Page 89 of To the Grave

“The fuck you say.”

“I’m telling you, it’s him.” I pointed to the guy at the end of the back row. “Add thirty pounds and subtract ten years.”

Jace leaned in. “Fuck me.”

“Notice anything else?” I asked.

Jace studied the picture. “Fuck me twice. Is this that rich asshole who tried to rape Daisy outside the Mill?”

“Sure looks likes him, except…”

“It can’t be.” Jace minimized the picture to normal size, then scrolled up to see the date on the article. “This was thirty years ago. Gray Cantwell wasn’t even born yet.”

I scrolled back down to the caption:MBA Students Pose with Chamber Members.

And then a list of names. I almost stopped breathing when I saw the name of the guy at the end of the last row.

“The motherfucker changed his name when he left Wharton,” Jace said.

The guy in the picture wasn’t listed as Michael White and he definitely wasn’t listed as Gray Cantwell.

He was listed as Piers Cantwell, Gray’s father.

Daisy’s boss.

Chapter 61

Daisy

The house looked like something out of a horror movie when we pulled up outside. The wind had picked up on the drive home and Otis and I ducked our heads as we raced inside, trying to minimize our pelting by the rain that had started to slant sideways.

“Fuck!” Otis said as we spilled into the foyer. “This is some storm.”

“We should move the pool furniture,” I said.

I grabbed my windbreaker off the hook by the door — too bad I didn’t think about that before I’d gone to work that morning — and headed outside where we proceeded to close the umbrellas and move the lounge chairs and smaller tables under the second-story overhang that sheltered the outdoor kitchen.

I needed to call the pool company and have them close the pool for the season, but with everything that had been going on, I just hadn’t gotten around to it. Now I hoped the patio furniture was secure enough because this was shaping up to be a vicious storm.

We were both soaked by the time we stepped through the glass doors into the kitchen. My windbreaker was clearly more water-resistant than waterproof, the nylon fabric plastered to my skin, the jacket dripping when I hung it on one of the hooks by the back door.

I looked out the glass and thought about Cat, hoped he would be okay or even come to the door where we could let him in to ride out the storm. Then I thought about Wolf and Otis, wondered if I’d have a text from them when I dug my phone out of my bag.

Hopefully they were on their way back. I didn’t like the idea of them driving in such a bad storm.

“We should change,” I said to Otis. “Get out of these wet clothes.”

“I like the sound of that.” He grinned, then reached for me and kissed me until I couldn’t breathe.

I laughed and pushed him playfully away. “Dry clothes, fire, candles. Then we can play.”

My dad’s house had town water and a generator, but this one didn’t. If the power went out, there would be no water to flush toilets or drink, no lights, no heat, and no Wi-Fi.

I went to my bag to check my phone before heading upstairs, but there were no more texts or calls from Wolf or Jace. I took the phone with me as I changed into a velour tracksuit, thick socks, and slippers. Then I gathered all the candles on the kitchen table, filled two pitchers with water from the tap, and filled two of the bathtubs. In a pinch we could flush the toilets with buckets of water from the tub.

The rain beat harder on the old roof of the house and I prayed it wouldn’t start leaking. It would need to be replaced eventually, but I was near the end of budget, which definitely wouldn’t accommodate a new roof, not with the kitchen left to renovate.

Otis was in the process of lighting a fire in the living room when the lights went out. The darkness was sudden and complete: no moon, no streetlights, no neighbors with generators.

---