himself in a towel, popped a couple of Excedrin, and dug in his backpack for the folder of information about the property.
Camp Five, River Road, Creek County. What kind of address was that? The only legible details were a set of coordinates scribbled on a hand-drawn map with no roads to be seen, and a satellite photo the trustees had printed for reference. And all that showed was an impenetrable canopy of treetops with a digital dot in the middle.
The other documents were an indecipherable mess of legal terms and jargon about conveyance and grantors and townsites and parcels that made his head swim. He was hopeless with paperwork in the best of times, and this was not the best of times. As much as it killed him to live up to rich-kid clichés, he did tend to outsource the basic administrative responsibilities of life.
A map, though, he could handle. Hopefully it would make more sense when he was out there.
An hour later he was outside, dressed in his standard uniform of black tee, black jeans, Robin’s old leather jacket, and Bryce’s black Ray-Bans. It was a gray, gloomy day, with dark clouds hanging ominously overhead, but that was fine with him. Sunlight was no good for a hangover anyway.
There was a small diner overlooking Brooks Bay. He sat at a table with a view of the rocky cove and tiny harbor, forcing down a greasy breakfast and a ginger ale. Then he trudged a short distance downhill, where a chunky wooden bench sat facing the view. James took a seat and slumped back, taking it in. Not bad, really. Shabbily romantic. He could imagine what it must have looked like in its heyday, when the paint was fresh, the boardwalk was bustling, and the fishing boats could keep the economy afloat.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he closed his eyes with a sigh before taking it out to look at the screen. It was Domino Curtis, one of the only people he’d been willingly in touch with since August.
Among the many lawyers retained by the Worthington Crane family, Domino’s status was mostly honorary. His father Richard had been a close friend of Bryce and Grace for decades, and their families had spent enough time together for James to see him as something like a cousin. They were never close—James was a gay hipster raised in the downtown art scene, and Domino was a perfectly average upper-class jock about ten years his senior. But he was part of the inner circle all the same, especially in the past seven years since Domino’s father’s death, when Grace had retained him as a personal attorney to keep him close to the family.
Now, he was the only lawyer James could handle talking to. Domino had offered to help deal with the legal matters that arose when a family of multi-millionaires all died at once. James was grateful, but still found conversation hard to tolerate.
Already weary, he tapped to accept the call. “Domino.”
“James, hello! I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I left town.” And had possibly ignored a few calls before that.
“Yeah, I wondered. I spoke with your boyfriend.”
James squinted, drawing a blank. “Who?”
“Isaac.”
Isaac? James made a face. The sexy actor-director he’d been casually fucking before the murders? That wasn’t a relationship. Just a string of excellent hookups that James had plainly cut off in August. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Isaac from calling and texting incessantly, even though James hadn’t read or responded once. Apparently even his fuck buddies wanted to play cuddle-the-sad-rich-orphan.
“Not my boyfriend,” James said curtly. “Why would you talk to him?”
“I ran into him at your place. Said he’s been trying to reach you.” Domino sounded a little more wired than usual. “Sounded worried as hell, and I gotta tell you, bro, I don’t blame him. The way you’re acting lately—”
“I’m fine,” James interrupted. “I’m in Oregon. Not that it’s anyone’s business.”
“Don’t tell me you’re messing with that property…” Domino let out a guttural groan, his voice sharpening. “I told you to leave it alone for now, bro! You know how weird shit gets when that much land sits around in some hick county for twenty years?”
James shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“It is what it is?” Domino snapped, nearly shouting. “For Christ’s sake, and you wonder why I worry? As your lawyer—”
“You’re not my lawyer,” James interrupted sharply. “And do not fucking yell at me, Domino.”
“You’re right,” Domino said quickly, letting out a rough, aggravated breath. “Look,