Brad's prone to inhabit one of the guest rooms more often than not. Rousing from a peaceful night of rest, he swung by the office at the crack of dawn, freshly showered, clean-shaven and besuited for the day, to talk business with me before he ventured to Club 11 to meet Nate and the others.
It's unusual for me to crave companionship; however, due to mind-numbing boredom, I stalled his departure as I was sick of my inner dialogue and looking at four walls. I was itching to go back to work, to hunt down the enemy and stain my hands with Italian blood.
Regrettably, Brad has yet to locate Alberto Moretti nor his loyal servants. He did, however, unearth a seedy dive bar under the proprietorship of Moretti's cousin, Bernardo Russo. He'd paid a visit to the estranged relative and left unsatisfied. According to the head barman, Russo's visiting family in Sicily. He had no knowledge of his boss' flight schedule or if he planned to come home any time soon.
Detective Donny Stevens requested an hour of my time. He delivered stolen evidence from the heist case: mobile phones, random jewellery, firearms and leather wallets. Once I separated my possessions, I boxed the items that once belonged to my men, poured him a neat whiskey and got down to business.
Logan Broderick.
I signed a temporary residence order.
Alexa's elatedness terminated reservations. For her happiness, I can overlook the boy's impermanent presence.
I am not a dart aficionado.
Nonetheless, I purchased a Barrington board and solid gold darts. I screwed the fixtures to the back of the office door, stood by the mahogany desk and alternately threw darts until lack of concentration re-emerged.
I received a phone call from Jemma White, a clinical embryologist who'd read one of numerous emails I'd sent previously. We had an in-depth conversation concerning my wife's condition. Jemma understood our frustration and advised that we attend a standard consultation to discuss infertility treatment. I accepted the first available appointment. Alexa's none the wiser. It's best to withhold possible procedures to avoid anxiousness.
I wandered the Manor with a sense of alienated ennui. As I had nothing better to do with my time, I relocated to the master bedroom's walk-in wardrobe to reorganise suits.
Thanks to my domesticated wife, rearranging was hardly necessary. There wasn't a cinch in the shirts. Leather shoes showcased behind glass units. Manscape products and colognes hoarded shelves in a particular order, and jewellery laid on beds of black velvet.
Opening the vanity table's drawer, I fossicked miscellaneous items when something caught my eye. Forehead creasing in perplexity, I picked up the gold, onyx signet ring and felt a chill slither down my spine.
Raymond Warren's name engraved the stone.
Why does Alexa have my father's ring?
Moreover, why hasn't Alexa brought this to my attention?
I amped up the overhead lights to brighten the room and thumbed the italic inscription on the ring's inner band.
You are my missing piece -V.W.
Vincent's close-lipped in musing. "You killed Evelyn Warren. The deceased cannot be a personal representative. Raymond knew the chance of him and his wife dying together was quite literally impossible, but he appointed another woman to administer his estate." He clicked his tongue. "Just in case."
"Another woman?" Murderous rage palpitated my heart. "What woman? Where can we find her?"
"Her name's Valerie," he informed me, and I waited for elaboration. "Find her, we cannot. She is dead."
Mentally replaying the conversation about Ray's Will with my brother, I stared at the ring with an air of incertitude. Something doesn't add up. I trust my gut, and right now, it's twisting into knots.
"Hey." Beautifully windswept from her visit to the grocery store, Alexa appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing?"
I brandished the gold band. "Where did you get this?"
Alexa's oddly sangfroid. "I found it the night I escaped Serena's onslaught." Plucking the ring from my hand, she twisted it between her fingers. "I didn't know if it meant anything or if you'd even care for such an unsentimental finding, but I pocketed it anyway." Her brows curved inwards. "At the time, you were a little worse for wear, so I placed it in the drawer with the intention of showing you at a later date. It must have slipped my mind."
My arms crossed. "I presume it was a gift from Ray's mistress."
"Oh, the dead woman?" Alexa read the engraving. "What did Vincent say her name was again?"
"Valerie," I said, recalling the conversation like it was yesterday.
"Valerie," Alexa whispered as if to test the syllables on her tongue. "The one who never birthed any children. She died lonely and broke." Her cheeks flushed. "I don't recall her surname."
I quickly jogged my memory. "Vincent only provided a forename."
Alexa's eyes zoned out in thought. "Did you ever look into her background?"
No, I was supposed to address the matter with Nate. "Not yet."
"I will grab the laptop." Dabbing sweat from her temple, she headed for the door. "Wait in the bedroom, Liam. I'll be back in just a moment."
Closing the vanity table's drawer, I palmed the signet ring and returned to the master bedroom. I got comfortable on the bed. Alexa re-appeared minutes later, laptop tucked under one arm, a bottle of vodka in hand. She climbed onto the bed and settled cross-legged beside me. Loading the computer, she snapped a bobble off her wrist and tied her hair into a messy updo. "Okay," she said whispery, her fingertips touring the keyboard. "So, going by the ring's initials, it's safe to start with Valerie." She typed the name into the search bar. "I am not a computer whizz, but we can't go far wrong with Raymond Warren and Valerie, right? I mean, something might come up."
Having lost interest, I shrugged.
Alexa's head inched closer to the screen. While she's busy scouring pointless articles, I nuzzled my head on her thigh and curled my arms around her waist. Her closeness had a somniferous effect. I could quite easily fall asleep.
"Liam," she said warily, and my one eye peeled open. "Raymond married before Evelyn."
When I broke into my father's house on Bill's order, I logged into his computer and found articles online. I was too angry and confused to investigate further, but I read enough to determine he was the CEO of a telecommunications company, that he had one biological son and an ex-wife. "I know." Had I cared enough to educate myself, I'd have uncovered Vincent sooner.
"Liam," Alexa said in a strained voice, and I lifted my head to look at the screen. She pointed to an old image of the man I despised. A short, black-haired female with a neckline of pearls and a posture of ramrod elegance stood beside him. "I saw her."
Alexa's ambiguousness fried my brain. I sat up, took the laptop off her lap and planted it on mine. "I don't recognise her."
I read the small font underneath the image: Raymond Warren attends a pledge campaign with his wife, Valerie Wentworth.
My heart stopped.
I clicked onto the image and zoomed in on their faces. "When did you see this woman?"
Alexa struggled to make eye contact. "She came to the hospital—"
"As Vincent's mother," I snarled, and her lips grimaced. "How the fuck is that possible? He told me Raymond's mistress was dead."
"Liam." A subdued sigh fell from her lips. "I don't know what this means—"
"Likewise," I barked, chucking the laptop on the floor. "The motherfucker." Heat clambered my chest. I abruptly got off the bed and paced the room. "I need to get this right in my head."
"Please, calm down." Alexa's in front of me in a flash, rubbing her palms up and down my arms. "Allow me to speak. I don't know why Vincent kept this from you. Only he can answer these questions. If I were to guess, though, I'd say he knew you'd hunt her down, so he lied to protect her." My mouth parted to speak, and she held her hand up. "Liam, it is his mother. He might love you, but he's hardly going to stand back while you beat her to death."
I laughed mockingly. "What makes you think I'd put my hands on the old bint?"
Alexa stared knowingly at me. "Well, now you know she's alive and kicking. Will you visit?"
I offered silence.
"See!" She threw her hands up. "My point exactly."
"I never claimed to be a saint," I argued, and she waved a dismissive hand. "You know what I'm about. You still went and fucking married me."
"You are lethal," she retorted, crouching down to collect the laptop off the floor. "This is why people lie to you because they are terrified of your reaction."
"Am I supposed to give a shit?" I gestured to myself. "I care not for Vincent's mother, but she owes me a goddamn explanation."
"Liam!" Alexa clutched the laptop to her chest. "If it weren't for Valerie Wentworth, you'd be dead."
Convinced my ears had deceived me, I stopped by the threshold, turned, and scowled at my flustered wife. "What did you say?"
Having lost the energy to quarrel, Alexa slumped onto the chesterfield sofa. "Were you aware of your rare blood type?"
Quietness thickened the humid air. "Rare blood type?"
"AB-Negative." She chewed her thumbnail nervously. "Valerie's donation saved your life. Her blood saved both of you."
My heart threatened to burst out of my chest. "If you expect me to express gratitude, then you will be sorely disappointed."
Her stare softened. "Liam—"
"Don't," I scolded, my blood running hot in my veins. "Don't say it, Alexa. Keep those insinuations to yourself."
Alexa wouldn't be Alexa if she didn't investigate insolently. "It's obviously not the case because your mother died, right?" She wore an unconvinced expression. "It's weird, though. Valerie's AB-Negative, too, and she quite literally saved the day."
"Are you listening to the words coming out of your mouth?" I asked confrontationally. "You unsubtly imply that Vincent and I might share the same mother."
Her eyes grew huge. "I never suggested—"
"You didn't need to," I said angrily, and she sank back in regret. "I know you, Alexa. When you are too scared to breach a subject, you beat around the fucking bush. Valerie Wentworth is not my mother."
"Then, who is?" Alexa shouted, pushing onto her feet to front me head-on. "Come on, Liam. It's high time we had this conversation, don't you think?"
"Alexa." I gripped her upper arms. "Quit whilst you're ahead."
Primed for the challenge, she tilted her chin, her eyes dark and emotionless, prepared to argue her case. "Give me your mother's name."
My lip ticked at the corner. "I don't have to answer to you."
Her hand grasped my jaw, and she deliberately dug her fingernails into my cheeks. "You can't answer," she whispered, and I schooled my features. "Because you don't know, right?" When I never responded, she tugged me in by the waistband of my jogging bottoms and pinned us chest to chest. "Here's the ultimate question. What do you remember?"
My eyes lowered to the floor.
"Liam's a damaged little boy," she'd said. "But he only needs routine and love."
The plump receptionist looked at me over the monitor edge, and I shot her an ugly face.
"Perhaps we can offer temporary fostering," the man responded. "Until you find him permanent care."
"I was six years old," I said, recalling how the Irish couple returned me to Briar House seven weeks after agreeing to care for me. "I had upset the family. They'd kindly offered me a roof, and I refused to speak."
Alexa's fingers twitched on my jaw. "What family?"
"The first of many." Kissing her inner wrist, I withdrew her clutches to my skin and laced our fingers together. "I could talk." My face twisted in repugnance. "But I had no reason to."
"What happened prior to them, Liam?" she prompted. "What do you see before the age of six?"
I waded through my subconscious mind. "Nothing."
"Who told you that your mother died?" she delved deeper, and my walls began to close up. "At what age did you receive that information?"
"It's there," I spat, furiously tapping a finger to the side of my head. "It's always been there, baby. I do not recall my mother. I couldn't tell you if I look like her or if I inherited her unhinged tendencies. I don't know where she lived or if her parents are still around. I don't know her name, nor do I care for interpretation. I do, however, remember someone mentioning she was a prostitute who died from a heroin overdose."
"Liam," Alexa whispered in distress. "You prevaricate the question."
"I can only tell you what I remember."
"Which is nothing but your own cogitation." Her hands cupped my neck. "When I lived in Flamur's basement, I fabricated stories, too. It somewhat eased my suffering. I'd close my eyes, envision my mother in the garden, hanging washing on the line, yelling at me for dirtying my new white socks. I would even uphold conversations." Her hitched breath fanned my cheek. "But it wasn't real, Liam. Everything she ever said to me was a mere figment of my imagination."
My head shook. "I did not fabricate my mother's death."
"Did you never think to look into your past?" She stepped back. "You have the resources to do so."
"For what purpose, Alexa?" My voice was calm. "I spent many years crying myself to sleep because I didn't understand. It took age, growth, power and great mental strength to overcome incognisance. Of course, I will never truly know why my mother chose drugs or why my father left and never looked back, but I accepted both a long time ago. How can there be closure if I live between the past and the present?" I unclenched my fist to reveal my father's signet ring. "I refuse to kindle the emotions of a little boy."
"That's an excuse," Alexa recited the very words I once cruelly used to prompt her memory. Her hand closed over mine, concealing the ring. "I think there's a big chance Valerie Wentworth is your mother." She put us shoulder-to-shoulder, and our heads turned in tandem. "My Liam would never shy away from the truth. He is fearless. He demands answers. Hell, he fucking deserves them."
With those departing words, Alexa left me alone in the master bedroom.
***
Raymond's ring stayed in my pocket for the rest of the day. Even though I would not allow my thought process to trudge down memory lane, I often lost myself in subjective reverie, replaying the heated conversation with my wife, mulling over her beliefs.
On three separate occasions, I sat behind my desk in the office and loaded the computer. I got as far as typing Valerie's name before the rational voice inside the darkest valley of my mind protested.
Brad's yet to arrive with takeout, so I went to the kitchen for a light snack. If I know Alexa, she'll have stockpiled the fridge with unappealing baked goods. If the burnt biscuits are too unpalatable, I'll settle for fruit.
Dripping in sweat from utilising the underground gym, Logan sits on a stool by the stonework island, tucking into an overflowing bowl of cereal. When he discerned my arrival, he paused with a spoon inches from his mouth.
Not hiding exasperation, I blew out a wearisome breath, strode past him to the fridge freezer and dipped my head to forage the shelves. With a container of raisin cookies in hand, I poured myself a triple shot of neat whiskey, pulled up a stool opposite the lad and scarfed down Alexa's disastrous cooking.
Logan lost his appetite. In fact, he's apprehensive about leaving the kitchen, but when he stands, I click my fingers, ordering him to sit. "I have homework," he lied, reinstalling his backside on the stool, folding his arms sulkily. "I should get on that."
"You should learn some manners." Downing the alcohol in one, I savoured the fire flowing down my throat. "Alexa's back at work next Monday. Will you accompany her?"
He reversed his black ball cap. "I have no reason to go there."
"Alexa would appreciate your attendance." Balancing a cigarette on my lower lip, I matched a flame and lit the end. "You will attend for her."
His eyes rolled heavenwards. "Sure." Watching cigarette smoke gyrate above my head, he reached for the unused ashtray under the counter and slid it towards me. "Where did you bury my Ma?"
I was unprepared for his question. "Does it matter?"
"I want to say goodbye." He absently picked scabs off his knuckles, and I made a mental note to revisit the reason behind those cuts at a later date. "I should lay flowers or something, right?"
"As stated by society." Pouring amber liquid into the crystal glass, I respired a slew of smoke. "I am not one to follow the rules. Personally, I would leave her to rot."
"You barely even knew her." Logan gave me a single-shouldered shrug. "Plus, you're the reason why I will never see her again, so you wouldn't feel empathy."
He has so much to learn. "Any mother who's willing to let her son repay her debts is unworthy of redemption. You have fought countless adversaries because of her piss poor decision making. Another teenager died while attackers tried to kill you." His eyes closed in regret and mental anguish. "If I hadn't intervened, you'd be Orville's sex slave until he got tired of your self-despondent bullshit." His eyes flicked open, and then he was fascinated by my cigarette. For someone who cares so much for the undeserving bitch, he shows, in my opinion, ungenuine emotions. "What's that look? Do you smoke?"
His nose wrinkled. "No."
"Good. If I catch you smoking, I will take a bat to your fucking knee caps." Another shot of whiskey graced my throat. "I'll forewarn you. If Alexa walks in and sees me drinking, she'll threaten blue murder. You're not supposed to consume alcohol while on medication, but it's either I drink or get my suit on and walk out the door." Why am I offloading onto a teenager? "In regard to Roxanne, I cannot provide a graveside. I could tell you where she decomposes. I won't, though." His mother's at the bottom of the Thames with concrete blocks shackled to her ankles. He doesn't need that image to invade his nightmares. "If you must honour her memory, go to church and light a candle." When he didn't reply, I peered up. "Why do you care for the woman?" I asked, knowing it's a facade. "When I look into your eyes," I added, and his blue hues darkened, "I see sheer hatred. Relief. You claim to mourn her, but you and I both know you are glad to see the back of her."
"She was my mother," he said tersely, standing to clear his bowl. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for her."
Listening to Logan's retreating footsteps, I stared into the bottom of the glass. Parking the cigarette on my bottom lip, I grabbed the whiskey bottle and found myself back in the office in front of the computer screen.
I typed Valerie Wentworth into the search bar.
An array of images clogged the browser. I don't see myself in her almond-shaped eyes. Yes, in her younger photos, she's modelling lustrous black hair, but then, my father, before the silvery comb-over, had black hair, or at least he did in the photograph I found of him and Bill in the Caribbean.
I proceeded to slide through images. Once Raymond divorced Valerie, it's almost as if she disappeared off the face of the earth.
Evelyn Warren replaced Ray's former wife.
I exited the screen and hovered a finger over the keypad. If I amended the search, typed my name alongside Valerie's, what would I bring to light?
If Valerie Wentworth birthed two sons, then I need to hear it first-hand. I need her to admit it in front of me.
Dialling Reginald Burton's number, I set the phone to my ear.
Three rings later, he answered, "Warren?"
"Where's Donny?"
"He's out on the floor," he said cautiously. "Is everything okay?"
"I need an address for Vincent's mother," I explained, frequently checking the door to ensure no one stood there. "Her name's Valerie Wentworth. Not a word to the detective."
"Of course." He fumbled with what sounded like a filing cabinet. "I got nothing on the name Valerie Wentworth. I do have three houses belonging to Vincent, though."
I snubbed my cigarette in the ceramic ashtray. "Which one lacks grandeur?"
"The quintessential farmhouse in Totteridge green. Do you want me to send a copy to your email?"
"Yes." Ending the call, I clicked on the mail app and waited impatiently for Reginald's email. The notification buzzed. I opened the file, briefly scanned the address and tucked my phone in my pocket.
In record-breaking time, I showered, dressed in a black tracksuit and headed for the front door with the Bentley keys in hand.
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