Why did Brian not want him to write the book?

Did it matter what Brian wanted?

Griff rested his head in his hands. Yes. It did. This was Brian’s story. And yet somehow Griff had turned it into his own story. That was the problem. He had gotten too involved, too invested. He was starting to confuse...well, he was starting to forget...starting to confuse his work with his life. He was actually starting to feel possessive. Or possessed. Something frighteningly irrational, that was for sure.

If Brian really didn’t want this book, Griff didn’t see how he could go against him. The whole point of writing it had been...

Had been what?

Griff’s heart sped up the way it had in the library when Muriel, like a magician’s bad-tempered assistant, had suddenly produced Tiny Teddy. He felt cold and sick again. Why? Why? The idea of writing this book had crept up on him so slowly, so steadily he was no longer exactly sure when it had first come to him. In fact, he wasn’t even totally sure when he’d first learned about Brian Arlington’s kidnapping. Or why it had fascinated him so much. Why it had seemed so important that he write the story.

The back of his eyes prickled. He sniffed, the sound loud in the empty cottage. What was going on with him? Was he going to cry over this?

Over what?

If it was that important, nobody could stop him writing the book. The decision was still his.

The thought calmed him. He held on to it.

But if he was going to forge ahead, he had to work fast because unless he was much mistaken, he would very soon be denied access to the journal and all other resources. In fact, he might be on his way back to Wisconsin tonight.

Griff impatiently wiped his eyes and went upstairs to get Gemma’s journal.

He held the journal for a few moments, opened it and studied the pages of Gemma’s graceful, loopy writing. On impulse he pressed his face to the fanning, faded pages. He could imagine there was still a ghostly trace of fragrance. Almost believe he was breathing in traces of honeysuckle and sunlight. Her perfume. Behind his eyelids he saw the dazzle on the water, could smell suntan lotion and salty sea air, hear the cries of the gulls, the flap of the luffing sales, their voices—the smile in their voices. Always a smile...for each other, yes, and for him. For Brian. Water filled his eyes again, and Griff lowered the book quickly, afraid to stain the fragile pages with his apparently imminent nervous breakdown.

He shook his head, laughing unsteadily at himself. Too much imagination was right. He carried the journal downstairs.

This time as he read he specifically focused on Gemma’s perspective on Matthew. It was funny how no one talked about Matthew in relation to the tragedy. He seemed almost forgotten. It was always Gemma and Brian that everyone spoke of in hushed tones. But Matthew had suffered the same loss as Gemma.

Was it possible there had been some trouble there? If so, Gemma had been unaware of it. She was happy. On paper at least, she seemed about as contented a person as he had ever run across.

And Matthew, at least through the eyes of his wife, seemed equally happy. Books and boats and their baby. That seemed to be the extent of Matthew’s interests in life. He worked in the corporate offices of Arlington Amalgamated as Jarrett’s second-in-command, but it was a job and not his passion. Yet he too seemed content with his life. How many people were content with their lives? How many people were happy—happy in the moment and not in retrospect?

At that time Jarrett had still been running the show. Who had taken over after Jarrett? Why, with Matthew gone, had Marcus not been in the running?

Griff wished he could look through the family photo albums one last time. Now that he knew the cast of players and understood what roles everyone had played, he would better understand what he was looking at. What he was looking for. It was unlikely he’d get another opportunity. In fact, he might even now be barred from the house.

Another of those unsettling surges of emotion washed over him. He was surprised at how much it bothered him, how much he had come to take his welcome—at least from Jarrett—for granted. It had only been a few days, after all, but he had somehow grown fond of the old profiteer.

He had started enjoying himself. That was all, and it was natural that he’d been looking forward to these final days of his stay at Winden House. Heck, the food alone was reason to want to linger.

The truth was, getting out of here as soon as possible was going to be the best thing for him.

But there was no denying he wasn’t ready, did not want to go. Even if Brian was safely returned to the family fold, there were still so many unanswered questions.

If Brian was safely returned? Griff lowered the journal and considered this idea uneasily. Had Chloe planted that idea or was he biased because it turned out he didn’t like the adult Brian? He had been viewing himself as an advocate for the victim Brian, but it turned out that Brian didn’t need or want his advocacy.

Did he not like Brian because Brian’s antagonism had been—felt at least—instantaneous? And why was that? Maybe that was normal for Brian, but Griff generally got along with people okay. According to his chief at the Banner Chronicle, Griff’s “likeability quotient” was one reason he was good at his job. Maybe he wasn’t smooth, but he was genuine. And it showed. Mostly.

A rap on the glass of the cottage door startled him out of his reflections. He guiltily shoved the journal beneath the sofa cushions and went to answer the door.

He recognized the tall, lean, dark outline through the oval of stained glass before he opened the door.

Pierce, his hair spangled with rain, gazed steadily back at him for a second or two. Griff remembered that earlier that afternoon he had been so angry with Pierce he had never wanted to see or speak to him again. That had been painful because he’d started the day feeling closer to Pierce than he’d felt to anyone for a long time. And then there had been those confusing moments in the drawing room when Pierce’s hand on his shoulder had felt like the only thing anchoring him to sanity.

When he didn’t say anything, Pierce asked, “May I come in?”

Chapter Eighteen

Griff moved aside. He double-checked the time with the clock on the mantel. It was later than he’d realized. “You didn’t stay for dinner?”

“I wasn’t invited.” Pierce’s smile was wry. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Griff’s face warmed. “I’m fine. It was just low blood sugar.”

“It was a panic attack,” Pierce said. “And obviously not your first, since you’re taking it in stride.”

“Familiar with panic attacks, are you?”

“I’ve seen a few in my day. The legal system will do that to some people.”

Griff shrugged. “Actually, it was an anxiety attack. I used to get them as a kid. I haven’t had one in years.” Not since he came to Winden House. Yet another sign that getting out of here as soon as possible was a great idea.

“Night terrors and anxiety attacks,” Pierce observed. “You must have had an interesting childhood. And no doctors.”

“Do you have a point?”

“I’m sure there is a point, even if I haven’t figured it out yet.” Pierce surveyed the room, taking in Griff’s closed laptop on the dining room table. “Are you abandoning the book?”

“Well, thanks for dropping by,” Griff said, opening the door again. “Let’s do this again soon.” That was bravado, trying to prove something to himself, because the sad fact was he didn’t want Pierce to leave. Even after discovering what an asshole Pierce was, he didn’t want him to go.

Pierce pushed the door shut with unusual force. “All right. I know you’re still angry with me. I’m not always a nice guy. But we’re on the same side now.”