The Golden Hour Page 3

  With my blood-soaked, wicked family.

  It also means I’m no longer safe in Solstice Bay.

  Adrenaline makes way for thick, slow tears. I didn’t lie to Fred—I do love it here, and the thought of leaving is a physical pain, mirroring the severing of the precious, tenuous roots I allowed to grow.

  Caught between the forest and the sea, bordered to the north and south by uninhabited coastline, this sleepy town was my dream come true. I’d allowed myself to feel hope for my future. To believe I might live past thirty.

  My mistake.

  Roughly wiping my tears, I consider my next move. I don’t have a valid passport, so leaving the country is off the table. I have no contacts outside those who’d like to see me six feet deep, no old friends I can call for help.

  Mentally cataloging how much cash I’ve hoarded working at the bar, I surmise I can drive for a week straight before having to stop. Maybe I’ll go south, to New Mexico or Arizona.

  “Stupid. So stupid,” I hiss at myself.

  I should have dyed my hair. Cut it. Bought colored contacts. Done a thousand small things to protect myself. But I hadn’t, vanity and naiveté my Achilles’ heel.

  I can almost hear my father’s laughter, his mocking voice telling me, “You’re not smart enough to be on your own, my pampered princess. So shut your mouth and do as you’re told.”

  When all was said and done, I couldn’t do what was required of me. And if there’s one thing you don’t do as an Avellino, it’s run from your responsibility to the family.

  Sounds from the kitchen downstairs jolt me awake. My neck spasms as I lift my head from the floor where I passed out just before dawn. Blinking the grit of dried tears from my eyes, I groan as I straighten my near-numb legs. At least I had the sense to put the gun back in the lockbox, though I left the lid open just in case.

  I normally sleep right through Molly’s morning routine of making tea and feeding the cats, but my sleep was restless, laced with darkness, poisoned by fear.

  Sunlight streams through the window over my head, a stark contrast to my lingering nightmares. Last night’s winds blew off the clouds, and though we’re a good month away from spring, you wouldn’t know it by the birds chirping and seagulls squawking.

  But I won’t be enjoying a nice run this morning. No lunch at my favorite café or sketching down at the cove before my evening shift. I’ll be packing my belongings and sneaking out of town.

  Pushing to my feet, I make my way into the en suite bathroom for a quick shower, then throw on jeans and a sweater. My duffel bag comes out of the back of the closet, and twenty minutes later, it holds everything I own in the world.

  I hoped Molly would be gone by the time I was finished, but when I crack open my bedroom door, I can hear her humming downstairs.

  With everything she’s done for me, I dread having to bail without so much as a goodbye. Of course, the other option is to lie to her, but I’m too tired and heartsore to think of an excuse for my sudden departure. Either way, I’ll be leaving her in the lurch at the bar. I’m not sure I can handle her disappointment on top of my own.

  I shift, and an ancient floorboard groans.

  “Grace, is that you? Just brewed a pot of coffee. How about oatmeal for breakfast?”

  “Yes, sounds great, thank you.”

  Her kindness stings, a reminder that until meeting Molly, I’d never known the unconditional care of a mother. Something so simple for her—offering me coffee and oatmeal—is as foreign to me as hugs and lullabies.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, grab my glasses from the nightstand, and make my way downstairs. By the time I reach the kitchen, there’s a steaming bowl on the table for me with an assortment of toppings. Brown sugar. Cream. Strawberries, blueberries, and diced banana.

  Molly turns from a counter with a mug of coffee, nearly black—just how I like it. Her smile of welcome morphs to concern when she sees my face.

  “Good God, Grace, what’s wrong?” Depositing the mug on the table, she rushes to me, taking my shoulders in her hands. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Just tell me.”

  I wipe my welling eyes, mortified by my weakness and how pathetic it is that I fall apart so easily. Still, after all these years, after all I’ve seen and lived through, simple kindness undoes me.

  “You’re too soft, Little Bear. Harden your heart. Otherwise that viper will chew you up.”

  “And spit me out?”

  My uncle’s eyes soften with sadness. “No, little one. She’ll swallow you down.”

  “And digest me? Gross.”

  He shakes his head, sighing at my eight-year-old attempt at humor, but I can tell he’s laughing on the inside.

  “All right, let’s go another round. I want to see that target in shreds.”

  Lifting the rifle to my shoulder, I take aim.

  “Grace!” Molly gives my shoulders a shake. “What’s going on? You’re starting to scare me.”

  “I’m leaving,” I blurt. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Today—now. I’m not safe here anymore, and I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  Molly’s eyes narrow and her lips form a thin line. “They found you?”

  My heart jackknifes in shock. I’ve never spoken a word to her about why I’m actually here. All she knows is that I have no one and wanted a fresh start.

  “What?” I gasp.

  Her expression gentles. “Sit down and eat some breakfast. We should talk. And you can take off the glasses—I know you don’t need them.”

  6

  Dead.

  She’s supposed to be dead.

  Callisto Avellino went missing six years ago from her dorm at Brown University. Her room was torn apart. Police found traces of her blood and hair torn out by the roots. The entire nation assumed she’d been kidnapped for ransom.

  But there was no ransom.

  I remember the press conference three weeks after her disappearance. Her stepmother behind a podium, tearful as she pleaded for the public’s help in finding her fragile daughter, and the other two girls, Callisto’s half-sisters, sobbing nearby.

  The heir to one of America’s most controversial royal families was never found, and two years ago, the family held a massive funeral for her. Televised—of course—because Vivian Avellino wanted the nation to see her as a grieving mother hell-bent on justice for child killers.

  The perfect platform from which to launch her political career.

  She’s supposed to be dead.

  I can’t fucking believe I didn’t recognize Callisto immediately, glasses or not. Sure, she’s changed in the six years she’s been off the grid. No more sparkly veneer of youth and wealth. She’s a woman now. Sharp edges and lush curves. Once pretty, now beautiful.

  And I almost had sex with her.

  I haven’t even begun to process that fact, or the self-loathing I felt after, when I realized how scared she looked as she fled. Or how fucking perfect she felt in my arms.

  If there’s one thing to be grateful for in the grand fuckery of the last twelve hours, it’s this morning’s disaster making it impossible to think much about Callisto.

  I barely slept, which made for a miserable visit with my mother, which is why I’m now dragging my feet up a walkway to a quaint, bright yellow house—to the only other person who might be able to help me get through to the stubborn matriarch of the McCowen family.

  “Please be home,” I mutter as I knock on the white door.

  A few moments later, the door swings open on my aunt. Though it’s been eight years since I last saw her, time has barely touched her. Tall and sturdy, she has crazy brown curls and big blue eyes with only the faintest of lines around them. Her mouth drops open at the sight of me.

  “Finnegan McCowen, what the holy hell are you doing here?”

  A tired smile tugs my lips. “Nice to see you too, Aunt Molly. Can I come in?”

  She glances over her shoulder, then darts onto the porch and pulls the door closed. “No, actually. I
have company.”

  “Ahh.” I smirk. “Good for you.”

  “Not that kind of company, you dolt.” She grabs my arm and drags me to the bench beside the door, shoving me down. Exactly like I’m five years old again and about to be put in a time-out.

  “You do know I’m an adult now, right?” I mutter.

  She settles beside me, angled toward me so she can scan my tired features like an X-ray machine. “You look grown, but not like an adult. Adults don’t avoid their families for a decade.”

  “Christ.” I drop my head into my hands. “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Oh, don’t pout.” She gives my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “I’m glad you’re here. You look like shit, though.”

  I heave a self-deprecating laugh. “Thanks. I feel like shit.” Steeling myself, I meet her gaze. “I need your help.”

  Before the sentence is out, Molly’s shaking her head. “Nuh-uh. I’m not mediating between you and your mother. That’s your business.”

  My bubbling frustration boils over. “Please, Aunt Mol. This isn’t a game, or some family squabble. If we don’t stop them now—”

  “I’m sorry, Finn,” she interjects gravely. “I know you’ve suffered at the hands of the Avellinos, but Meredith suffered, too. She lost your father, too. I had a front-row seat to the heartbreak almost killing her. It was for you—you and your sisters—that she let go of the hate and chose forgiveness. You can’t ask her to hate again.”

  The words burn, swallowed by the dark fury I’ve carried since I was eleven and watched my father’s casket being lowered into the earth.

  “He didn’t even serve the whole sentence,” I say, my gaze unfocused on the small, lovingly tended front yard.

  “He’s dead,” my aunt says simply. “I’d say justice still found him.”

  My fingers curl into fists. I don’t look at her, afraid the venom inside me will spill out, that she’ll never look at me the same way after knowing what lives inside me.

  “Am I the only one who doesn’t want to see Vivian Avellino become the fucking Governor of California? She announced last week. It’s all over the news!”

  “No, you’re not.” The soft, wavering voice comes from behind Molly, where the front door stands open.

  Callisto steps onto the porch, hugging a thick sweater over her chest. The glasses are gone. Her hair is in a messy topknot, her face clean of makeup. Dark shadows ring her eyes. A shaft of sunlight finds her face, and gold flares in her irises.

  I’m on my feet before my brain fully processes the movement. “What the hell is she doing here?”

  “Sit down,” snaps my aunt. “If you can’t behave yourself, Finnegan, you can leave. Calli is my guest.”

  My rage funnels to a savage point, directed at my aunt. “You know who she is? You’ve been harboring her? For how long?”

  Molly’s eyes narrow. “I’m not harboring anyone. She isn’t a criminal. Quite the opposite.”

  “Bullshit,” I snarl, slicing my gaze to Callisto. “What about your high school boyfriend? David Whoever? I wonder if he’d counter your statement.”

  The gold in her eyes dims. I feel a pinch in the vicinity of my conscience, right before I realize she isn’t hurt. She’s furious.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” she seethes, her breath short, chest rising and falling in swift rhythm and momentarily distracting me. “Like I said last night—”

  “Last night?” asks Molly, but Callisto’s on a roll and doesn’t hear her.

  “You don’t know anything about me! So you’ve read a few articles, watched some trashy exposés on nighttime TV?” She laughs, harsh and dry. “That makes you some kind of expert on me? On my family?”

  I’m on my feet, the porch-railing creaking under my clenching fingers. “Your family is full of crooked elitists and murderers. You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, staying with my aunt.” I turn to Molly. “And you. What the fuck, Aunt Mol? Her father killed your brother-in-law. My dad.”

  Callisto goes pale, shoulders deflating. “I didn’t know,” she says, slanting a glance at Molly. “Not until a few minutes ago. I would never have—”

  “Okay,” snaps Molly. “That’s enough, both of you. Get your asses into the house before the neighborhood starts taking notes.”

  “I’m sorry,” whispers Callisto aimlessly, then turns and slips through the front door.

  When I don’t follow, Molly growls, “Five seconds or I call your mother.”

  I drag my feet inside.

  7

  I’ve died. This is Hell. And the Devil wears the face of a murdered man’s son.

  Did my father kill Finn’s father? Maybe. Maybe not. But there’s little doubt in my mind he was responsible. And if not him, another Avellino. My family is a deep-sea octopus, many-armed, all of us poisonous.

  I don’t remember much about the trial that put my father in prison. I was young, obsessed with dolls and ponies, and he was often away on business, so extended absences weren’t unusual. The only time I was in the courtroom was the final day, and I later found out that Vivian gave me drugged milk so I stayed calm during the reading of the verdict. Her children—my younger sisters—stayed safe at home. They were insulated from the media storm, the cries of the victim’s family, while I heard it and felt it all, albeit through a haze of codeine.

  Even then, I was merely a pawn in their game.

  Was Finn there, too, that day in the courtroom? He must have been, must have been cheering in victory as my father was guided out in handcuffs.

  If he was, I could hardly blame him.

  It hurts, thinking about how Finn and his family must have suffered eight years ago when my father was released. The sentence overturned on appeal. A technicality. Lies.

  A gigantic payoff.

  I wish there was something I could say to ease his pain—I hate my father, too—but really, I’m just as responsible as anyone. After all, I’m an Avellino. My blood is corrupt.

  Molly and Finn are in the living room, their voices low and tense. I’m perched at the top of the stairs, caught between the desire to grab my duffel and run and the need to hear what they’re saying.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do,” insists Molly. “Until today, she had no idea who I was. She came to town a year ago, skinny as a stick and traumatized as all hell. I don’t know what she’s running from, but I can guess.”

  Finn scoffs. “You think, what, that her family tried to silence her? Come on, Mol. The Avellinos are psychos, but they wouldn’t kill one of their own.”

  Wrong.

  Closing my eyes, I see my uncle’s face. His tired eyes, bushy eyebrows, and stern mouth. The fear, the mania, and eventually, the resignation in him.

  So much of what I saw while visiting my uncle as a child only makes sense now. Closed doors and whispered conversations in Italian. Cash exchanged in manila envelopes. The two, one-way plane tickets to Italy I found in his coat pocket when he sent me to fetch his phone.

  He was planning to take me away.

  One visit—one of the last before his death—he brought me to his workshop to clean and oil his guns. There was whiskey on his breath and a mad light in his eyes.

  “I’ll keep you safe, Calli. They won’t ever find you, I promise.”

  This wasn’t the first time he’d spoken this way. “Who?” I asked, not expecting an answer. But this time was different.

  “Your father and that woman he married.”

  My hands stilled in their task and I gazed up at him, utterly confused. “But… they’re my parents. Why wouldn’t you want them to find me?”

  Midnight eyes glittered on me, dense with secrets. My father had the same eyes. So did I. Molten black, deepest bronze only in direct sunlight.

  He tapped his temple, smearing oil near his receding hairline. “Because of what’s in your head.”

  I trusted and loved my uncle.

  But he scared me, too.

  “I don�
�t understand,” I whispered.

  “Not now, but you will.” He nodded at the scarred table—my cue to get back to work.

  “Tell her to leave.”

  Finn’s voice lifts downstairs, scattering my thoughts.

  “Not happening,” comes Molly’s calm reply. “Whatever reason she’s here, it’s a good one, and I won’t turn her out just because you’re being a brat.”

  Finn groans. “Dammit, Mol.”

  “Now why don’t you tell me what really brought you here after all these years?”

  He’s silent for long moments, then, “I’m tired of living a lie, pretending everything is fucking rainbows. Dad’s dead because of that family, and no one cares. What’s that famous quote? ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing’? I can’t sit back and do nothing anymore.”

  “And the Bible says ‘Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.’ Hate is a heavy burden to bear, Finn. It’s changed you. You were such a wild, joyful child.”

  “Your dad being murdered changes you,” he says rigidly.

  “Of course it does, honey. I’m not saying you should forget the past. But you need to decide what you want from the future. What kind of life you want to live.”

  “One without Avellinos in the top levels of government.”

  She sighs. “Fine. Then do something. If it’s revenge you want, use all that money you’ve earned taking pictures and hire investigators to dig up dirt on Vivian Avellino. If you really think she’s a criminal, put a stop to her political aspirations.”

  My heart picks up speed. Maybe…

  “I already hired people,” replies Finn, and my rising hopes crash and burn. “Two, actually. Top-of-the-fucking-line PIs. One of them disappeared and the other one came back with nothing, then promptly retired to a tropical island.”

  My head thuds against the stairwell wall. While I’m not surprised, the reminder of what I escaped from is still shocking.