remembered how he’d hung up after the call and stared at the cast on his leg, broken in a stupid, reckless accident. There was nothing stupid or reckless about Terry—he’d simply gotten sick and there was nothing anyone could do about it. So Matt had hobbled to the wall and punched it so hard he’d cracked two bones in his hand.
He flexed his fingers.
Maybe it was a good thing he’d had a broken hand in addition to his tibia. Being injured had made him slow down, forcing him to deal with the reality of his best friend’s illness, instead of throwing himself into parties or another extreme sport to forget that Terry could die soon. And gradually, Matt had begun thinking about his grandfather’s philanthropic foundation. The Eisley Foundation funded medical research, and if he became the director, he could push a project to help find a cure for ALS. Even if it didn’t help Terry, it could help other people with the disease.
His grandfather had been hard to convince. Gordon Eisley had finally agreed that if Matt could hold an outside position for a year, he would retire and hand over the reins. During that time they’d worked together every Saturday, with Gordon showing him the ropes. It turned out that for the past decade his grandfather had done little more than review requests for money and sign checks, rather than actively overseeing the foundation’s projects.
Matt intended to be far more involved.
* * *
LAYNE DROVE TO her aunt’s home in Carrollton, Washington, and parked in the driveway. For almost a week she’d spent every free moment in her uncle’s office and wasn’t any closer to discovering answers than before she’d started.
She’d found nothing to either support her uncle’s innocence or to suggest his guilt, and it had quickly become evident that she needed more information on the supposed crime to even know where to look. With the police and District Attorney’s office refusing to cooperate, speaking with Peter Davidson had seemed necessary; when he’d proved elusive, she’d given Matt Hollister a shot.
Sighing, she got out and went inside. Normally Aunt Dee worked at home doing commercial art for a greeting card company and other freelance contracts, but today she was on duty at the gallery where some of her paintings were for sale.
Going into her uncle’s home office, Layne sat in his leather executive chair and felt the familiar rush of grief. Tears had streamed down her face the first evening she’d spent there. The room still smelled like Uncle Will, with a hint of the pipe tobacco he’d smoked once in a while, and the dark roast coffee he’d drunk by the gallon. Or maybe it was just her imagination, wanting to feel closer to him.
She tried pushing the sliding keyboard tray farther under the desk, but it caught on the cord and wouldn’t go all the way. With a sigh, she left it alone, turning again to the boxes Uncle Will’s partner had sent over from the company. Aunt Dee hadn’t exaggerated...there was a large pile against one wall, filled with everything imaginable. Layne had only catalogued the contents of a few, but the careless way they’d been packed infuriated her—things thrown in, papers crumpled and items broken, as if drawers had been upended and surfaces hastily swept off.
It was thoughtless and cruel, because no matter what the firm had believed about William Hudson, his wife shouldn’t have been subjected to something so unpleasant after his death. Thank goodness Aunt Dee hadn’t had time to look in the boxes or it would have upset her terribly.
Layne pressed her lips together; she’d completely blown the meeting with Matthew Hollister. However briefly, he’d worked for Hudson & Davidson and could have given her information about how they operated and facts about how the embezzling occurred, but instead she’d gotten nervous. And it certainly hadn’t helped when he’d learned she worked for the Babbitt.
Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her purse. “Yes?”
“It’s me, darling.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“I just talked with Sheldon at the university. He says you haven’t spoken to him about that position on his genetics project team.”
Layne gritted her teeth. Maybe she could pretend she was losing the signal, except her mother would just call back. “Mom, I’m not interested. I love my job at the Babbitt and I’m good at it. Why isn’t that enough?”
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Here, speak to your father.”
“Layne,” said Walter McGraw’s deep voice. “If you aren’t interested in genetics, I’m sure we can find another medical research study you could join.”
She wanted to scream. “Look, I’m at Aunt Dee’s right now. Could we talk about it on Sunday when I come to dinner? I promise you can nag for at least twenty minutes before I say no again.”
“We just want the best for you.”
“I know. Gotta go, Dad,” she said hastily, hating his hurt, offended tone. “Love to you both. Bye.”
She turned off the cell and dropped it back in her purse. For Pete’s sake, she was offended, too. Nothing she did would ever be good enough for her parents.
Layne leaned her elbows on the desk and studied the records she was keeping of everything found in the boxes so far; she didn’t want anything to go unnoticed. The rest of the office would receive an equally careful inventory and review. Most of it was deadly dull, but research wasn’t always exciting. It was more of a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other sort of activity.
An hour later she heard her aunt arrive home and went out to the kitchen to greet her—Aunt Dee cooked as a stress reliever, so she was in the kitchen a lot these days. Layne was just glad she earned money from the Babbitt part of the time for testing recipes. It wouldn’t fix her financial woes, but maybe it would help stave off disaster for a while.
“Hi. How was the gallery?”
“Fine. How was meeting the gorgeous philanthropist?”
“So-so.” Layne wrinkled her nose. “Matthew Hollister is good-looking, but he isn’t that gorgeous.”
Liar, screamed her conscience. Matt Hollister was tall, dark and stunning. With his expensive suit, black hair and gray eyes, he could have walked off the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Of course, he’d graced the cover of more than one magazine and scandal rag when he was still carousing...usually with a woman and a juicy caption. In person he was magnetic, one of those guys who made you want to tear off your clothes and throw yourself into his arms. Her sisters could get away with it, but her? Not a chance. She wasn’t Quasimodo, but she was hardly in Matt Hollister’s league.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Mr. Hollister wasn’t in the mood to talk. He practically had me thrown out of the building. His security guy showed up as I got off the elevator in the lobby and I thought he was going to pull a gun on me. Followed me clear out to the parking lot and watched me leave.”
“Are you all right?” Aunt Dee exclaimed.
“I’m fine. I’m probably overreacting, since he didn’t actually do anything. He was just menacing, in this quiet, intense sort of way. I bet he just looks at someone and they skedaddle.”
“Lani, I know I asked you to investigate, but it isn’t worth you taking risks. I don’t want you getting hurt, and William wouldn’t have, either.”
“I’m
