Time to Confess

The sheriff's notice was taped across the brass doors of Vale House when I got back from the bank. A camera crew stood at the bottom of the front steps. I kept my face turned away as I climbed them, one hand gripping the railing, the other clutching the paper the teller had given me. The balance on my personal account had been frozen pending review. The teller had apologized as if she'd personally stolen my money. Inside, the house smelled of lemon oil and damp wool. Staff members carried boxes through the front hall. Someone had taken the paintings off the walls, leaving pale rectangles on the dark paneling. My father's lawyer, Graham Pike, stood beside the staircase with his phone to his ear. He covered the mouthpiece when he saw me. "Claire. You're back." "I live here." "Not for much longer." I looked at the boxes. "Where is my father?" "Meeting with the restructuring team." "Is that what we're calling it?" Graham's jaw tightened. He'd represented Vale House Hotels for twenty years. He'd drafted the loan documents and sat at our holiday table. He wore his usual navy suit, but his tie was crooked, and there was a damp patch at his temple. "Your father is trying to keep the process orderly," he said. "The company has filed for Chapter 11 protection. The court will determine what happens next." "Chapter 11 doesn't mean they get to padlock the family home today." "It does when the holding company owns the property and the lender has obtained an emergency order." I glanced toward the door. The sheriff's notice flapped slightly in the breeze coming through the open entrance. "How much time do I have?" "Until six." The answer landed like a shove. I had known we were in trouble. I'd watched invoices go unpaid and watched my father cancel staff bonuses. But he'd always called it a temporary liquidity problem. Until two days ago, I had still been running the kitchens at Vale House's flagship hotel, still signing routine purchase orders and attending meetings where Graham told everyone the company was stable. Now the hotel had closed. The employees had been sent home. The lender had locked the doors. And I was not sure I could buy a sandwich. "I'm taking my personal things," I said. "Don't remove company property." "I'm taking my clothes and my toothbrush, Graham." He lowered his voice. "The creditors are looking for someone to blame. Don't give them a reason to focus on you." "I didn't cause this." "Your signature appears on the Harrow Point guarantee." I stared at him. "I never signed a guarantee." "Then that's something you should discuss with your father." Before I could answer, footsteps sounded behind me. I turned. Eli Mercer stood in the open doorway with rain shining on the shoulders of his black coat. He had a duffel bag in one hand and a key ring in the other. I had last seen him three years earlier, at a hotel fundraiser, where he had nodded from the other side of the room and left before I could reach him. He looked almost exactly the same. Maybe a little leaner. The old scar near his left eyebrow still cut through the dark hair there. "What are you doing here?" I asked. "Getting you out." Graham stepped between us. "Mr. Mercer, this is a private matter." "It stopped being private when your client's property was posted by the sheriff." Eli's eyes stayed on me. He didn't look like a man who had come to rescue a damsel. He looked like a man who had made a decision and expected to be argued with. "I can find a hotel," I said. "With what money?" "That's not your concern." "It became my concern when I called your number six times and you didn't answer." "I was at the bank." "And after the first five calls?" "Eli." He held out the key ring. "I have a room ready. It's temporary. My house is small, and I'm not rearranging my life around you." A laugh came out of me, sharp and tired. "You're offering me a place to stay and opening with a warning?" "I'm offering you a door. You can walk through it or not." Graham's expression had become carefully blank. "You should leave with Mr. Mercer. The press is outside." I hated that he was right. I hated that Eli had the only usable option in the room. "Why?" I asked him quietly. "You didn't owe me anything when I asked you to stay seven years ago." His gaze shifted for a second, not quite away from mine. "I know." "You said no." "I remember." "And now you're taking me home." "I'm giving you a bed, Claire. Don't make it more than that." He might as well have placed a hand between us. I took the key. "Six," Graham said. "That's when the sheriff returns." I went upstairs and packed two suitcases. I didn't take jewelry, photographs, or anything that looked like it might belong to the company. My hands shook as I folded shirts into the cases. At the bottom of my closet sat the old silver dress I'd worn the night I confessed to Eli. I left it there. When I came back down, Eli was waiting by the door. Outside, a reporter called my name. I kept walking. Eli didn't touch me, but he moved close enough that I could feel the warmth of him through his coat. His car was parked around the corner, away from the cameras. "House rules," he said when I got in. "You tell me where you're going. You don't use my address on any legal forms without asking. You pay for your food when you can. And you don't lie to me." "Are those the rules or the terms of admission?" "Both." I looked at him across the console. "You always did know how to make a girl feel wanted." He started the engine. "You've never had a problem telling me what you want." That was true. It just hadn't done me any good. *****