Page 93 of Owen

The mournful, grief-stricken expression you only ever see at funerals.

That’s how I look as I gaze around at the people, chatting as they stand huddled together in the vast front room of the Brodie mansion.

My grief, you ask?

It’s painted on.

Because I’m numb.

I thought I might feel something when I saw the family home or my sister. A trigger. But there is nothing.

I’m stuck between denial, anger, and regret.

Guilt.

My guilt is so big it’s tangible, and it’s growing by the day.

It’s like a huge black cloud hanging over me, threatening toturn into a rapid cyclone at any given moment. A storm is coming. I can feel it.

Since my return to Castleview Cove, I have focused on planning what I can only describe as a Brodie funeral; one fit for a king and his queen.

Henry and Elizabeth Brodie.

Never to be forgotten. Their death will be talked about for years to come, as will their funeral.

I suggested a small private service, but that was not what happened here today. Camilla informed me that her father-in-law was funding the funeral, and he was demanding we give them a proper send-off. Although, it meant we could avoid any talk about finances, the demise of Castleview Printing Press, or my parents’ estate, as money was no object for their funeral.

It was conducted in the biggest church in town, with a convoy of black cars and enough flowers to start our own florist, laid upon the finest of solid oak and gold caskets, and Camilla and I pushed our feelings aside and saw that our parents had the send-off people expected, given their status with the people around here.

Every minute has felt like a lie.

Yesterday, I stood outside the ashes of what once was Scotland’s finest and largest printing press. Relief washed over me, knowing the burden of the business was never going to fall to me. No staff to be responsible for, no paper pushing business deals to close, no bank balances or tax returns to submit. It was a boring business to be involved in, and it never appealed to me.

It was in that moment that everything fell into place. Memories of every encounter between my father, Gideon, and Richard, his tycoon father, flooded my brain. Snippets of conversations replaying vividly in my mind.

I was only young when Gideon and Camilla married, but Iremember the meetings and the phone calls I used to eavesdrop on. I remember listening to my father explaining to my mother how he helped Richard fund the purchase of new land to build a multi-billion-pound luxury housing development on. I remember the raging argument they had that tore through the house when interest rates rose an unprecedented amount, triggering the housing market to crash, and my father lost all of his money. My mother never forgave him.

Back then, a few billion here and there would have been just a drop in the ocean for him. I can only assume he must have started taking more and more risks to recover his losses, which ultimately led to his demise. I am more than certain that Richard was whispering in his ear about dodgy deals and financing opportunities, even back then.

Why he trusted Gideon and his father, I will never know. Richard isn’t a property guru; he works in export and import and it wasn’t long after I started working for the business that my father began asking me to research hedge funds. Then it was stocks and shares, then Bitcoin, and finally crypto. And every time I would advise him to steer clear and invest in something less risky instead of putting his money in things like crypto, where the outcome was more like chancing it all on black in a game of roulette.

My feelings for my parents aside, I did the right thing by my family today. Stood shoulder to shoulder with my sister and her dreadful husband.

I’ve been keeping my beady eye on him since my return, but he gives nothing away and has had nothing but good things to say about my parents. Which I find confusing, especially since my father said he owed him and his father a considerable amount of money. None of it adds up.

Walter Forrester, the private investigator I hired to speed upmy DBS check, is a man of many talents, and I am praying for a miracle because I have promised to pay Walter a handsome price to help me locate the trust fund my father stole from me.

If not, I’m royally fucked and will have to ask Lincoln or Jacob for the money.

Grateful to have been kept busy since my return, I have been juggling my time organizing the funeral with Camilla, making sure Jade’s mom and aunt are looked after and, of course, I can’t live without my daily dose of Jade and Poppy. My girls.

They’ve kept me sane for the past twelve days. However, I am all too aware that Jade will have to leave in a day to return to work.

I was hoping Jade would be here for whatever unfolded with my trust fund, and to help me pack up my house, but that’s not looking likely now. When she’s with me, I feel like I can take on the world. When she leaves, however, I’m not sure what I will do without her for support.

Regardless of how I feel about Camilla, she deserves better. It hasn’t gone unnoticed how thin, almost frail, and gray-faced she now is, making her look older than her thirty-seven years. It’s not how I remember her, and I don’t fucking like it. I don’t like it at all.

She is rotting under Gideon’s watch while he thrives.

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