Free Coming Home (The Santa Monica Trilogy Book 2) by Jill Blake Page A

purchase of luxury real estate, including the upscale SoHo condominium in which he reportedly hanged himself.
     
    Previously, Harry Blackwell had denied any knowledge of the fraud. While no charges have officially been brought against him or other family members, prosecutors continue to investigate.
     
     
    Grace raised her eyes to her grandmother, to find the old woman watching her. In the background, the phone rang again.
    “I’m sorry,” Ruth King finally said.
    Grace nodded. She felt numb, disconnected. All she could think was that Harry had called her yesterday, and she hadn’t picked up the phone. Hadn’t returned his messages.
    Yes, she’d called his mother. But by then it was probably too late.
    If she had done things differently, taken his calls, or phoned him back directly, would that have changed the outcome?
    Pointless to think about it now. Stupid to feel guilty. She wasn’t responsible for his actions. She’d tried to get him the help he needed. How many times, over the years, had she scheduled his appointments, accompanied him on visits to the psychiatrist, psychologist, therapist, picked up his medications at the pharmacy, sounded the alarm to his parents? Had he not grown violent and unpredictable, she would likely have continued trying. But fear for her own safety and the instinct for self-preservation trumped whatever compassion and goodwill remained.
    A tiny part of her felt relieved. She would never have to look over her shoulder again. Never have to worry that he would show up on her doorstep without warning and threaten her.
    But no matter what, she would not have wished this fate upon him. How terrible it must have been for him to experience a despair so deep that he could see no other way out. And how awful for his mother, to lose her only child to suicide.
    “Miss Grace.” The housekeeper’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
    She glanced up to see Maria hovering nearby. “Yes, Maria?”
    “The reporters, they are outside, asking for you to make a statement. I told them you are not available, but they won’t take no for an answer. Idiotas. You want I should call the police?”
    “They’re here?” Grace rose.
    The doorbell sounded. Maria offered her the portable video monitor, showing activity at the front gate. There was a blurry image of the back of someone’s head.
    Grace set the monitor down on the table. “I’ll be right back.”
    She took the stairs two at a time. Her bedroom was at the front of the house, overlooking La Mesa. A quick peek through the curtains had her ducking back out of sight. The street was lined with news vans. A crowd of cameramen and reporters milled just outside the front gates.
    Oh God , not again. She could almost hear their intrusive questions. The shouted demands, aimed at provoking her response—the more outrageous, the better. Anything for a sound bite. She couldn’t deal with this, not now, not today.
    She returned to the dining room.
    “What is it?” her grandmother asked.
    “They’re definitely out there.” Grace slumped into a chair. “I guess I’ll skip the run.”
    “Good. Then you can finally join me for a normal sit-down breakfast. Maria, some eggs and toast, please.”
    Grace shook her head. “I’ll just have coffee.”
    Maria frowned. “You are too thin, Miss Grace. I will bring eggs, toast, and bacon.”
    “You know I don’t eat meat.”
    “It’s not meat,” Maria said, heading for the kitchen. “It’s turkey bacon.”
    Grace raised a brow at her grandmother. “Is she for real?”
    Ruth half-smiled. “She’s right. You could use a few more pounds.”
    Grace sighed and changed the subject. “Did you have anywhere you needed to be today?”
    “No.”
    “Me neither. What do you say to a Netflix marathon? Something that takes place long ago and far away and has lots of episodes?”
    Ruth folded the newspaper and set it aside. “I haven’t seen I, Claudius in quite a while.”
    Grace had been thinking more along the