothing in these forests or mountains is sacred. I don’t want to taint beauty with the ghosts lingering here.

Behind me, the single wooden door to the den creaks open—everything in the estate creaks, moaning with the weight of its topographical torment. I don’t have to turn around to know my brothers have entered, don’t have to look at them to catalog their slow, cautious approach or the clinical glint in their dark eyes.

Their footsteps are heavy. Staggered, as if one is waiting for a green light from the braver sibling before approaching.

Tom Ford cologne invades my senses first. I keep my gaze on the fire, even as my eldest brother appears in my peripheral, still clad in the crisp black suit he’s been in all day. If I glanced over my shoulder, I know I’d find Nathaniel in a similar state of dress, though their expressions would likely set them apart.

Harrison wears his emotions on his sleeve, though he has always attempted not to. Nathaniel, conversely, has none, outside of his own vanity.

Which makes his presence now almost comical.

I might laugh, if the air didn’t feel so impenetrable. As if the oxygen was zapped from the room and left us to suffocate.

“Grayson.” Harrison’s voice feels like nails scraping down a chalkboard, though perhaps that’s just because it’s been so long since I’ve heard it.

I’m his junior by two decades, and as adults, the age disparity has rooted itself deep into our personal issues, breaking us apart when Harrison moved to New York to take over our grandfather’s record label.

The James family boasts a long line of exemplary musical talents—singers, musicians, and composers alike. Our name backs some of the greatest acts, dating back centuries, and we were each born with the intention of continuing that legacy of excellence.

Our greatest talent, however, lies within our ability to manage it. Manage the stars, which we’ve been doing for decades as agents, producers, and label owners. Any part of the music industry that can be commandeered and grifted, we’re in.

No one was surprised when Harrison left the world of creation and took over Symposium Records. He became Sonny James, media mogul and label owner, creating his own family to fuck up.

He says my name again, and my spine stiffens. My fingers curl into themselves, recoiling from the harsh sound. I don’t turn. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

Long minutes pass, and an impatient breath huffs into the quiet air. The crackling of the fire continues, needling irritation into my bones.

“Are you coming?” Harrison asks, impatience dripping off each word.

When I don’t respond, Nathaniel adds, “To the church, he means.”

As if I wouldn’t know.

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