Page 59 of Shattered Hearts

Zane said no one does him favors, but I bet his money will get us in to talk to the previous owner of Quiet Meadows.

I bet all he has to do is place a call.

Because I want to ask what the former governor of Minnesota was doing owning a sanatorium.

Ex-Governor Guthrie owned Quiet Meadows, and I want to know why.

“I didn’t own it, my father did. His mother, my grandmother, was a delicate creature. That’s the term they used back then. Delicate. She couldn’t tolerate the daily wear and tear of life. When Quiet Meadows first opened, it was a tiny building, only a few rooms, and my grandfather bought it and built it up, turned it into a luxury hospital complete with twenty-four hour room service provided by a five-star chef. Each patient had their own personal companion, and Granddad added a salon and spa so my nana could get her hair and nails done.”

Alan Guthrie is a haggard man. I guess I would be too if my daughter was in prison for sex-trafficking.

“My father didn’t see much of his mother. His birth was hard on her, and everyone blamed the delivery for her decline. Granddad said she was never the same. Today they would call it postpartum depression. Back then?” He shrugs.

Guthrie moved out of the governor’s mansion immediately after the fundraiser and the arrests of Clayton and Ashton Black, his daughter Eleanor, and the mayor, Vance Huxley. Zane and I drove halfway across the state to his lake home where he hides now hoping that one day everything will blow over.

So far, there hasn’t been much luck with that.

“When my grandfather passed away, he left it to my father. He had no interest in keeping it going. As you can imagine, it didn’t hold fond memories. He’d always believed he was the reason his mother needed to live there in the first place. I heldon to it, but I didn’t like the for-profit side of things. Benefitting from other people’s misery. It left a bad taste in my mouth.”

Zane and I sit in an elegant living room, expensive wildlife prints hanging on the walls, the furniture surprisingly comfortable. One wall is comprised of enormous windows, allowing an unobstructed view of Lake Virginia. A pontoon and two boats are pulled up into the yard, snow covering their protective tarps, and a frozen hammock sways between two trees in the winter wind.

Not a bad place to hide if you can choose. Better digs than what Willow Black has.

“You didn’t turn it nonprofit, though,” I say.

“No. To be honest, I didn’t think much about Quiet Meadows. My father washed his hands of it, and I was too busy climbing the political ladder. A holding company made an offer, and I accepted. My attorney finished the deal, and that was that.”

“You had no idea who bought it.”

Guthrie turns to Zane and studies him, his stare heavy. “Son, I didn’t give a fuck, and I still don’t. Rourke Cook is one of the slimiest politicians I’ve ever met, and him doing business with the Blacks isn’t a surprise. They dragged my Nora into some nasty shit, and frankly, I don’t give a fuck what happens to any of them.”

“Wait. Ashton Black bought Quiet Meadows. To keep my sister and her doctor under his thumb.” Zane stands, his body coiled in tension.

Guthrie scoffs. “Is that what he told you? And you believed it. Of course you—”

“It wasn’t only Ash. Our family doctor, who’s been weaning Zarah off that poison, was the first to tell me. Ash confirmed it.”

“It doesn’t matter who says what. Your sister’s doctor heard it from someone who either didn’t know the truth or was paidto lie. Cook wanted in on the action but didn’t want dirt under his fingernails, and the Blacks stepped in holding plastic gloves. Typical. You boys want a drink?”

“No. We drove from King’s Crossing.”

We fall silent as Guthrie helps himself to another glass of scotch. Or bourbon. Or whatever he’s drinking these days. It’s a lot of it, by the look of things.

“Why did Cook want Quiet Meadows?” Zane asks.

Guthrie gulps his booze. “Fuck if I know. I actually tried to live my life on the up and up—I must have cramped their style. No one told me jack shit. Huxley and King’s Crossing, what a fucking screwup that was. And he got voted in? Jesus Christ. Cook, he can’t keep it in his pants any better than anyone else I’ve come across. You’d think politics is synonymous with fucking anything that moves. Those boys, they have no integrity, no sense of right and wrong, and then when our people,our people, question whether they have their best interests at heart, they have the audacity to take umbrage. For fuck’s sake. Even the president of the United States can’t fucking keep it zipped. Don’t you watch the news? It’s a fucking disgrace.”

Zane and I share a look. “The president of the United States?”

“You think this doesn’t go all the way to the top? It fucking always does. Presidents and celebrities. Presidents and their interns. Presidents and hookers.” He flicks a glance at Zane. “That fucking asshole, back in what? 2009? 2010? Vice presidential nominee. What an utter humiliation to the whole Democratic party. Having an affair, a child out of wedlock, while breast cancer kills his wife. Can you get any classier than that?”

I have no idea what the fuck Guthrie’s talking about. Sex and politics? That goes way back, and that has absolutely nothing to do with what we’re here for.

“Cook, he was in it to win it, too. Couldn’t keep his hands off Black’s wife. Arrogant son of a bitch to think he wouldn’t getcaught, but hey, he never did, so maybe he knew something I didn’t.”

Zane frowns. “We don’t care about who was having sex with whom. We want to know about Quiet Meadows.”

“Then I’m the wrong guy. Talk to Cook.” Guthrie slants a look at me. “You must have an in.”

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