“Slow down? What for?”
“Calm down then. Think before you blurt it all out.”
I keep rushing, stalking the halls and rooms so I can find Landon. “I am thinking. I do nothing but think all the fucking time, and this is only adding to my thinking. It’s about time I got it out of my mouth and handed it over to someone who can deal with technicalities and legalities. I’ve done my bit.” I duck my head around the corner into one of the many offices. No luck. “The fact that I haven't yet finished my bit can wait, but we have found the first and second links, neither of which I can deal with past reporting the info. Dead author is next on the list, and I need Locke for that.”
I check my watch. "Where is he?”
“What time did you tell him to be here?”
“Lunchtime. It’s gone that, and I need him. And maybe when I don't need him, you can have all the feelings you want out of me, for as long as you like,because I'll be able to enjoy that and think about love stuff, but until then, I can't slow down.”
Another room passed, and another, and another, and I feel like screaming the place down so I don’t have to search anymore. I eventually stop and call Landon instead, hoping that might speed the search up. “Where are you?” I snap, the moment the phone line engages.
“In the portrait gallery.”
“Stay there. I’m coming to you.”
I turn and head towards the back stairs, slipping through the old servants’ wing to get to him fastest. Blake’s hot my heels the entire time, as if maybe I need protecting from something. Maybe I do. Who fucking knows with all this crap that’s been happening around us. I still can’t even fathom who this killer is or why we were ever kidnapped. And if Neve doesn’t call me soon, I’m about to start considering her as a problem I haven’t even measured. Noah said that. He said we—the family—have the most to lose, and that any one of us could have motive for something. Everyone else is here but her and Mother and Father.
Father.
“I bet my father knew about this,” I mutter, climbing the stairs. “That's what this has all been about. Hiding the truth. He fed me a half-truth hoping that would be enough. It's why we're supposed to hate Foxtons and—”
“You don't know that, Ivy. He might be as in the dark as you were.” Unlikely.
“Ah, there you are,” I announce, walking into the gallery to find Landon and Willow talking to Noah. I look at Noah. “Why didn't you come to me first? I needed you.”
He points at Landon. “He pays me?”
Annoying, but true. And, as it happens, I didn't need him anyway. At least for this first bit. “Anyway, Landon, you need to know something, and I can’t work out whether everyone should hear it at the same time or if you should hear it first.”
“It’s generally better for the lawyer to understand the issue before everyone else.”
“Right. Okay then. Apparently, Great-Great-Grandmother Broderick had an affair with Kenneth Foxton. She got pregnant. Not by her husband.” He frowns and leans on a pedestal, crossing his arms, as if this is no surprise. “Are you not bothered by that?”
“Yes, but you clearly haven't finished, so carry on before I react accordingly. I'm thinking.”
“Alright then. Great-Great-Granddaddy Broderick either accepted the pregnancy or didn't know about it, and so that child was assumed as a Broderick—our ancestor. Broderick and Broderick also had another son before that one—George. Father said he died young, but on further investigation, thanks to Locke, it seems he didn’t. In fact, he had a child with a maid—Claire Davis, and that was also a son. That son’s birth certificate says he was a Daniel Davis, but the father’s name is clear as George Harold Broderick. Do you see where I’m heading?”
“I'm not liking it, but go on.”
“As I’m sure you’ve already deduced, if this is the truth, that means that we—all of us apparent Brodericks—are, in fact, Foxtons. And that Daniel Davis, and all his subsequent children, are, in fact, the Brodericks. By blood at least.”
He looks like he’s still thinking, or about to explode. I’ve never really been able to tell the difference when that excessively serious frown line comes into play. “And where’s the proof of the original affair?” he asks. “Because without it, this is nothing but heresy and circumstantial irrelevance.”
“Ah, well, a love letter and an old journal,” I say, holding them up. “Apart from that, not much. We’d need DNA for actual proof, but this is pretty damning stuff and …” He starts leaving the room, sure strides moving too quickly for me to be able to keep up without half running. I look at Blake, disconcerted by the non-explosive reaction, and then follow Landon out to wherever he’s going. “Landon?”
No response. Just him hurrying down the stairs until he’s rounding through the main ballroom and heading for the formal lounge. I’m still trying to catch up when I half trip on one of the ornate rugs and start falling. The solid grip that shunts me back to upright barely stops my impetus, and we all push into the drawing room like a bunch of drunken reprobates.
“Get the fuck off her!” Landon shouts.
Who?
What?
I look through the room and find Seffi and Scott by the open French windows, and then it hits me, and I suddenly realise what Landon’s shouting at.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, Good God!”
