“You haven’t heard, then?” Veronica said with what could have been sympathy or delight.
Mariella compressed her lips, waiting for Veronica to continue, knowing that the older woman was going to run like a freight train now.
“There’s some talk that it wasn’t an accident.” Veronica leaned closer, lowering her tone to an urgent whisper. “I’ve heard that his car was run off the road. Deliberately.”
“What?” The word escaped as air leaving a balloon. The very idea was anathema to her. It was impossible, surely!
“That’s what they’re saying...”
“What who’s saying?” Mariella demanded, but inside, there was a tornado of anger and doubt, of worry and grief.
“Well, everyone at the salon this morning.” The salon. The word was imbued with as much inference and scandal as possible. How could two small syllables contain such secrecy and gloating?
Mariella had to employ every single tool in her arsenal to remain unaffected. She shook her head slowly and rolled her eyes heavenward. “People will say a lot of things,” she murmured dismissively. The brakes failed. Or perhaps it was an animal. Or the sun bouncing off the ocean at just the wrong time. Her mind offered the scenarios that the police had given. Her mind was trying to comfort her. “But they’re not always true.”
He drove that road all the time. He knew every turn and pothole. It wasn’t such a sunny day, and he always wore sunglasses. The car, like our whole fleet of luxury vehicles, was inspected regularly. Her heart and stomach were overrun with doubts. She felt a bead of perspiration on the top of her lip. She needed to shake free of Veronica.
She needed...she didn’t know what she needed.
“Hmm.” Veronica pondered this pronouncement as though they were philosophizing hypothetically and not discussing the very real question of whether or not someone had made an attempt on Harrison’s life. “We shall see, I suppose.”
Mariella was coming close to losing her temper. “I have to go, Veronica. I’m pleased you’re happy with the wedding menu.”
Veronica’s eyes widened. Had she forgotten the pretext for this little tête-à-tête?
“Goodbye.” Mariella clipped across the marble floor, lifting her sunglasses out as she went and sliding them in place. A small group of paparazzi was waiting when she emerged. She flashed them a smile that felt heavy on her face and moved to her car.
“What’s the latest on Mr. Marshall?”
“Have you seen Harrison today?”
“Were you at his interview?”
“Is it true SBPD has ruled the accident suspicious?”
“Who would have it in for your husband, Mrs. Santiago-Marshall?”
She lifted a hand, her palm showing her lack of desire to engage with the pack. She slipped into her car and fired the engine, driving out of the parking lot more speedily than normal. Her heart was racing and, as she came to the end of the drive, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
Mariella thumped the steering wheel hard, her eyes lifting automatically to the rearview mirror to be sure no paparazzi had followed her and witnessed her telltale gesture of meltdown.
No one was behind her, but she turned the car into traffic and wove in and out of cars, wanting to put as much space as possible between herself and the Polo Club.
Speculation on the cause of the accident was inevitable. It had to just be rumor and misinformation. If there was any concrete evidence of foul play, surely the police would have informed her. Hell, they’d probably have suspected her. Her fingers dragged around the leather of the steering wheel, squeezing it tightly. Wasn’t that how these things usually went? Wife secretly hates husband, cuts brakes of his car? Except Mariella loved Harrison, and anyone who knew them would testify to that.
So where was this story coming from?
She thought back to what the police detective had said when he’d told her about Harrison’s crash, and her mind was blank. She’d still been reeling from the initial bombshell. “Accident investigators might prove me wrong, but it looks like Mr. Marshall lost control of the Bugatti as he navigated a particularly sharp corner. He swiped a boulder and the car lifted, the immense power flipping it over. Mr. Marshall wasn’t wearing his seat belt, and he was tossed through the windshield only seconds before the car crashed through the guardrail and tumbled down the cliff.”
Nothing conclusive had been said. Some theories had been floated, but had they been more in the manner of looking to placate her? They were vague and uncertain, nothing she could grab hold of and take comfort from. She took the turnoff toward the clinic, checking her rearview mirror, making sure she wasn’t being followed. Harrison’s location had to remain a secret. If, in fact, it still was. What possible reason could a network have for lying about an exclusive interview? Unless one of the nurses or doctors had provided information?
Her heart began to race faster.
Mariella simply wanted the world to stop. She wanted everybody to be silent so that she could think and see clearly. Who was her husband? If it wasn’t an accident, what possible reason could someone have had to wish to hurt him? And did that same person want to hurt her? Her children and Gabe? Were they all in danger?
She drove a little faster. She needed answers, and the clinic seemed like the best place to find them.
* * *
The house was eerily quiet. The usual servants were nowhere to be seen. Luc moved softly up the stairs, as though his footsteps might disturb someone or something if he wasn’t careful.
He didn’t have long. His mom was at the Polo Club, and Rafe and Elana would be halfway to the clinic by now. They’d be livid if they knew he’d doubled back to the house—but they wouldn’t know.
Luc’s being at Casa de Catalina was his little secret.
Yet they’d be expecting him at the clinic, and if he took too long to arrive, it would bring up questions he’d rather not deal with.
He heard a noise and paused, frowning, trying to detect which direction it came from. His eyes lifted, skimming the hallway and inadvertently meeting his own reflection in a large mirror opposite.
His brother had done a number on Luc’s face. He lifted a finger and patted the bruise gingerly, wincing as pain radiated through his cheekbone and toward his ear. Bastard caught him by surprise, that was all. If he had his time again, Luc wouldn’t let Rafe get away with it.
Another noise. Like metallic blinds hitting a window. It was coming from his father’s home office—the sanctuary that they’d all been told again and again was off-limits. Luc’s smile was grim. There were certain times when rules begged to be broken.
He pushed the door inward and was rewarded with the sight of the one person he needed to speak to, the sole reason he’d returned to Casa Cat instead of proceeding to the clinic.
He spoke first, the fear of being caught making the words tumble from his mouth. “I know it’s dangerous for me to be here.” He moved deeper into the office, pushing the door shut behind him to give them privacy. “But I had no choice. We need to talk, and it won’t wait.”
The tangle of nerves in her stomach was jangling louder and louder. Each step she took down the tiled corridor of the clinic filled her with a wave of nauseating anxiety. Not that you’d know it by looking at Mariella. She was a study in chic cool, even under these circumstances. But behind her dark sunglasses, her eyes were awash with emotion.
The business at the Polo Club had upset her. Even the hour-long drive to the isolated clinic