Hemlock Veils (32 page)

“Ms. Ashton!”
Henry stood so quickly his chair knocked to the tile. That same discomfort saturated the silence, only tripled in intensity now. Her eyes challenged his, and his face darkened. “
Out
side. I need a word.”

“If you don’t like the way I’m talking, Mr. Clayton, you’re free to leave.” She folded her arms and looked to the others. “That goes for everyone.”

With that, all who were sitting stood, and every single body except hers and Henry’s filed out the door, one after the other and all silently. Taggart shook his head and Regina was the last through. The fact that she went at all made Elizabeth’s arms hang, as well as her heart. “I’m sorry, Beth,” she said before leaving.

It was just her and Henry now, his brow fierce and caramel eyes fiery. “Are you satisfied now? You’ve pushed everyone away.”

She stepped toward him, her chest so afire she could hardly speak. “All I’ve done is stood up for what’s right in this town. I’ve been true to myself, Mr. Clayton, true to
him
. That’s more than I can say for you.”

He recoiled.

“You want to hide?” she added. “Fine. But I won’t.”

“
What
am I hiding from?”

She swallowed. He couldn’t know she knew; things were bad enough as they were. “I won’t sit back anymore,” she said instead, sidestepping his question. “Not when an innocent soul is being treated—”

“He’s being treated the way he deserves! Can’t you just let it be? You’ve done nothing but turn this town upside-down, and now people are getting hurt.”

“No one is getting hurt.”

“
You
are, Ms. Ashton.”

She blinked, and for the briefest instant, that warmth showed through his eyes. And she understood. She understood why he was so angry, and why he wanted her to stay out of things. But she couldn’t, and no matter how altruistic his reason was, it infuriated her. “But what about
him
? He may not matter to anyone else, not even to himself, but he matters to me.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and painful-sounding, since his jaw was clamped. “Ms. Ashton, you’re going to destroy your new business. I suggest you rethink the road you’re headed down.” He slammed himself into the door and was through it before she could argue.

***

Henry pushed through Jean’s door with a force that left it slamming against the window. It may have been morning, but he sweated already. As he crossed the street to Arne, who had a look of question in his eyes, Henry removed his tie with two quick movements. When Arne opened his door, he threw it in the car, along with his suit jacket, and then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt; the collar suffocating.

“Rough morning?” Arne asked cautiously.

Henry paced back and forth on the sidewalk, the door to the car open, waiting. His heart beat in all his limbs, quick and heavy. “She’s impossible. She’s going to be her own downfall.” He stopped, meeting Arne’s eyes. “I’m only trying to help her, Arne. How can she not see that?”

“Henry,” he said, too softly, “perhaps it’s you who needs to see.”

He didn’t want to stick around to hear it; instead he marched back into her shop. “Dammit, Ms. Ashton,” he said, making her turn in surprise. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

She stood behind the counter, close to the doorway of the kitchen, and folded her arms. “You came back just to ask why I’m stubborn, Mr. Clayton?”

He took four giant steps toward her and she stood her ground, craning her neck to meet his eyes while the magnetism between them pulled more forcefully than it ever had. “You don’t know what you’re doing to yourself. I’m trying to prevent you from making the biggest mistake of your life.”

“It’s not your job to prevent me from making mistakes. And I do know. I know what can come out of this, what already has. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Then
why
?”

“As far as
I
can see, I’m the only one with any sense around here. And if I lose my job and my friends and the place I love just for that, then so be it.”

“He’s worth all that?”

“Yes.”

God, how his chest hurt. How it ached with the hottest of fires. He wanted to crumble at her feet, but with a sharp exhalation, he clenched his hand into a fist. “You’re infuriating. And too…”

“Too what, Mr. Clayton?”

“Too damn perfect!” His shallow breath came quickly, and she unfolded her arms. He wanted to run, hide from what he tried so hard to keep from her, but instead added, “You don’t do anything like a normal person. It’s human nature to protect yourself, Ms. Ashton, to protect your livelihood. But you’re too damn good to care about your own life, because you’re caring about everyone else’s. You’ve probably never done a thing wrong in your life, have you?”

The look in her eyes made him regret it immediately. “You mean aside from nearly chasing after Brian with a broken piece of glass?” He shook his head, but she went on, “You want to know why I ran from California, Mr. Clayton?” She swallowed. “I suppose this is as good a time as any.”

After a brief look of resolve, a certain deadness came over her, her eyes staring at the floor and nothing at the same time. In the short seconds that followed, it seemed she’d surrendered. To what, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t believe he was about to hear what he’d been digging for since the day she’d come into town. “I deserve this,” she admitted.

He huffed.

“I stole.”

His eyes forgot how to blink.

“That money, the money I’m using to pay for this place, the money I bought my house with. I stole it from Mr. Vanderzee.”

“Is this your idea of a joke, Ms. Ashton?”

The way her brows pulled together suggested great pain, her façade beginning to slide down like melting snow on a rooftop. He waited for the words…“It’s no joke.”

His chest closed in on him, the disappointment leaving him breathless. It all made sense. “You lied,” was all he could manage.

“I never lied. Legally, that money is mine. And legally, I can use it. I
have
to.” Before he could question her, she sighed and leaned against the wall, as though the revelation of her secret had released a burden. Her eyes were glassy as she began explaining, about her brother and his addiction and his lies, and how Mr. Vanderzee hated the way she always helped him. She’d turned something off inside her, something that allowed her to disconnect from the situation she explained.

Then she said, with a hint of the emotion she fought against, “He…was going to die. He came to me and said if he didn’t pay off one of his debtors, they would kill him. And at first I denied it. But…then I saw it in his eyes: he
was
dead.” Her brows scrunched together and she stared so intently to the side she appeared to be examining her own thoughts. “There was something in him, something that said his life was over. And I was…desperate. I never planned on it. But one of Mr. Vanderzee’s accounts had no purpose…”

Henry wiped a hand down his face and grasped the counter.

“He hated Willem, hated what he did to me. And I knew he would never agree to it. I had only hours to decide if I wanted him to live, and I thought if I could just save his life, maybe that would be the one thing that could bring him back. Because it would all be worth it—going to prison, paying for what I did—if Willem would just…come back.”

Slowly, gradually, a breath seeped through her lips. Her face—beautiful even in shame—darkened a shade. “I knew what would become of me, Mr. Clayton. But I had nothing without Willem because every second, I lived for him. Without him, my life had no purpose. I also had a promise to live up to, the promise to my father that I would never give up on my brother.” She met his eyes, and it was the first time Henry had ever seen tears welling in hers. “I told him I would never give up. So how could I…how could I let him die?”

It seemed she didn’t want him to answer, for she already asked him another question. “And you know what happened instead?”

Again he didn’t answer.

“Willem got shot anyway, right in front of me.” A tear weaseled its way down her cheek, subtle and trying to sneak out unnoticed. “I had the money, all one-hundred-thousand, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough for them, for him
or
his killer, and I knew then I should have
always
known. I was a fool, and have been since I began taking care of him. Everything I did was wrong, Mr. Clayton.
Everything.
”

Her breaths turned shallow, as though suffocation threatened her, and she held the pendant of her locket, staring at it. “I gave up my integrity to save him and he died anyway.” With the knitting of her brow, more tears fled her eyes, racing to join the first. Henry’s presence seemed forgotten, her confession only to herself.

“The money…” he urged.

“I tried to give it back to Mr. Vanderzee. Before Willem was shot, I knew he and I were both dead, and there was no way the killer was going to take our lives
and
Mr. Vanderzee’s money—not if I could help it. The cops came, just in time, just before…he could shoot me.” The look in her eyes said it all: that part of her wished he had.

“Mr. Vanderzee showed up at the hospital after they proclaimed my brother dead. And I thought I was going to prison. I
wanted
it.” She met Henry’s eyes. “But he wanted something worse.”

A smile born of irony lifted the corner of her mouth. “And it turns out that account wasn’t so pointless after all. Turns out it was for me. He was building it up for
me
, so that someday, when I decided to rid my life of my brother and start living one for myself, I would have something to start it with.” She shook her head, her voice an uneven, off-pitch song. “So I
stole
from a man who was trying to give me everything.”

She straightened, sniffing, trying to brush it aside. “He wouldn’t take it back, told me I
had
to keep it, because he knew making me use it would be a worse punishment than prison. He told me I could never come back to L.A., and wherever I went, I had to make a life for myself. And if I refused, or if he ever found out I gave it away or spent it on anyone else, he wouldn’t just have me thrown in prison for stealing, but he would put me away as an accomplice for Willem’s murder.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Not for him. And maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the money. Maybe I should have just taken whatever punishment he would have inflicted on me if I refused. I suppose that makes me a worse person.” She wouldn’t even glance at him now, as though the floor was the only thing deserving of her gaze. “That was why he was so insistent on me buying your house. He had to make sure I lived up to my end of the deal.” Finally, she looked at him, and it seemed to take a lot of willpower. “You said before I’m not a monster, Mr. Clayton, but I am.”

“Ms. Ashton,” he began, short-fused. “Nothing short of murdering your brother—”

“
Because
of me, my brother is dead, Mr. Clayton! Don’t you see that?” As though her locket had transformed into a poisonous scorpion, she yanked it off, the chain ripping away from her neck and sending tiny pieces of silver through the air. She threw it across the shop, where it hit the brick wall with a clink and fell to the tile.

Nothing but her heightened breathing filled the silence. “The brave Ms. Ashton,” he said, almost to himself. “The brave Ms. Ashton who hasn’t cried a tear in eleven years.”

She ground her teeth and turned away, and her trembling said she tried to keep the meltdown inside. “Get out of here, Mr. Clayton,” she said with a breath between every word. “I’ll be out of town as soon as you want, just please leave me alone.” She disappeared through the doorway of the kitchen and he made a mad dash for the front door, about to give her all the space in the world.

But he stopped with the door ajar, spotting her broken locket on the floor. The pendant was open, a silver butterfly flexing its wings on the tile. He let the door close and walked to the necklace, crouching. Holding it in his palm, he studied it. And the pictures twisted his heart: the pictures of a young Elizabeth with windblown hair, too young to know what life would hold, and an even younger boy—Willem. Her brother squinted in the sun, carefree and happy, and Henry knew it was this image she held onto—the one she used to remember when holding to her father’s promise.

His chest swelled, his throat closed, and with breaths that became difficult, he closed it in his palm and stood, putting it in the warmth of his pocket. He turned toward the kitchen, whose doorway was empty. He heard her movement inside, and regardless of how she wanted him gone, he couldn’t leave.

He peeked inside. Her back was pressed against the wall, her hands over her mouth as she appeared on the verge of hyperventilation. The idea seemed to panic her. Then it came out, sobs that violently shook her shoulders and left her body sliding down the wall. There, crouched next to the large refrigerator that hummed as loudly as it had when he was a boy, she wept into her hands, finally releasing years of pent-up emotions.

When he stepped toward her, she looked up at him with a start, rising to her feet and turning away. With her back to him, she wiped her eyes. “Mr. Clayton, what are you doing here? I told you to leave.” She tried to make her voice strong, as she usually did.

He didn’t answer, since he didn’t know what to say, and instead touched her shoulder. It still trembled, since she hadn’t been able to turn off the downpour. She inched away from his hand and between sobs that sounded only somewhat controlled, she managed, “Go.”

Touching her again, he turned her to him, and she pushed away. But her resistance was brief because before he knew it she was crying into his chest, grasping his shirt. He wrapped his arms around her, pushing her to his heart, and one hand stroked her hair. The sensation filled him with both wholeness and an ache for her sorrow. She cried for a long moment, but he would have held her endlessly.

“Everything’s all right,” he breathed a few times, closing his eyes as he rested his chin atop her head. All he’d ever wanted was to hold her, not in the way he did at night, but to hold her as a man holds a woman, her body against his and her hair between his fingers. She felt so good here, and the rightness turned to warmth in his core, which nearly took his breath.