Chapter 9 - The Anatomy of a Narcissist
By Thursday evening, the Denver County Jail had set Marcus's bail at half a million dollars cash.
Evelyn Porter, true to form, spent six hours trying to leverage her real estate holdings to post bond, only to find that Arthur Vance’s legal team had filed an injunction against all Porter family collateral pending the corporate audit. Marcus was spending the night in a cell.
Meanwhile, Jonah and I sat in my warm kitchen in Wash Park.
The house was quiet. Mack had finished installing secondary deadbolts on every exterior entrance. Outside, the blizzard was howling, rattling the antique leaded glass windows, but inside, a pot of beef stew—my father’s recipe—was simmering on the stove.
Jonah sat at the island, reviewing Chloe’s third-grade homework sheets he had picked up from school earlier that afternoon. Chloe was currently asleep in the guest bedroom upstairs, wrapped in a quilt my mother had sewn twenty years ago. She had cried when Jonah brought her here, but after a bowl of soup and an hour of Jonah reading her favorite book, she had drifted off into an exhausted, safe sleep.
"She’s resilient," I said, placing a bowl of stew in front of Jonah. "Like her dad."
Jonah looked up from the papers, the exhaustion of the last four days finally showing in the deep lines around his eyes. "She shouldn't have to be resilient at seven years old, Nina."
"No," I agreed, sitting across from him. "She shouldn't. But she has you. That matters more than you know."
Jonah picked up his spoon, took a bite, and closed his eyes. "God. That’s incredible. What is that, smoked paprika?"
"My dad’s secret," I smiled, feeling a brief, warm flutter in my chest. "He used to say that a hot meal fixes fifty percent of the world's problems. The other fifty percent takes a good torque wrench."
Jonah smiled—a real, genuine smile that transformed his rugged face, making him look years younger. "Your dad sounds like he was an incredible man."
"He was simple," I murmured, resting my chin on my hands. "He didn't care about luxury cars or dinner reservations at the Broadmoor. He just wanted people to be honest. If he gave you his word, you could build a skyscraper on it."
"That’s why Marcus terrified him," Jonah said quietly.
I looked at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"
Jonah reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather notebook. "When I was going through Bianca's phone records last month, I found text messages between her and Marcus from February. Marcus was complaining that David Taylor was refusing to sign over his proxy voting rights."
Jonah pushed the notebook toward me.
"David knew, Nina," Jonah said, his voice dropping to a tender, solemn register. "Two weeks before he died, your dad figured out that Marcus was cooking the books. He threatened to call Arthur Vance from his hospice bed. That’s why Marcus didn't come that night."
My breath caught in my throat. A cold chill gripped my chest. "Marcus... Marcus wasn't just avoiding me?"
"No," Jonah said, his gray eyes burning with righteous fury. "Marcus was terrified of David. He knew if he walked into that hospice room, your father would look him in the eyes and demand the company ledgers. Marcus didn't have the guts to face an honest man on his deathbed. So he hid in Aspen with Bianca like a coward."
Tears, hot and sudden, spilled down my cheeks. For eight months, I had carried the suffocating guilt that Marcus had stayed away because I wasn't enough—because our marriage was failing, because I had nagged him too much, because I hadn't made him feel important.
He hadn't stayed away because of me. He had stayed away because he was a thief, and my father was the law.
Jonah reached across the marble island. His large, calloused hand covered mine, his thumb gently brushing across my knuckles.
"It wasn't your fault, Nina," Jonah whispered. "None of it. You were the only honest person in that entire house."
May you like
I didn't pull my hand away. The warmth of his skin grounded me against the raging storm outside. For the first time since my father died, the crushing weight in my chest lifted.
***
