We walk side by side, Charlie on the path’s outer edge. I look into the house—look through those long, French windows—to see room after room, every one of them lit up.
I wonder if it’s all lit up for my benefit—so I can see how impressive the design is, how every detail has been considered. The long, winding hallway is lined with expensive art, with black-and-white photographs. The grand room has cathedral ceilings and deep wooden couches. And the farmhouse kitchen, which wraps around the back of the house, is accented with a terra-cotta floor and an enormous stone fireplace.
I keep thinking how Nicholas lives here alone. What is it like to live in a house like this alone?
The pathway winds around to a checkered veranda, which displays antique pillars and a breathtaking view of the lake—small boats twinkling in the distance, a canopy of oak trees, the cooling calm of the water itself.
And a moat.
This house, Nicholas Bell’s house, has its own moat. It’s a stark reminder that there is no getting in or out of here without explicit permission.
Charlie points at a row of chaise lounges, sitting down in one himself, the lake glistening in the distance.
I avoid meeting his eyes, staring out at the small boats instead. I know why I needed to come here. But now that I’m actually here, it feels like an error. Like I should have heeded Charlie’s warning, like nothing good is waiting inside.
“Take a seat anywhere,” Charlie says.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“He could be a little while,” Charlie says.
I lean against one of the pillars.
“I’m okay standing,” I say.
“Maybe it’s not you that you should be worrying about…”
I turn at the sound of a male’s voice, startled to find Nicholas standing in the back doorway. He has two dogs by his side, two large chocolate Labradors. Their eyes hold tightly on Nicholas.
“Those pillars aren’t as strong as they look,” he says.
I step away from the pillar. “Sorry about that,” I say.
“No, no. I kid, I just kid with you,” he says.
He waves his hand as he walks toward me, his fingers slightly crooked. This thin man with a struggling goatee—frail-looking with those arthritic fingers, his loose-fitting jeans, his cardigan sweater.
I bite on my lip, trying to hold my surprise in check. This isn’t the way I expected Nicholas to look—soft, gentle. He looks like someone’s loving grandfather. The way he talks so softly—with the slow cadence, the dry humor—he reminds me of my own loving grandfather.
“My wife bought those pillars from a monastery in France and had them shipped here in two pieces. A local artisan put them back together, returning them to their original presentation. They’re plenty sturdy.”
“They’re also beautiful,” I say.
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” he says. “My wife had a real flair for design. She picked everything that went into this house. Every last thing.”
He looks pained, even speaking of his wife.
“I don’t make it a habit of talking about the workmanship of my home, but I thought you’d appreciate a little history…” he says.
This stops me. Is Nicholas trying to suggest he knows what I do for a living? Could he know? Could there be a leak already? Or maybe I’m the leak. Maybe I said something to Charlie without realizing it. Something that has given us all away.
Either way, Nicholas is in charge now. Ten hours ago, that might not have been the case. But I changed all of that when I arrived in Austin. And now it’s Nicholas’s world. Austin is Nicholas’s world, and I’ve walked us back into it. As if cementing the point, two bodyguards walk outside—Ned and another guy. Both of them are large and unsmiling. Both of them stand right behind Nicholas.
Nicholas doesn’t acknowledge them. Instead he reaches out his hands to take mine. Like we are old friends. What choice do I have? I put my hand out, let him wrap his palms around mine.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you…” he says.
“Hannah,” I say. “You can call me Hannah.”
“Hannah,” he says.
He smiles—genuine and generous. And suddenly I’m more disturbed by that than I am by the idea of him presenting as the opposite. At what point was Owen standing in front of him thinking, Nicholas has to be good? How could he have a smile like that if he wasn’t? How could he have raised the woman who Owen loved?
It’s hard to look at him so I look down, toward the ground, toward the dogs.
Nicholas follows my eyes. Then he bends down, pets his dogs on the back of their heads.
“This is Casper and this is Leon,” he says.
“They’re gorgeous dogs.”
“They certainly are. Thank you. I brought them here from Germany. We are in the middle of their Schutzhund training.”
“Meaning what?” I say.
“The official translation is ‘protection dog.’ They’re supposed to keep their owners safe. I just think they’re good company.” He pauses. “Did you want to pet them?”
I don’t think it’s a threat, but it also doesn’t feel like an invitation, at least not one I’m interested in accepting.
I look over at Charlie, who is still lying down on his chaise lounge, his elbow covering his eyes. His casual pose seems forced, almost like he is as uncomfortable being at his father’s as I am. But then Nicholas reaches out, puts his hand on his son’s shoulder. And Charlie holds his father’s hand there.
“Hey, Pop.”
“Long night, kid?” Nicholas says.
“You could say that.”
“Let’s get you a drink then,” he says. “You want a scotch?”
“That sounds great,” he says. “That sounds perfect.”
Charlie looks up at his father, sincere and open. And I understand that I misread his anxiety. Whatever he’s feeling badly about, it doesn’t seem to be about his father, whose hand he still holds.
Grady was apparently correct about that much—whoever Nicholas might have been in his professional life, however ugly or dangerous, he’s also the man that
