“How much are the Talbots asking?”
“Two point four million.”
I whistled. “Wow. Damn proud of this place, those Talbots.”
We walked under a trellised rosebush to the front door, but Trey didn’t knock. This was familiar territory for him, rolling up in some civilian’s yard with a list of pointed questions and a suspicious eye.
I leaned closer. “What are we—?”
“Shhh.”
I heard it then, from inside. Footsteps. Trey adjusted his posture into a neutral stance, ready to react should the door open and some unexpected assailant take a swing at us. Luckily, that didn’t happen. The man who opened up was dressed for business. Despite his chiseled chin and expertly highlighted chestnut hair, he was too rough to be handsome—what might have been good looks were dampened by the downturned frown lines at the corner of his mouth. I could see his resemblance to Nick in his build and profile, but nowhere else. Whatever softness Nick possessed had turned hard in his brother.
He examined Trey with a sharp, reductive gaze. “It really is you.”
Trey didn’t say anything. He didn’t even open his mouth, just stared, the words stuck in his throat.
I took the lead. “Quint Talbot?”
“Of course. Who else would I be?” He didn’t ask my name, just walked back into the house, waving us in. “Let’s get this over with, I have things to do.”
Inside the house smelled stale and cold. It was empty of furniture—no drapes, no rugs, no art on the white walls—and Trey’s footsteps echoed against cool marble tile. The metal staircase curved upward like a double helix to the second floor, its blond oak steps the only color in the room.
Trey stood at the foot of it. Quint stood opposite him, impatiently buttoning his cuffs.
“You look different,” he said.
Trey thought about that. “I am different.”
Quint’s eyes flashed with surprise, then he laughed. “Touché.” He pulled on a suit jacket. “You got questions, you better ask them. I—”
His phone rang. He glanced at it, narrowed his eyes, then silenced it with a tap of his finger, obviously annoyed. I wondered if it was Nick he was ignoring, or perhaps Portia, or perhaps the trio of investors he’d dodged. I’d spent five minutes with Quint Talbot, and I already knew he trailed pissed-off people like a wake.
He switched his gaze back to Trey. “You have five minutes.”
Trey’s hesitation vanished. “Your brother said you were here the night of the alleged shooting.”
“Alleged?” Quint snorted. “Try imaginary.”
“Could you elaborate?”
“I was in here, going over the staging paperwork. I—”
“Where exactly?”
“Right here.” He moved his hands to indicate a rectangle. “There used to be a table, but the Buckwild people took it. Nicky was outside sucking down a cigarette. I’d told him I could bring the paperwork to his place, but he insisted on coming out here. Had some idea that it would help him process the trauma.”
“Where was he standing?”
Quint pointed toward the bank of glass doors. “Over by the diving board. I took a call. Suddenly I hear this earsplitting scream, and I run to the door, but Nicky’s already running back inside.” He shrugged. “That’s it. You want more detail than that, talk to Nicky.”
I could see the backyard through the windows along the rear wall, terraced grasses and bedraggled flower beds surrounding a stamped concrete patio. A kidney-shaped pool shimmered with water as blue as a South Seas lagoon—unlike the landscaping, it was pristine. Freshly serviced, I decided. Thick stands of trees created a privacy screen between the backyard and the surrounding properties. Had I not just walked across one of the busiest streets in Atlanta, I would have sworn we were at the edge of a great wilderness.
Quint’s phone rang again. He stuck his hand in his pocket and silenced it again, this time without even glancing at the screen.
“Who called you that night?” Trey said.
“The Buckwild showrunner, making arrangements to pick up the last of their crap. Which they did last night, only they also took my security cameras, every damn one. What good is a system without cameras?”
“None at all.”
“Exactly right.” He shot his sleeves, adjusted his tie. “Look, I told Finn I’d cooperate with Nicky’s…whatever this is. But the situation’s cut and dried. Nicky imagined everything. It never happened.”
“How do you know?”
“I didn’t hear a gun, for starters. But I searched for a bullet the next morning, just in case. Didn’t find a thing. Nothing. Zippo.” He fixed us with a look. “You do know about my brother’s mental instability, right? Paranoid delusions. He’s supposedly fine now, but I’m not so sure. He’s been more unstable than usual.”
“How?”
“His routine has gone to hell, for starters. He’s insisting on being a part of the house sale, so he’s meeting realtors etcetera etcetera etcetera. He’s insisting on being at the press party this weekend, when I’ve told him over and over I have it under control. I blame Addison—that’s his fiancée. She’s currently petitioning to be his sole conservator, which makes her as crazy as he is, but is anybody listening to me? No. Nicky may be nuts, but he can be very persuasive when he’s trying to make you think he’s not. People don’t understand that.”
He said this as an accusation. As if we were also trapped in one of Nick Talbot’s delusional webs.
Trey kept his expression professionally bland. “Does Ms. Canright agree with your assessment?”
“Addison makes sure he takes his meds, that’s her contribution. Tracks his cholesterol, feeds him vitamins. Homeopathic bullshit. But she has no clue how seriously fucked up he is.”
Trey had been watching Quint this entire time without registering a single lie. I could tell when he spotted one of those. It was like a hawk spying a squirrel. But he’d betrayed nothing.
“Am I understanding correctly,” he said, “that you don’t believe there was an attempt on your brother’s life Friday night?”
“You understand perfectly.” Quint buttoned his
