I gulp back another drink. Damn, this whiskey goes down smooth.
Smooth like Claire’s bare skin.
How long has it been since I’ve seen her? Nine years now? Maybe ten. I think back on that night, not so long ago, yet another lifetime away. I can still see Claire in that short white sundress she wore, sitting across the fire from me. The way the hem of her skirt rode up her thighs making me sweat—making all my friends sweat—so much so it drove me crazy with jealousy. Every one of my friends wanted her, but back then she only had eyes for me. And I was a teenage boy, possessed by her. Irrevocably infatuated with her. I would ask her questions just for an excuse to stare at the way her mouth moved. I’d call her up before falling asleep hoping to dream about her. It was like having a head injury.
None of that matters now. Any feelings I had toward Claire are dead and gone. Right now, the only emotion I can muster is utter disgust for my father and his mistress. I wonder if those other envelopes his lawyers held this morning were a sort of monetary inheritance for them, an inheritance he stole from his own family to give to his secret one.
And why was this cabin left to me? The shittiest situation he ever personally put me in was having an affair with Claire’s mother. It created a war zone in our home. My parents fought for years over it. Why would he leave me something that would let me know he was still a heartless asshole? Why would he want me to know he was still enthralled and obsessed with the same woman for over a decade? What did Claire and Libby get from my father? Did he shower them with the love and attention he so harshly withheld from my family? By the looks of this luxury cabin, he definitely gave them money, but he had plenty of that to go around. Until now.
Another drink and my shoulders feel looser. Fuck the Radcliffes. This cabin will go right to my mother and Chloe. I just need to erase every inch of that woman and her daughter before I let them inside.
A low vibration sound cuts through my thoughts. Something buzzing against wood, like a phone on silent.
That’s exactly what it is, someone’s cell phone, forgotten on the dining room table. It buzzes again. Curious, I walk over and pick it up. It’s an older model iPhone with cracked webbing that stretches across the entire screen. Claire must have left it here. It lights up in my hand and a preview of a text message from Mom flashes up at me: Your lack of response makes me wonder if you like the idea of your cunt on everybody’s phone and email.
I thought she said her mother was dead. My pulse speeds up.
Why the hell would her mother text that? It’s sick.
I’m not the kind of man who invades people’s privacy, but I need to know what the hell is going on. Curiosity and disgust have a tug-of-war with my insides. I must have read it out of context or maybe my eyes are playing twisted tricks on me.
I hit the message preview and the phone automatically opens. The damn thing is so old there’s no password needed.
Mom: Are you at their cabin yet?
Mom: I gave you explicit instructions to stay in contact with me.
Mom: Have you found the offshore accounts?
So, Claire is after my father’s money. Did him and his whore set up offshore accounts to hide his money from my mother and sister?
Mom: Do you think this is a game, Claire?
Mom: I said a week, for not answering me you lose a day.
Mom: Believe me, Claire, you don’t want me to share all these pictures.
Mom: Get what I need.
I scroll over an image that makes my blood freeze.
What the hell is going on?
It’s a picture of Claire. If Claire was a centerfold. Or maybe it’s a still-shot of some porn she was in, some sort of sex tape she made with someone. It’s explicit.
Confused, I continue scrolling. Dozens more of the same types of images slip under my thumb.
I drop my chin to my chest; I can’t stop myself from staring at them. It makes me nauseous. And yet…
The phone feels heavier in my hand.
Suddenly I’m struggling against my arousal. My heart races and hammers against its cage in my chest. My face heats and tingles with utter self-loathing, shame, and absolute disgust. It’s unnerving.
Unsettling, dark thoughts fester and multiply in my head. It takes me a few moments to get my dick and brain in the same place. I’m no longer a fifteen-year-old kid bewitched by a beautiful girl, I’m a grown man with a laundry list of lovers after Claire. Her family’s transgressions caused so much anger and pain in mine. It doesn’t matter how erotic the pictures are, or how intense the memories of being with Claire are, she’s off limits. She’s no good, just like her mother.
I need to focus on the facts, not how good she looks naked. I could text any woman I know right now and ask them to send me pictures and they would without shame. I don’t need to gawk at Claire’s.
Focus.
Why would her mother be sending Claire her own nude pictures?
Claire: Please don’t do anything. I’m not here alone. I need time.
Mom: JUST FIND IT OR THESE PICTURES GET LEAKED!
Blackmail? Libby Radcliffe is blackmailing her own daughter? The next few moments I’m questioning everything I thought about Claire Radcliffe. Why would Libby Radcliffe do that to her own daughter? Unless Claire was telling the truth and Libby was dead, and these texts were from someone else entirely.
Fuck me, it’s always something sordid and crazy with these Radcliffe women.
I try to clear my thoughts and look at the facts. First, it seems like someone thinks my father had hidden offshore accounts. Second, someone is forcing Claire to find them. Third, Libby Radcliffe may have committed suicide. Fourth, Libby Radcliffe may still be breathing and Claire is a liar.
I’m giving myself whiplash.
My head spins trying to figure out what to do; what to think. Maybe there’s more information I can get off the phone? I have to find out what I can, and quick, before Claire comes knocking back on the door looking for it. I swipe through more of the texts. Before two days ago, there was no correspondence between Libby and Claire save for one message from a year prior. Claire texted her mother about getting a job at a private school, but Libby never answered. But that could mean nothing, she could have deleted all the messages for all I knew.
Or maybe Libby just hadn’t cared enough to respond. Maybe Libby Radcliffe was like my father in those regards, cold and heartless toward her own offspring.
The menacing messages and images start on Wednesday, and whomever this is, threatens to send all the pictures to her school, to each of her students, and all their parents.
Jesus, that’s messed up. That can’t end well for someone teaching in a private school, can it?
I click out of their conversation and open another. There’re only three different message threads. The one with Libby, another with a contact named Paul, and an ongoing conversation with a friend named Madeline.
The Paul contact texted he was sorry for her loss and that if she needed anything, all she had to do was call him. He mentions her lesson plans are taken care of for the rest of the week. So, maybe that means her mother is really dead.
The conversations between Claire and Madeline are a bit different. From scanning over them quickly they look like everyday chats between two friends. Plans to see movies, a long, drawn-out discussion about a book they were reading together, and sprinkled throughout were bits of Madeline venting about numerous dates that were a waste of her time. The last few messages contain Madeline asking if Claire wants her to help collect her mother’s things and to call if she needs anything.