Page 75 of Honeyed

“And tell them what exactly?” Patrick’s voice is skeptical. “If you all remember, the police department in town isn’t necessarily on top of things and trustworthy.”

He’s biased since the incident with Cass last year when a local cop sought revenge for something her father had done when we were all kids.

Cass tuts at him. “They cleaned house after all of that, and I’m sure have much tighter standards. I do agree though, there is nothing to report. Filing something against this guy could just make him focus on you that much more.”

“I’m sorry,” Warren chokes out. “If he wasn’t my father, if I wasn’t involved in this mess, you wouldn’t be—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, my boy.” Mom scolds him but presses a palm to his cheek. “You owe nothing to anyone. Your past doesn’t define you, and this person can’t intimidate you into talking about it. You are kind, gentle, and upstanding. I trust you with my own flesh and blood, and I don’t trust many people with them. We love you and would stand in front of a moving train for you, each one of us. If you hurt, we hurt, too.”

“She’s right, Warren. If you’ve taught me anything, it’s that we don’t have to take responsibility for the actions of our parents,” August pipes up, and the connection she has with my husband shows between the two of them.

He nods at her, gulping as if trying to swallow down the feelings of shame.

“We can’t report it,” I tell him because we both know it’s true.

“But if you see him one more time, even in passing, we’re putting the private investigator on it,” Cass warns us. “Part of me wants to call him now.”

She used one last year to help with the threats she was receiving.

“Not yet,” Warren says. “If he knows we’re going to lengths to keep him away or investigate, it’ll only get worse. I’ve not seen my father in years, but I know this about the man; he loves attention and stirring up drama. This will incite him, and Mason seems to be his lap dog or something.”

Our family looks at each other ominously.

The fireworks boom overhead, but they no longer feel like a celebration. If anything, they feel like warning bells going off, signaling a much larger explosion to come.

31

WARREN

When Thomas asked if he could accompany me to my meetings and on errands today, I thought it was a joke.

Not only does Thomas Ashton rarely leave the kitchen at Hope Pizza, but he certainly doesn’t do so to run errands that have nothing to do with him.

But as Alana pointed out when she told me about his apology to her, he seems to be trying to fix the error of his ways. And I guess it’s my turn for his groveling or as close to groveling as a pigheaded old man gets. Either that, or he’s trying to see if Mason Klein is following us and giving him his own threat to stay away.

After Alana thought she glimpsed him at Fourth of July, the Ashtons have been on high alert, not letting anyone walk to their car alone after shift, taking buddies out for every errand, and calling to check up on each other constantly. It’s starting to get on Alana’s nerves because I know she’s trying to deny anything is going on, but I understand why they’re doing it.

With Cassandra’s incident and Patrick landing in the hospital because of the guy seeking vengeance against her, they have already gone through something traumatic like this with a family member. As much as my wife wants to act like nothing affects her and it isn’t happening because it’s easier than fearing every second of the day, I tend to err on the side of the Ashtons. We need to close ranks, at least until I know he’s gone.

Today’s plan is for me to go out and see Arthur’s mansion, a place I haven’t been since he passed. I’ve avoided coming to the house I spent my middle school and teenage years in because it wasn’t home then, and it certainly isn’t now without Arthur and Clara here. Their estate was always more well-suited to art parties and dinner soirees than the rambunctious nature of a young boy, and it always felt like a hotel to me.

In my later years, when Arthur and I would have lunch catch-ups while sitting in the gardens, it was a little more cozy but still not a place I would have chosen to spend that much time.

Now, I must decide what happens to it, since I technically own it.

Thomas whistles as we get out of my truck, the atmosphere weird and awkward inside the cab, and I’m thankful to escape.

“This place is even bigger than I remember it.”

The only time the Ashtons came here, from what I can remember, was for the huge party Clara threw for my high school graduation.

“It’s mammoth, and I don’t even know what kind of condition it’s in or if anyone has been keeping it up. I guess I should, because Arthur left it to me, but I’ve had a lot on my plate.”

Thomas glances at me. “He would have understood that.”

I use the black cast-iron key to open the one-of-a-kind door, fashioned from wood imported from Scotland. Arthur wanted the house to resemble an English nobleman’s country mansion and had all kinds of expensive materials and antiques shipped over from the UK. He and Clara loved designing it together, and I remember them giddy over new rooms to re-do as I sat in the butler’s kitchen doing my homework in high school. They weren’t bad people, but they had unique interests that only the uber-rich could partake in, and I never inherited those hobbies.

Our footsteps echo as we enter the enormous foyer done in gray stone tile, wood-paneled walls, and rich green carpets and drapes. It feels like you’re stepping into another time when you enter this house, but my heart pangs for the man who once enjoyed it so much.

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