Page 42 of Everyone’s a Liar

On the way back from New Orleans, she’d brooded on who had hired Larry Sutton to spy on her, and why. Two questions she didn’t know how to answer. Not until she realized there might be some proof.

Larry Sutton was an immoral creep who was clearly willing to do anything for a quick buck. Which meant that he wasn’t working for free. There had to be some sort of money trail, right? She didn’t have any way to discover if Winston was the one to hire him, but she could check out her uncle Adrian.

Thankfully, she’d spent enough time as a child exploring the secret entrances that were hidden throughout the house. It meant she could enter the library through a concealed doorway that had been forgotten by the rest of the family.

Stepping through the narrow opening, she paused to appreciate the impressive room with towering shelves stuffed with leather-bound books and glass cases that protected the ancient maps her ancestors collected over the years. It was stunningly beautiful, but she’d rarely spent any time there.

The library directly connected to her grandfather’s private office and was strictly off-limits to everyone unless they’d been explicitly invited by the old man.

Not that she cared. For as long as she could remember, she’d made it her life’s purpose to avoid Henri Benoit. Even after he died, she didn’t feel comfortable this close to his private domain. As if his disapproving scowl was glaring down at her from the heavens. Or, more likely, glaring up from the pits of hell.

Besides, there was nothing of interest in this elegant room. She’d always been an avid reader, but she came from a bunch of egomaniacs who were obsessed with their legacy. They had books detailing their family tree in excruciating detail, following the life of each and every ancestor who led back to French royalty. They also had the original blueprints and sketches created during the building of the Willows. Plus the hundreds of articles written about the place over the years. But that’s where the library collection ended.

The only time she’d come in here was to prove she could use the secret door to enter and leave without anyone noticing.

Now she boldly stepped into the room and glanced around. Nothing had changed in the past thirty years. She doubted anything had changed in the past century, unless you counted the electricity, internet, and fancy computer system she could glimpse on the walnut desk in the attached office. This was the very heart of Benoit power. The spot where misogyny and a stubborn tradition combined to keep the family line churning toward oblivion.

With a shrug, Livia inched her way along the shelves, her gaze locked on the main door of the library. Like her grandfather, Adrian kept the door locked so no one could enter without his permission, but that didn’t mean he might not decide to put in a few hours of work.

At last slipping into the office, Livia crossed directly to the desk. As she’d hoped, there were stacks of papers and ledgers in various piles along with a dozen bills marked with last notice. Her uncle was just like his father. They distrusted computers and insisted on having hard copies of every contract and business transaction.

Taking a quick glance through the bills that indicated serious problems with Benoit Enterprises, she turned her attention to the ledgers. Adrian was meticulous in keeping a running account for his various properties, including a tally of the money coming in compared to the expenses. There was also a listing of expenses that were taken out of a central business account. Office supplies and other daily incidentals that were lumped together. If Adrian had been paying Larry Sutton out of that slush fund it would be impossible to know without a copy of the bank statements.

She was glancing toward the computer, wondering if she could figure out her uncle’s password, when the click of a lock echoed through the silence.

With a muttered curse, she hurried to inch open one of the windows, hoping Adrian wouldn’t notice with the shade pulled down. Then stepping through the French doors and onto the back terrace, she pressed herself against the wall near the window.

Seconds later, she heard Adrian’s voice drifting out of the office.

“Connect me to Mr. Edwards. Tell him it’s Adrian Benoit.” There was a short pause. “Quincy, I have a question concerning the Slidell account. … ​Yes, I’m well aware it’s been closed and the funds deposited back to my private account. My question is how we can make any evidence of it disappear. … ​No. I mean, erase any trace of the account and the transfers from your system so that no one can ever prove it existed. … ​Yes, this is a personal request. Of course I will be happy to return the favor in the future. We’ve been friends long enough for you to know my word is good.”

Livia press a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp. He had to be talking about money he sent to Larry Sutton, right? Why else would he suddenly be so desperate to keep the account he used a secret?

Obviously her uncle somehow realized that she’d discovered that Jacob Pearson was actually Larry Sutton. Maybe he even knew she’d gone to the New Orleans office today. The secretary, Cherry, had pretended not to recognize Livia, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a liar like her boss. If she’d made a call to Adrian warning him that Livia was on Sutton’s trail, he’d be desperate to cover up his connection to the private investigator.

And what about Winston Durand? Was he involved? She was still convinced he’d been the one with Larry in her house.

“Adrian? Adrian, are you in here?” Delilah’s impatient voice cut through the thick air like a knife. “The photographer is looking for you.”

“I have to go,” Adrian muttered, cutting the call short as he rushed to obey his wife. “I’m coming.”

Livia hesitated, debating whether to go back into the office. It was probably a waste of time, she at last concluded. Her uncle was obviously erasing every connection to Larry Sutton. Which meant he’d no doubt disposed of any paper trail that would lead to the private investigator. She would have to find some other way to prove he’d hired the sleazebag.

Heading off the terrace, Livia angled across the lawn toward the back gate. She had no desire to return to her rooms and pace the floor. Not when she was still processing the conversation she’d overheard between her uncle and his banker. As tempting as it was to leap to the conclusion her family was involved in spying on her, she knew it was a mistake to act as if she had solid proof.

Yeah, she had circumstantial evidence and gut instincts, but until she and Bryce tracked down Larry Sutton, it was impossible to know for certain. Not that she was going to quit digging, she acknowledged, stepping through the gate and heading toward the small cemetery near the family chapel. She had to do something to keep herself occupied over the next few days.

Skirting past the chapel that was nothing more than an empty shell with a couple of rotting pews inside, Livia stepped into the marble mausoleum. She passed by the plaques embossed with the names of her ancestors until she reached the one belonging to her mother.

GISELLE OLIVIA BENOIT – BELOVED DAUGHTER WHO WAS TAKEN TOO SOON

Rubbing her fingers over the angel carved into the marble, Livia tried to conjure up the image of her mother. As usual, it was a wasted effort. She couldn’t recall a face or a tangible moment they shared together. The memories were too fragmented. A scent. A feeling. A soft whisper in her ear.

With a grimace, Livia dropped her hand. She kept hoping each time she came into this place it would be different. There had to be some connection with the woman who’d given her birth. A soul-deep love that should transcend death. But it was always the same: an emptiness that couldn’t be filled by a crypt on the edge of the swamp.

Stepping out of the mausoleum, Livia froze as a shadow darted into the thick trees that framed the edge of the bayou. What was that? She hadn’t gotten a real look at it, just a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. There was no way to know if it’d been a person or an animal, or even the swaying of a tree branch.

Livia waited, straining to hear footsteps. When there was nothing, not even the rustle of leaves, she scurried back to the estate. She wasn’t afraid, she assured herself, but that close to the swamps there were all sorts of dangers.