Free The Ones We Trust by Kimberly Belle Page A

from a handlebar on her tricycle, then peddles off down the hall.
    My brother and his wife, Betsy, have a gorgeous home, rambling and gleaming with polished marble and dark hardwoods. Its rooms would be magazine worthy, were it not for the two toddlers who live here. Sippy cups and empty food wrappers and a trail of toys leading from room to room, like a messy Hansel and Gretel chain of clues. It’s as if Mike and Betsy, who before they had kids would roll their eyes with disdain at their less tidy friends, have given up trying to maintain any semblance of order. I don’t know what their descent into disarray means for me, the least organized person of the family, should I ever have kids, but it can’t be good.
    I head through their chef’s kitchen, pausing to admire Rose’s cake, a sugary concoction shaped like stacked gift boxes smothered in buttercream bows and flowers, then follow the sound of voices and laughter toward the backyard.
    I’m halfway down the back hallway when I hear my father’s voice in the den, fueled by authority and something much angrier, something that sticks my soles to the antique Aubusson runner. “If you have a point you’d like to make, I suggest you do it right here, right now, to my face. We’ve been friends for too long for stunts like the one you just pulled.”
    My godfather’s familiar chuckle answers, but something about it pinches my insides like a swarm of mosquitoes eating me from the inside out. Especially when he follows it up with a rather testy, “I don’t like your tone, or what you’re accusing me of. And if you wanted to keep handing down orders, then perhaps you shouldn’t have retired.”
    General Chris Rathburn is not technically my uncle, but I’ve known him all my life and I love him like one. He and Dad met in basic training, and they climbed the army ranks as friends and equals, landing with three stars apiece and matching general’s salaries up until my father retired last year. So why does Uncle Chris sound so condescending now?
    “Fine. I’m asking you, then, as my longtime friend, as my brother in arms, to not take this any further. I’m asking you to do the right thing.” Dad’s tone is grave and humble and...unfamiliar. Tom Wolff is a man used to giving orders, not asking favors.
    Uncle Chris doesn’t seem inclined to bow, either. “The right thing, according to whom? Besides, you and I both know it’s out of my hands now. Regardless of what you think of me and my involvement in this matter, I’m not the one fueling this investigation. Jean Armstrong is.”
    Her name whips a lightning bolt up my spine, sticks the breath in my lungs. I know I shouldn’t be listening, but I can’t seem to move. I lean my upper body closer to the doorway, tilt my head so I can better hear.
    “I’m not talking about the investigation, and you know it.”
    “Look, Tom. You and I want the same thing here, and that’s for that family to back down. Where we disagree is how to go about getting there. But you’re no longer in charge here.” There’s a long, long pause, then Chris’s voice, darker now. “I am.”
    The silence that spins out lasts forever. It’s the kind of silence that wraps around you like a shroud, the kind that turns the air thick and solid, the kind that makes you want to hear the answer as much as you dread it. I hold my breath and lean in, straining to hear what comes next.
    Finally, it comes in the form of Rose’s high-pitched squeal from right behind me. “Everybody’s
outside
, silly!”
    And then, before either my father or Uncle Chris can respond or come storming around the corner, I latch on to Rose’s hand and drag her out the door.
    * * *
    Rose and I emerge onto a stone terrace that could be on the cover of a Frontgate brochure. Designer wicker couches, teak dining tables, cushioned chaise longues in front of a rolling lawn as perfectly manicured as any golf course. Pretty, but with not even the slightest nod to the family