Page 1 of Beautiful Exile

PROLOGUE

AGE ELEVEN

Dad pulleda card from the pile, studying it like an archeologist trying to determine if it was some ancient artifact or just a knockoff. Mom and I shared a look, our own determining going on. He slid the card into the fan he held and reached for another, pausing.

Looking up, he glanced first at Mom and then me. His dark brown hair was just a little rumpled, not the perfect, slicked-back look he wore to court each day. And he was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt instead of one of those fancy suits. But it was the mischief in his green eyes that I loved—the kind that said he was up to no good and enjoying every moment of it. I hadn’t seen it much lately. Not with how busy he’d been with case after case, stressed to the max. And maybe not seeing it as often made me love it more.

Dad held up the card, fluttering it for a second before discarding it face down. “Gin.”

“He cheats,” my mom accused, but there was only humor in her words, and the way she looked at him spoke of nothing but love.

“I do not,” he shot back, stiffening his spine in mock affront. He laid his hand down for us to see.

He’d smoked us. Three aces. Three nines. And a four-card straight in hearts.

I slumped back in the overstuffed leather chair, tossing my cards onto the coffee table. “Definitely a cheater. That’s three in a row.”

My dad chuckled as he gathered the cards to shuffle. “Maybe this is the hand you’ll trounce me in.”

“At least you’ve won once,” Mom said to me. “I haven’t won a single hand.”

“We could always switch to Scrabble. You’d kick all our as—” I halted at the look from my mom. “All our butts.”

Mom’s warning expression softened, a hint of humor playing around her eyes. “Nice save. And I say Scrabble after this hand.”

This was always the way it went. Gin rummy, where Dad would win. Then Scrabble, where Mom would take us both. It was no surprise, given all the time she spent surrounded by books. Everyone who lived in our suburb outside of Boston seemed to have some charity they were hooked up with. Mom’s was the library.

It was her favorite place to spend time, just like the one in our house was her favorite room. Which was why we always held game night in here. To me, it was too stuffy—all the dark wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling shelves. At least during the day, sunlight from the garden and surrounding woods poured in through the windows. But at night? It felt a little stifling. Like the walls and all the books were closing in around me.

“How about…if I win this next hand, I get to go call Claire?” I asked hopefully.

Mom sent me a look that told me my chances of that were slim to none. “Sheridan, it’s family night. Give your poor mom her one win.”

Dad chuckled. “She’s eleven. She’s getting too cool for us.”

“Don’t remind me,” Mom said, sniffing exaggeratedly. “We’ll be dropping her off at college before we know it.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled my knees to my chest. “I think you’re safe for a while. I gotta get through middle and high school first.”

A phone rang. My dad shifted and pulled the device from his pocket. Mom sent him a look that would’ve had me rethinking whatI was about to do, but Dad just went right ahead and answered. “Hey, Nolan.” A pause. “Sure. I’ve got it here.” Another silence. “Let me pull it up, and I’ll call you back.” Dad moved the phone away from his ear and pushed to his feet.

“Robbie,” my mom said, her voice managing to somehow be both soft and hard at the same time. “It’s family night. You promised.” Her gray-violet eyes—a color she’d passed on to me—pleaded with him.

“Nolan just needs some information about a case. It’ll take five minutes.”

But it was never five minutes. Dad would hole up in his office for hours when he got a call or someone stopped by. I got it. He loved being a judge and took it seriously. But the meetings and late nights seemed to be happening more and more.

“Five minutes,” Mom muttered, shoving her blond hair back from her face.

“Blythe,” Dad said, his voice going hard. “Don’t start.” And then he was striding out of the room.

I could picture the path he would take. Down the hallway and then the stairs, stopping in his office with its massive fireplace and more dark wood. When I had a house someday, it would be all light and windows—no stuffy rooms with wood paneling and wallpaper.

I glanced at my mom. She sat in a leather chair that matched mine, staring at the spot on the sofa where my dad had been as if it could give her the answers she needed.

Dropping my focus to my jeans, I wrapped a fraying thread around my finger. Mom hated these jeans. Hated that I wanted a pair with tears and rips in them. I pulled the string tight, cutting off blood flow to my pointer finger. “Are you and Dad gonna get a divorce?”

My gaze flicked up, wanting to see her reaction. I was pretty good at knowing when she was lying—her mouth would flatten out, and little lines would appear like parentheses around it.

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