“I haven’t read her book.”

“How did Mrs. Rawlings first come to live at your house, in 2010?”

Tony looked toward Brent and then remembering the judge’s statement about contempt, he replied, “I’d rather not answer that question.”

“Oh my God,” Emily breathed under her breath, “you’re a monster.”

“I’d never hurt Nichol. I haven’t hurt Claire since before our divorce. We’ve worked things—”

Judge Temple inhaled and sat taller. “Based on the best interest of this family and of the minor child, I believe I have enough information regarding the protective order. We will reconvene in court, and I’ll announce my decision.”

Tony’s heart ached.

I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.

—Kurt Cobain (paraphrased from André Gide)

The offices at Rawlings Industries corporate were quiet. Being after hours, most of the people had gone home to their families. Tony didn’t have that luxury. He didn’t want to go to his house—ever. The repairs were complete but the entire structure made him ill. The contractors said that the smell of smoke was gone, but when he entered the grand doors and walked the corridors, a putrid smell infiltrated his senses. No one else could smell it—but Tony could. It was the manifestation of years of hate and vengeance. It was the sickening loss of happiness that would never be his. It was the death of innocent people, and the death of innocence.

Was it only the structure in Iowa, or would he smell the same thing if he were to ever enter the house in New Jersey, the one where he was raised? After all, didn’t it all begin there? Tony wasn’t blaming anyone: he’d done enough of that. But the fact remained that he was raised in an opulent pit of evil. Like the red of his rage, it lurked in every corner and slithered through the halls. His grandfather’s greed, grandmother’s illness, father’s passive-aggressive hatred, and his mother’s submissive acceptance all mingled together to create the environment that spawned both Tony and Catherine. In no way was he forgiving her for any of her actions: nonetheless, she’d come to live under that roof at a mere twenty years of age. Would she have turned out differently had her parents accepted her and Sophia? Would he have turned out differently raised by someone else?

Tony pondered Sophia. She was a London, yet she was so different from her mother. Didn’t the woman Sophia became speak volumes about nature versus nurture? Every day he thought of the life lost too young.

Tony also mourned Derek. The man deserved better. He’d met every test and challenge with flying colors. Mr. Cunningham from Shedis-tics gave him glowing recommendations, as did Brent, from the short time they’d worked together. His death was another piece of the tragic puzzle.

The home Tony constructed was built as a testament to a man that Tony never really knew, a man who influenced events long after his death. Nathaniel fought hard, lived large, loved secretly, and fell from grace. He allowed his ambitions to overpower his better judgment.

As Tony swirled the amber liquid around his glass, he admitted, if only to himself, he was no better. If anything, he was worse. Nathanial made mistakes out of greed and ambition. Tony’s sins were based on misguided need. It was pitiful, he concluded, as he swallowed the contents of the glass and poured another two fingers of Johnny Walker. Relishing the slow burn as the whiskey dulled his senses, Tony mourned the loss of everything he knew to be true. His entire life was built on lies, retribution, and the need for validation. The money, the power, the prestige were all for one thing—to finally hear Nathaniel say, “well done, son.”

He couldn’t even dream that. In his dream, Nathaniel told him he’d failed.

Tony laid his jacket across a chair and stretched out on the long leather sofa in the far corner of his office. Hell, he’d sleep the night there; he’d been doing it quite frequently. It was better than going back to that house. He’d sell the damn thing if it weren’t for Claire. His eyes closed as he fought the memories. Even the recollections weren’t as bright as they’d been. Even they’d been dulled by the loss of color. There was some hot selling book that talked about shades of gray. Tony concluded that it was now his life. The color was gone. The vibrant greens of the island couldn’t transcend the veil of despair in Tony’s whiskey-numbed mind. There was a time when color was all around…

He’d invited Claire to Caleb Simmons’ wedding. He didn’t know if she’d come, but she did. The first evening, after they returned from Tim and Sue’s house, Tony remembered standing on the brick drive beneath a blanket of Iowa stars. With a gentle June breeze blowing Claire’s hair, she looked up at him and said, “I’m surprised how much I like being here. I was afraid the bad memories would overpower the good.” The next day she guided him through his woods to her lake. Her beautiful emerald eyes sparkled as they tossed pebbles into the clear water and watched the sun reflect in prisms of light dancing on the waves.

That was why he couldn’t sell the estate. It belonged to her. She was the only one to ever bring life and color to 6,000 acres. Before her, it was only a monument. After her, it was as dead as the man who it had been built to impress. It was only with her that the stone and brick structure was a home, even when she didn’t want to be there. Her presence infused life and spirit into the brick and mortar.

Roach’s reports were discouraging. The damn doctors at the state facility where Claire was still being held were uncaring and inept. Their records were inconclusive. Most of the information he was able to glean was from the taps on the Vandersols’ phones. Tony shrugged. Hell, they might as well add that to his list of charges—just pile it on!