Page 108 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

Despite the violent hacking and spewing going on on the other side of the desk, Lionel still manages to push Aiden away from him. Aiden just shrugs and then returns to my side of the desk, the corners of his lips tilted into a little smirk. I wait for him to sit down, but he doesn’t; he moves to stand behind me instead, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders, his thumbs stroking lazily at the skin just past my neckline.

“He just has one of those faces, doesn’t he?” he murmurs to me. “So smug. Makes me want to piss him off, just for the heck of it.”

“Mmm,” I say, because he’s kind of right.

When Lionel finally stops coughing, he’s red faced and wide eyed and nothing like I’ve seen on any of his commercials.

“That,” he says in a choked but haughty voice, “is absurd. I am not your uncle, and I am very certainly not your father.” He settles back into his chair, folding his hands in front of him on the desk and staring at me.

“You and my mother—”

“Were never intimate,” he says sharply. “We never had that kind of relationship.”

“But you wanted one, didn’t you?”

If it’s possible, Lionel’s face flushes even redder. “I did,” he says, the words short and biting. “But Nora did not feel the same way, and I value consent. Now either explain yourselves, or leave.”

I stare at him for a second, looking for any similarities between us that might be hiding behind my clear resemblance to my mother. Unlike in the childhood photo, however, all I can see now that links us is our eyes.

I think I’m going to have to tell him.

“I am going to take a giant risk,” I say slowly, “and have a very frank conversation with you. I don’t care that you’re a hotshot politician or whatever. I don’t care. I just need to know the truth.”

He raises one brow at me but says nothing, and I don’t blame him. Who the heck do I think I am, barging into his office like this and saying these things?

But this is the only thing left I can think to do. So I’m going to do it.

“Do you know Sandra von Meller?” I say.

His eyes narrow, his forehead wrinkling with confusion. “Sandra…yes,” he says. “The daughter of Tonya von Meller. What about her?”

“She’s dead,” I say. It’s difficult to keep my voice so flat, so emotionless, but I think infusing my own feelings into this situation will only make it harder to read Lionel’s.

And his surprise is unmistakable. Unmistakable—and undeniably genuine. His brows hitch just slightly, his vivid eyes widening as his jaw falls open. “I’m sorry?” he says.

“She’s dead,” I repeat, even as I do my best to push away the mental image of her body. “She was killed, presumably because she asked to meet with me about my parents.”

Lionel’s eyes go from wide with shock to completely blank. “Your parents? Nora never said who your father was.”

“What did she tell you?” I say, and now it’s hard to keep a note of curiosity out of my voice. I’ve been wondering about this. If she thought she was assaulted by one of her friends but didn’t know which one, what would she have told them about her pregnancy?

“She told me she slept with someone that summer. Someone she met passing through town. I always assumed she was lying.”

“What did you think was the truth?”

“A friend of ours,” he says, his eyes narrowing on me.

“Thomas Freese? Another one of yourElitefriends?”

The split second of hesitation is the only indicator of his surprise. “Yes,” he says in a reluctant voice. A muscle twitches in his jaw, but he doesn’t look away. “We were idiots. Teenagers give themselves stupid names.” He pauses, then goes on, “Nora knew I liked her, but she and Tommy were always on and off. I thought Tommy was probably the father, and she didn’t want me to be upset.”

“I suppose it’s technically possible that Thomas Freese was my father.” I swallow before speaking again. “But when she died, my mother left behind the claim that she was sexually assaulted.”

Silence. Terrible, horrible silence. Even Aiden’s hands have tensed on my shoulders; I’m barely breathing as I wait for Lionel’s reaction.

But he seems to have frozen—not to ice but to stone, his eyes wide, his face draining of color. Even his gaze is unmoving, glued to me.

“That,” he says stiffly, “is not possible. She would have told me. She would have told us.”

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