Chapter 2
An entire storm of emotions was spinning around within him at speeds that rivaled those attained by twisters and hurricanes.
If someone had asked him to describe exactly what it was that he was feeling, Whit Adair would have been forced to say, “Numb.”
He was numb.
Numb and perhaps, for the first time in his life, more than a little lost. As the vice president of AdAir Corp, as well as the oldest of Reginald Adair’s children, Whit was accustomed to being in charge and able to handle every situation he encountered.
It wasn’t something that he’d schooled himself to do, it was just something that had evolved naturally over time—because he knew that his father expected it of him and he both idolized and adored his father. He wanted to please the man. It had never occurred to him to behave in any other fashion.
Over the years, Whit had strongly nurtured the hope that someday his father would see him as a trusted asset and actually say as much. More than anything else, he’d longed to hear his father acknowledging the fact that he wasn’t just good at what he did, he was damn near excellent. He would have sold his soul in exchange for a little praise from his father.
But now that was never going to happen.
He’d been on his way to the ranch, where he spent most weekends, when the phone call came. Some detective, whose name he heard but that failed to register, said that the police were trying to locate him.
“Is something wrong, detective?” he’d asked, a strange premonition slipping over him.
“I’m afraid so, sir. Where are you? I’d like to meet in person.”
His place in San Diego was closer and he regarded it as less of a sanctuary, so he gave the detective his address. They arrived at the building almost simultaneously.
The detective looked as if he was worn out. Perhaps as a result of years of having to give unwelcome news to victim’s families, Whit thought. “I’m afraid your father’s been shot. He didn’t make it.”
Whit stared at the detective. He remembered noticing that the man had a small stain on his tie and thinking that the man’s wife—if he had one—was going to berate him for being sloppy.
Strange the thoughts that went through your head when your whole world was shaken up, Whit thought. The detective had said something about taking him to view “the body”—as if that was now his father’s new station in life; the body rather than Reginald Adair—offer to drive him. But he wanted some sort of control over the situation, so he had said he was going to drive himself. Giving him his card, the detective told him he’d lead the way, which was good because he had no idea where the morgue was.
His mind kept jumping around, going back and forth between the present and less than an hour ago.
Grief pressed against his chest like a giant lead weight.
He was never going to get the chance to bond with his father the way he’d always secretly hoped and, yes, dreamed that he would.
Someone had stolen that opportunity from him. Someone had murdered his father.
Someone was going to pay.
Whit swerved, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with an SUV that jumped the light.
Damn it, Whit, get ahold of yourself!
For the life of him, Whit couldn’t remember getting into his car. Moreover, he couldn’t really remember the name of the detective whose card was in his pocket.
The man he was now following to the morgue.
The man who had said those awful words to him: There’s been a murder.
And just like that, his entire life was put on hold as chaos took immediate possession of his brain. Everything else in his life—the myriad of details, the pending launch of new cellular software—all of it had taken a backseat to this horrendous event.
And now he was going to the morgue to identify the man who had been found shot dead in his father’s ultramodern office.
He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to get through it.
* * *
There was glass separating him from the lifeless form on the gurney. Glass and a white sheet.
Bracing himself, Whit nodded and the attendant—probably the medical examiner’s assistant, he assumed—gently pulled back the sheet from the deceased’s face.
He hadn’t braced himself enough.
Seeing his father like that, lifeless and so incredibly pale, was a horrible shock to his entire system.
“Yes, that’s him. That’s my father.”
His voice sounded almost disembodied to his own ear. The words echoed in his head, tormenting him, long after they had faded from the air.
“Would you like to take a moment?” the detective asked.
No, he wouldn’t like to take a moment. A moment wouldn’t help. A thousand moments wouldn’t help, Whit thought angrily. There was only one thing that would.
Turning away from the glass partition, he looked at the detective and asked, “Do you know who did this to him?”
“The investigation’s just started,” the detective replied.
“So you’ve got nothing,” Whit concluded.
“We do have a person of interest at the precinct who’s being questioned right now,” the man offered.
Whit’s blue eyes, normally so brilliant, were almost flat as he asked, “Who is it?”
“Sir, we can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” the detective said, nervously hiding behind regulations.
Whit had been trained to detect weakness and uncertainty in any and all opponents. That had been his father’s doing. Whit could tell now that the detective was a man who could be bullied into complying—to an extent.
“You can if that investigation involved my father. Now who is being questioned?” he asked the man more forcefully.
The detective shrugged, as if conducting an internal debate with himself. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough. It’s your father’s assistant. Elizabeth Shelton.”
Whit stared at the man as if he had lost his mind. “Elizabeth Shelton?” he repeated incredulously. The one he’d taken numerous business trips with—the one who stirred his soul, although that was something he never intended to admit.
What the detective was suggesting just wasn’t possible.
The detective nodded, anticipating the next question: Why? “She was the one who found the body and called it in.”
A
