"In the kitchen," she explained, and he nodded, already heading off in that direction.
Emily followed her father upstairs into the bedroom he'd converted to an office years ago, and he sat down behind his desk, which was the only clear surface in the house, if one discounted the coating of dust. The credenza and file cabinets that lined the wall behind him were covered with dozens and dozens of framed photographs of Emily—Emily as an infant, a toddler, a child of four, Emily in her ballet tutu, in her Halloween costume, in the costume she wore for her first starring role; Emily at thirteen with her hair in a pony tail, at fifteen with her first corsage from a boy. Now, as Emily looked at the photographs, she realized for the first time that he was with her in nearly all of them. And then she noticed something else—the light from the lamp on his dusty desk was shining brightly on the glass inserts in all the picture frames as if they'd been recently cleaned.
"Whadyou want t'know about, honey?" he asked, taking a swallow of his drink.
Emily considered mentioning his need for some sort of treatment for what had clearly become an alcohol addiction, but the last two times she'd brought that up, his reaction had been first crushed and then enraged. Summoning her courage, she plunged tactfully into the matter at hand. "Dad, you know how grateful I am for the way you've put all my money into a trust fund and managed it for me all these years. You do know that?" she prompted when he crossed his arms and seemed to stare through her.
"Sure, I do. I've socked away every cent you made and guarded it with my life. I never took anything for myself but an hourly wage of twenty dollars and only when you insisted I had to do it. You were so cute that day," he said wistfully. "Sixteen years old and confronting your old dad like a mature woman, telling me that if I didn't draw a larger salary, you were going to fire me."
"That's right," Emily said absently. "So I don't want you to think for a moment I have any doubts about your integrity when I ask you the next question. I'm only trying to understand your reasoning. I'm not complaining about the money I lost."
"Money you lost?" he said angrily. "What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean the $4 million you invested in Tony Austin Productions over the past five years. The stock is worthless. Why did you do it, Dad? You know I hated him, and I always had the feeling you despised him even more."
For a moment he didn't move, then he slowly raised his head, his eyes like sunken, burning coals, and Emily unknowingly pressed back into her chair. "Austin…" he said softly, his smile turning first malicious, then soothing. "You don't have to worry about him anymore, honey. I took care of him. We won't have to buy any more of his phoney stock. We'll keep it all our little secret."
"Why did we have to buy his phoney stock in the first place?" Emily said, unaccountably nervous about his expression, his voice, and the gloom of the poorly lit room.
"He made me do it. I didn't want to. Now, he's dead, and I don't have to."
"How could he possibly make you invest $4 million of my money in his company if you didn't want to?" she demanded more sharply than she intended.
"Don't you use that tone on me, Missy!" he snapped in a sudden rage. "I'll show you the back of my hand."
Emily was so startled by this unprecedented threat from a man who'd never raised a hand to her in her life that she stood up. "We'll discuss this some other time when you're rational!"
"Wait!" With surprising speed, he reached across the desk and grabbed her arm. "Don't leave me, honey. I'm scared. That's all. I haven't slept in days because I'm so scared. I'd never hurt you. You know that."
He looked suddenly and truly terrified, and Emily was shaken by that. Patting his hand, feeling like the parent, not the child, she said gently, "I won't go, Daddy. Don't be scared. Tell me what's wrong. I'll understand."
"You'll keep it a secret? Cross your heart?" She nodded, wincing at the childlike plea. "Austin made me buy that stock. He—he was blackmailing us. For five long years, that bastard has been bleeding us for money."
"Us?" she blurted with a mixture of disbelief and impatience.
"You and I are a team. What happens to one, happens to the other, doesn't it?"
"I—I guess so," she said warily, trying to keep her inner shaking from affecting her voice. "Why was Tony blackmailing … us?"
"Because," her father said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "he knew we killed Rachel."
Emily lurched out of her chair and stood stock still, gaping at him. "That's crazy! You—you must be so drunk you're hallucinating! What possible reason could you have had for killing Zack's wife?"
"None."
Emily braced her flattened hands on his desk. "Why are you talking like this? It's crazy."
"Don't ever say that to me! That's what he said, and it's a lie! I'm not crazy. I'm scared, why can't you understand that?" he said, his voice switching to a whine.
"Who said you're crazy, Dad? And why are you afraid?" she asked patiently, as if she were addressing a confused, befuddled octogenarian.
"Austin said I was crazy the night I killed him."
"Zachary Benedict killed Tony Austin," she said firmly. "Everyone thinks so."
His eyes turned wild with fear and he tossed down the rest of his drink. "Everyone doesn't think so!" he cried, slamming his glass on the desk. "Men—private investigators—have come to talk to me twice since that night. They want me to account for where I was when it happened. They're working for somebody, they have to be, but they won't tell me who it is. Someone suspects me, honey, don't you see? They've figured out Austin was blackmailing me, and pretty soon they'll figure out why he was, and then they'll know I killed Rachel and Austin."
Trying to sound skeptical when every fiber of her body was vibrating with wild alarm, Emily said, "Why would you kill Rachel?"
He raked his hands through his hair. "Don't be dense—I meant to kill Austin! I wanted to kill him. I wanted him to die, but that stupid Benedict changed his mind about who should fire the first shot—Austin or Rachel,"
Emily dragged air through her constricted lungs. "Why did you want to kill Tony?"
"You know why!" he said, collapsing in his chair with tears beginning to drip from his eyes. "He gave my baby girl drugs and he got her pregnant. You thought I didn't know, but I did," he grated, closing his eyes. "You'd been getting sick in the mornings, and I called that doctor's office in Dallas to find out what was wrong, and the nurse told me. She thought I was your husband when she heard my name." Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he said on a sob, "You were only sixteen years old, and he got you pregnant and let you go all by yourself to have an abortion. And all the while, he was carrying on with that slut—Rachel—and they were laughing behind your back. Ever since you got married, Austin's been threatening to tell your husband that he got you pregnant … and about what you did."
Emily followed her father upstairs into the bedroom he'd converted to an office years ago, and he sat down behind his desk, which was the only clear surface in the house, if one discounted the coating of dust. The credenza and file cabinets that lined the wall behind him were covered with dozens and dozens of framed photographs of Emily—Emily as an infant, a toddler, a child of four, Emily in her ballet tutu, in her Halloween costume, in the costume she wore for her first starring role; Emily at thirteen with her hair in a pony tail, at fifteen with her first corsage from a boy. Now, as Emily looked at the photographs, she realized for the first time that he was with her in nearly all of them. And then she noticed something else—the light from the lamp on his dusty desk was shining brightly on the glass inserts in all the picture frames as if they'd been recently cleaned.
"Whadyou want t'know about, honey?" he asked, taking a swallow of his drink.
Emily considered mentioning his need for some sort of treatment for what had clearly become an alcohol addiction, but the last two times she'd brought that up, his reaction had been first crushed and then enraged. Summoning her courage, she plunged tactfully into the matter at hand. "Dad, you know how grateful I am for the way you've put all my money into a trust fund and managed it for me all these years. You do know that?" she prompted when he crossed his arms and seemed to stare through her.
"Sure, I do. I've socked away every cent you made and guarded it with my life. I never took anything for myself but an hourly wage of twenty dollars and only when you insisted I had to do it. You were so cute that day," he said wistfully. "Sixteen years old and confronting your old dad like a mature woman, telling me that if I didn't draw a larger salary, you were going to fire me."
"That's right," Emily said absently. "So I don't want you to think for a moment I have any doubts about your integrity when I ask you the next question. I'm only trying to understand your reasoning. I'm not complaining about the money I lost."
"Money you lost?" he said angrily. "What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean the $4 million you invested in Tony Austin Productions over the past five years. The stock is worthless. Why did you do it, Dad? You know I hated him, and I always had the feeling you despised him even more."
For a moment he didn't move, then he slowly raised his head, his eyes like sunken, burning coals, and Emily unknowingly pressed back into her chair. "Austin…" he said softly, his smile turning first malicious, then soothing. "You don't have to worry about him anymore, honey. I took care of him. We won't have to buy any more of his phoney stock. We'll keep it all our little secret."
"Why did we have to buy his phoney stock in the first place?" Emily said, unaccountably nervous about his expression, his voice, and the gloom of the poorly lit room.
"He made me do it. I didn't want to. Now, he's dead, and I don't have to."
"How could he possibly make you invest $4 million of my money in his company if you didn't want to?" she demanded more sharply than she intended.
"Don't you use that tone on me, Missy!" he snapped in a sudden rage. "I'll show you the back of my hand."
Emily was so startled by this unprecedented threat from a man who'd never raised a hand to her in her life that she stood up. "We'll discuss this some other time when you're rational!"
"Wait!" With surprising speed, he reached across the desk and grabbed her arm. "Don't leave me, honey. I'm scared. That's all. I haven't slept in days because I'm so scared. I'd never hurt you. You know that."
He looked suddenly and truly terrified, and Emily was shaken by that. Patting his hand, feeling like the parent, not the child, she said gently, "I won't go, Daddy. Don't be scared. Tell me what's wrong. I'll understand."
"You'll keep it a secret? Cross your heart?" She nodded, wincing at the childlike plea. "Austin made me buy that stock. He—he was blackmailing us. For five long years, that bastard has been bleeding us for money."
"Us?" she blurted with a mixture of disbelief and impatience.
"You and I are a team. What happens to one, happens to the other, doesn't it?"
"I—I guess so," she said warily, trying to keep her inner shaking from affecting her voice. "Why was Tony blackmailing … us?"
"Because," her father said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "he knew we killed Rachel."
Emily lurched out of her chair and stood stock still, gaping at him. "That's crazy! You—you must be so drunk you're hallucinating! What possible reason could you have had for killing Zack's wife?"
"None."
Emily braced her flattened hands on his desk. "Why are you talking like this? It's crazy."
"Don't ever say that to me! That's what he said, and it's a lie! I'm not crazy. I'm scared, why can't you understand that?" he said, his voice switching to a whine.
"Who said you're crazy, Dad? And why are you afraid?" she asked patiently, as if she were addressing a confused, befuddled octogenarian.
"Austin said I was crazy the night I killed him."
"Zachary Benedict killed Tony Austin," she said firmly. "Everyone thinks so."
His eyes turned wild with fear and he tossed down the rest of his drink. "Everyone doesn't think so!" he cried, slamming his glass on the desk. "Men—private investigators—have come to talk to me twice since that night. They want me to account for where I was when it happened. They're working for somebody, they have to be, but they won't tell me who it is. Someone suspects me, honey, don't you see? They've figured out Austin was blackmailing me, and pretty soon they'll figure out why he was, and then they'll know I killed Rachel and Austin."
Trying to sound skeptical when every fiber of her body was vibrating with wild alarm, Emily said, "Why would you kill Rachel?"
He raked his hands through his hair. "Don't be dense—I meant to kill Austin! I wanted to kill him. I wanted him to die, but that stupid Benedict changed his mind about who should fire the first shot—Austin or Rachel,"
Emily dragged air through her constricted lungs. "Why did you want to kill Tony?"
"You know why!" he said, collapsing in his chair with tears beginning to drip from his eyes. "He gave my baby girl drugs and he got her pregnant. You thought I didn't know, but I did," he grated, closing his eyes. "You'd been getting sick in the mornings, and I called that doctor's office in Dallas to find out what was wrong, and the nurse told me. She thought I was your husband when she heard my name." Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he said on a sob, "You were only sixteen years old, and he got you pregnant and let you go all by yourself to have an abortion. And all the while, he was carrying on with that slut—Rachel—and they were laughing behind your back. Ever since you got married, Austin's been threatening to tell your husband that he got you pregnant … and about what you did."
