Chapter Thirteen

Liam

The familiar groan of the mansion's iron gates announced my arrival. Martin pulled the car to a stop and I stepped out, the crisp evening air washing over me. But the usual quiet of the mansion was shattered by the sound of a piano, its melody weaving through the open windows. Stepping out of the car, I was immediately taken by a melody that sent a jolt of nostalgia through me. Beethoven's Sonata No. 14, played with a passion and precision I hadn't heard in years. It could only be Anna.

Back before the drugs and the downward spiral, my sister was a musical prodigy. Mozart, Beethoven – she could weave them into existence with her fingertips. It always pained me to see such raw talent go wasted, forever questioning what demons drove her down that path.

Following the music, I entered the mansion, the sound drawing me towards the parlor. A heartwarming sight unfolded before me. Mom sat in an armchair, a smile gracing her lips as Anna captivated the room. Even the usually stoic house staff couldn't help but be drawn in, their faces reflecting a mixture of awe and pride.

As I stood lost in the music, a touch on my shoulder brought me back.

Karen's voice, laced with a hint of amusement, washed over me. "There you are. I waited for you at your office today, but apparently, you were busy playing hero and saving a damsel in distress."

Turning, I forced a smile. "I didn't know you were coming to the hotel today. You should've called or something."

"I sent you a text, honey," she replied, the playful nickname grating on me.

"Must've missed it," I muttered, unwilling to dissect the truth behind that statement, pushing the conversation forward. "So, are you done helping your father? That was your excuse for disappearing with him since Saturday."

Karen's smile faltered for a moment before returning. "Yes, everything's settled on his end. Speaking of which," she continued, her voice dropping a touch, "he told me about your… buyout offer."

A surge of irritation coursed through me. "That old snitch," I muttered under my breath.

"Look," I said, clearing my throat, "it's not personal, Karen. It is just business. Your father and I have… creative differences."

"And your first instinct is to buy him out? We could have talked about this, Liam. I could have figured out a way for you two to work together." Her voice held a tinge of frustration. "Now, he's determined to take over the company, and believe me, my father always gets what he wants."

Karen's words echoed in my head, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "Let's see about that," I muttered, knowing full well I had an ace up my sleeve, Coyote won't let me down. The memory of Vanessa, pale and unconscious, resurfaced, a sharp contrast to the melody filling the room. Dealing with family drama could wait. Right now, all I wanted was a drink and some answers about Vanessa's well-being.

********************

Vanessa

I was discharged from the hospital that evening, clutching a bouquet of get-well-soon lilies (courtesy of a concerned-looking patient in the next room), feeling a strange mix of relief and apprehension. Lorena had to return to the hotel, so I called Richard to pick me up. He arrived wearing his worn denim jacket, scanning the hospital hallway with a worried frown, he found and raced towards me in the hallway, his concern evident in every step.

"Why didn't you call me when it happened?" he demanded, hugging me tightly before pulling away.

"Richard, I was unconscious," I explained, exasperated. "How could I have called you?"

He scratched his head, looking sheepish. "Sorry, honey. I just wish I was here when you got admitted. So, why were you admitted to the hospital?"

My stomach twisted in a knot. I wasn't sure if I was ready to tell him everything, not yet. "I was working in the swimming pool and I had an allergic reaction," I mumbled, opting for the simplified version of the truth. "It turns out I am allergic to chlorine, apparently."

He held my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. "Sorry, honey, but that's not so bad. You'll get better faster than you know it," he said, smiling at me.

The car ride back to his apartment was filled with light conversation. We talked about his day, the latest case at the station, anything to avoid the truth looming heavy within me. In less than ten minutes, we were pulling into the familiar parking lot of his apartment complex.

Once we arrived and stepped into his apartment, my phone rang incessantly. It was my mother, Jane Spencer.

This must be an unfortunate coincidence, because my mother rarely called, and of all days to call why today? Why now?

I picked up, bracing myself. "Vanessa, how are you doing?" she asked, her voice deceptively calm.

"I'm fine, Mom," I replied, trying to sound casual.

"Fine?" she boomed from the other end. "Liar! The hospital called and said you were admitted! Why weren't you honest with me? Don't you remember I'm your emergency contact?"

Busted. My shoulders slumped. "Mom, it wasn't that serious," I pleaded. "Just a little allergic reaction. I'm okay now, really."

A sigh of relief escaped her. Her tone softened slightly but remained skeptical. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Mom, that's what happened," I reiterated. "I had an allergic reaction to chlorine, but I'm fine now. No need to worry."

"I will always worry about you, my daughter," she said, her voice a mix of concern and frustration. "You are pursuing this silly impossible dream of yours in crazy, oftentimes violent Los Angeles. You know what? I'm coming to Los Angeles next week, and if I have to drag you by the hair, I'll drag you back to Napa with me. You hear me, young lady?"

My jaw dropped. Mom was a force of nature, a woman who followed through on her word. The image of her dragging me, a grown woman, back home was both terrifying and hilarious.

"Mom, please, that's not necessary," I tried to reason with her.

"It is necessary. I will see you next week," she insisted and ended the call before I could say anything more.