“Oh, you know,” he said. “Around.”
“Cool.” Natalie shifted on her heels. Then her eyes locked on a point over Hale’s shoulder as a voice rang out. “Scooter!”
“And that’s my cue,” Natalie said, her eyes wide. “Scoot, I’ll see you around. Kat, it’s been rad.” The girl turned and disappeared into the mourners and out into the garden, before Kat even had a chance to say good-bye.
“Scooter, there you are.” A woman was pushing her way through the crowd and toward Hale. She flicked a piece of lint off of his shoulder and told him, “You’re as bad as Marianne. Where is she, by the way?”
“I imagine she’s taking the afternoon off.” Hale’s voice was cold. “To mourn.”
If the woman had noticed Hale’s pointed tone, she didn’t show it. Instead, she shifted her attention off of Hale and his nonexistent lint and onto the girl beside him. She looked at Kat’s hair, her dress, her shoes, all within a span of a second, deftly taking in everything about her.
“Scooter…” the woman said, drawing out the word, “aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“Hello,” Kat said, extending her hand. “I’m Hale’s—”
“Friend,” Hale said. “A friend of mine. From Knightsbury.”
“Oh. How nice.” But the woman didn’t sound like she thought it was nice. She kept eyeing Kat, looking her up and down. “Where do you call home, dear?”
“Oh.” Kat looked nervously at Hale.
“Kat was raised in Europe,” he told the woman. “But she lives here now.”
“I see,” the woman said. “And how do you find Knightsbury?”
“It’s better than Colgan,” Kat said, knowing that all good lies have their roots in the truth.
“That’s what Scooter says.” The woman looked at Hale. “Scooter, your father needs us in the study. It’s almost time. Say good-bye to your friend.”
“Yes, Mother,” Hale said, and the woman walked away. He watched her go, and seemed utterly lost in thought until Kat slapped his arm.
“Mother?” Kat gasped. “That was your mother!”
He took her arm and whispered, “You’ve got to go, Kat.”
“I just got here. I thought that I should…you know…be here for you.”
“They’re going to read the will.”
“They do that at the memorial service?”
“When control of Hale Industries hangs in the balance they do. The business is…complicated.”
“I see.”
“You don’t want to be here when all these vultures start circling.” He looked out at the people in the room—at his family. “Go on, Kat. I’ll be fine,” Hale said, but something in his words rang false to Kat; she wondered exactly who he was trying to con.
“It sounds like your grandmother was an amazing woman, Hale.” She thought about Silas Foster and Hazel’s fake Monet. “I wish I’d known her. I’m sure everyone just really wants to say good-bye. Hale”—she took his hand—“it’s not about the money.”
Then for the first time Kat could remember, Hale looked at her like she was a fool.
“It’s always about the money.”
Even before he moved, Kat could feel him slipping away. “Why didn’t you tell me she was sick, Hale? I could have—”
“What, Kat?” Hale snapped, then lowered his voice. “What could we have done? Stolen something? Conned someone? Trust me, there was nothing anyone could do. She didn’t even want to live anymore.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”