them with time and attention. Something was terribly wrong somewhere.
“How long have you had this nasty little habit?” Keefe asked.
“Since I had the accident that tore up my back.”
Maci sucked in her breath. That accident, which had been a car wreck, had happened several years before she married him. Surely, he’d hadn’t been addicted for that long.
“You mean you were hooked before you married me?” Maci barely choked the nasty words out of her mouth.
“Hooked is hardly the right word, my dear,” Seymour said with disdain. “Was I using drugs to help my back? Yes, and I still am. But I’m in control of the situation, not the other way around.”
Maci didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t say anything. She felt like she’d been hit in the stomach with a brick. Apparently so did Keefe as his face seemed to have taken on a greenish tint.
“Make no mistake, Keefe,” Seymour said with conviction, “I’m not going down for this.”
“If that’s the case, then I’m certainly not your man. I suggest you find the best criminal attorney possible and hire him.”
“I agree.”
Keefe’s gaze didn’t waver. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me who to call,” Keefe responded, “and it’s a done deal.”
“My oldest son.”
Maci stared at Seymour in shocked silence.
“Holt?” Keefe asked, clearly taken aback.
“That’s right,” Seymour said. “You told me I needed the best, and he’s the best.”
“But, Seymour, that doesn’t make any sense,” Maci pointed out, her mind reeling. “You haven’t seen your son in years.”
And she had never seen him. Not before she married Seymour or after. In fact, it was hard to remember that Jonah wasn’t Seymour’s only child. She had no idea what Holt Ramsey looked like. No pictures of him appeared anywhere in the house.
She knew very little about what had caused the estrangement between father and elder son, but she suspected a lot. Seymour had refused to discuss the issue with her, which she could understand. Suicide was a tragic and touchy subject.
What she did know was that Holt was a single attorney who rarely practiced his profession, choosing rather to spend his time on his sailboat. She had gleaned this information from the housekeeper who had been in the family when Seymour was married to his first wife. Annie had also told her that Holt blamed his father for his mother’s suicide. Since the housekeeper doted on the elder son, she still bemoaned the breach between her favorite men.
“Maci’s got a point,” Keefe said in a strained voice. “With all the bad blood between you and Holt, what makes you think he’ll help you out now?”
“He’ll come, all right.” A strange glint appeared in Seymour’s eyes. “If nothing else, he’ll use it as an opportunity to exact his pound of flesh.”
Four
He had no one to blame but himself. In the future, he would check his caller ID before he answered. Damn Marianne for giving out his number. He’d have to remember to speak to her about that.
Swallowing a frustrated sigh, Holt Ramsey stared at the sky and counted to ten while Keefe droned on, trying to make his case. The second after he had said hello, Keefe had rushed into the reason for the call and he hadn’t stopped yet. He hadn’t so much as taken a breath.
“Keefe, give it a rest,” Holt interrupted, his patience having long evaporated.
“Trust me, I’m aware of the situation between you and your father,” Keefe continued as though Holt hadn’t spoken.
“Hey, hold it,” Holt said, no longer willing to let Keefe steamroll over him. “Time out. Look you’re wasting your time. You’ve done your job. You’ve related Seymour’s tale of woe to me. All you have to do is tell him I’m not interested. Voilà! You’re off the hook.”
“Holt, please, hear me out,” Keefe pleaded. “Since you have a reputation for being one of the best criminal lawyers around, you’re the logical choice. More than that, your father needs you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I know—”
“You don’t know jack, Keefe.”
Holt heard Keefe’s gasp, but he didn’t care. “I’ve heard all I need to hear, and I don’t know how to say it any plainer. I don’t care what Seymour needs or doesn’t need.”
“How can you say that?”
“Easy.”
“He’s your father, for god’s sake,” Keefe stressed. “Have you no shame?”
Holt gritted his teeth and swore silently. “It’s only because I respect you that I’m even still on the line. But I’d advise you not to push your luck.”
“Under the circumstances,” Keefe hammered on, “I don’t see how you can take such a hard-nosed attitude.”
Holt heard the pleading note in Keefe’s voice, but he ignored it.
“There’s nothing else I can say to make you change your mind?” Keefe’s harsh sigh filtered through the line.
“Is that a question, Keefe?”
“Yes.”
“Not a thing. Tell my father he made his own bed and that I’m going to take delight in watching him wallow in it.”
Keefe slammed down the receiver.
Holt in turn flipped the lid shut on his cell. Frustration and anger churned inside him and he knew it was time to make use of his gym. His favorite stress reliever was his punching bag. Hitting it repeatedly would definitely do the trick.
A smirk altered Holt’s tight features. It would certainly be better than heading for the jail, jerking up his old man and punching the crap out of him.
He despised his father so much that he knew he could do it.
But he wouldn’t. Holt walked to the bow of his boat and felt the warm breeze on his hot skin. Any time he thought about Seymour, his entire body reacted violently. He knew that for his own good he should let that hate go, that carrying it around would eventually eat him up.
It was starting to now. He grasped the railing and swore. If he never saw his father again, he’d be happy. He’d been certain Seymour felt the same way. So what had made him change and ask his son for a favor?
Fear.
