Guilty As Sin (Sin Trilogy#2)

No one in the room moved or breathed as I rose.

“Don’t you dare speak to me.” My mother’s voice turned sharp and deadly. “You walked in here tonight with her daughter! Sneaking around with that little Gable slut all summer was bad enough, but coming in the hospital with her tonight? You were probably in bed with that trash when her whore mother killed your father!”





3





WHITNEY





AS I STOOD between the bodies of my parents, Mrs. Riscoff’s words ricocheted off the walls of the ER like bullets designed to maim instead of kill.

“You were probably in bed with that trash when her whore mother killed your father!”

They shattered me, mostly because they were true. At least, if what the police officer just told us was true.

My mother was having an affair with Lincoln’s father.

My mother was driving Lincoln’s father’s car when the cars collided and they both went over the bridge.

Aunt Jackie bolted for the door. “I’ll kill that old hag myself if she says another word.”

My body felt like it was shutting down, one system at a time. My brain couldn’t handle everything that had been thrown at it tonight. My emotions were shredded, especially after the phone call I’d just had with my brother. Aunt Jackie had to tell him what happened because I couldn’t force myself to say the words.

I can’t take any more.

Numbness swept over me, and I embraced it.

“Whit? Baby? Asa said you were here. I was already almost to Gable when he called.”

The voice was so familiar, but my brain felt like it was slogging through mud as I tried to identify it.

“What are you doing here? How did you—” Jackie sputtered as I looked up at the person standing in the doorway.

Ricky.

His gaze locked on the two sheet-covered bodies. “Fuck. Fuck.” Ricky covered his mouth like he was going to puke. “Shit, they’re really—”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, sounding like a zombified version of myself.

He stepped toward me. “I got on a plane as soon as I got your letter. I had a shitty layover, otherwise I would’ve been here sooner.” His gaze cut back to the bodies. “Asa just told me about . . . Fuck. I’m so sorry, Whit.”

Ricky came to me and dropped to his knees at my feet. When he wrapped both arms around me and laid his head in my lap, I was too frozen to react. I didn’t understand why he was here, but maybe that was because I didn’t understand anything right now.

I let Ricky hold me as he apologized over and over.

“You need to keep walking, boy.”

Aunt Jackie barked at someone, and my head jerked toward the doorway. Just before she pushed the door closed, my gaze collided with a tortured hazel one.

Lincoln.

A new storm of emotions rolled through me. I didn’t know where one ended and the next began.

Pain. Regret. Loss.

What was broken tonight could never be repaired.

A Gable and a Riscoff could never be together. Fate would never let it happen.





4





WHITNEY





Present day

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

The accusation in Lincoln’s voice—the voice that just promised me a new beginning—shreds me.

“What are you talking about?”

He holds out his phone, shoving it toward my face. The damning headline is at the top in bold.



* * *



RICKY RANGO’S ESTATE CLAIMS HE WAS THE TRUE RISCOFF HEIR



* * *



I TEAR my gaze from the words and look back up at Lincoln. “You think—”

“I don’t know what to think, Whitney. You were his wife. You have to tell me what the hell is going on.”

I wish I could. I reread the headline before Lincoln lowers his phone. Any words I might try to speak get caught in my throat.

I look up at him, still attempting to form a response, but from the look on Lincoln’s face, it doesn’t matter. He’s already tried and convicted me. Again.

Today, for a second, I thought I might not actually be cursed.

Wrong.

“Say something. Anything,” he says as his phone vibrates again. He never looks away from my face, expecting me to have some kind of answer when I have nothing to give him.

I’m so tired of being found guilty of crimes I didn’t commit.

Self-disgust, for letting this happen again, washes over me. I’m the only one who can allow someone to make me feel this way, and I’m done.

I straighten my shoulders. “I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing.”

He steps toward me, confusion creasing his brow. “Then—”

I hold up a hand to silence him as hysterical laughter bubbles up and spills from my lips. I don’t care if I sound crazy. I don’t care about anything but getting the hell out of here before he makes me feel any worse on a day that’s already predisposed to be awful.

“You know what?” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.

“What?”

“I already know how this little scene ends.” I wave my hand between us. “So I’m gonna save you the trouble. You don’t need to throw me out, because I’m gone.”

I spin on my heel and head for the door. My shoes are nowhere to be found. Again. God, why is my life one big disaster repeating itself over and over?

I yank the massive glass door open just as Lincoln grabs my wrist.

“Whitney, wait—”

“Don’t touch me.” I shake him off and step outside. “I’m done doing anything you ask. You don’t trust me? Then you don’t fucking deserve anything from me.”

I slam the door behind me. Three steps down the driveway, all the morally outraged stiffness fades from the set of my shoulders, and tears track down my face.

Every step of my bare feet on the asphalt reminds me that I never learn.

But this time I will.

I make the vow to myself as I walk away from Lincoln and out to whatever bullshit life throws at me next.

I just don’t expect life to throw more bullshit at me so soon.

When I reach the final turn in the driveway, the dull roar starts.

What in the ever-loving hell?

Cameras flash above and through the black bars of Lincoln’s gate, capturing my walk of shame.

No. Not again.

My stomach drops when the paparazzi gathered there recognize me.

“Oh my God.”

“That’s her!”

“It’s Whitney Rango!”

How in God’s name did the vultures find Lincoln so quickly? We’re not in LA, and these aren’t reporters from the Gable Miner.

The story he showed me must have broken early this morning or late last night for them to be here by now.

“Whitney, are you and Lincoln Riscoff together?”

“Did you know that your husband was really a Riscoff?”

“Did you kill your husband so Lincoln could inherit?”

“How long has your affair with Lincoln Riscoff been going on?”

With every question they hurl like daggers, I want to turn around and run in the other direction. But I can’t. There’s nowhere to go but back to Lincoln’s front door, and my pride won’t allow that.

“Is it true that your dad killed Lincoln’s father when he tried to run away with your mother?”

The last question is like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t surprise me that they latched onto that nugget.

“No comment,” I tell them as I take another step forward.

A rock digs into the ball of my foot, and I hop backward. It’s like my body knows better than I do that I can’t walk through that gate and face them. But what other choice do I have?

An Escalade slows as it turns off Gable Road and into the driveway blocked by the press.

Great. Now they’re bringing in the big guns.

I stand frozen in the middle of the driveway, contemplating running into the woods. At least, until the Escalade’s driver rolls down his window and orders them away.

The reporters at the gate don’t listen. The Escalade moves forward, making it clear the driver has no problem running them over if they won’t get out of his way.

That’s when I realize it’s not more press. Only someone with the name Riscoff would dare run someone over in broad daylight, in front of a crowd of cameras. It takes a lifetime to build up that level of arrogance.