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Watch Your Back
Excerpt II
“No.
Oh God, no. Candace!” Devon Mitchell yelled, bolting upright in bed.
His eyes burned from unshed tears mingling with the sweat sliding off
his forehead. Devon’s lungs felt as if he’d been holding his breath for
some time. It was a while before the pounding in his heart slowed.
Candace.
Swinging his legs slowly over the side, his unsteady hands cradled his
head. A thin film of sweat covered his shuddering body. The bright blue
light from the nightstand clock announced the hour. It was just past
four in the morning.
Heavy steps propelled him toward the bathroom. Devon splashed cold
water on his face. The jolt that ensued sent shockwaves throughout his
exhausted body. The haggard, weary image reflected in the mirror had
become commonplace. More sleep wasn’t an option. It would only send him
back to that fatal night. A horror-stricken night filled with lies,
deceptions and inescapable pain.
Devon grabbed a pair of well-worn jeans and put them on bypassing a
shirt and shoes. It was a familiar routine. Descending down the old
wooden steps, Devon was careful to avoid the spot that creaked.
He entered a comfortable kitchen. Hardwood floors darkened over time
greeted him
every morning. Worn wood cabinets hung along both walls in the u-shaped
kitchen. Faded wallpaper in a fruit laden pattern hinted at the home’s
age.
“Thought you could use this,” his uncle Henry said, hovering
over the coffeepot.
“Thanks.”
Sitting at a farm table built for six that only had two chairs, Devon
waited for his uncle to break the silence.
“Same dream, huh?”
He didn’t bother denying it. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Intelligent gray eyes sparkled as Henry grinned at his only nephew.
“Nonsense. I had to get up soon anyway. Got work to do.”
Comforted, Devon couldn’t help the smile that escaped. His father,
Sterling Mitchell, and Sterling’s younger brother, Henry, were as
opposite as wine and beer nuts. Their work ethic was the only common
bond. Wealthy in their own right, each sibling walked separate paths to
personal happiness.
Devon accepted the steaming cup of coffee. Henry sat across the table.
Loosening his robe for comfort, he sighed. “So, you wanna talk about
it?”
The younger man inhaled the pungent aroma. “What’s the point? It never
goes away. I’m not sure I want it to.”
“Now you’re talking crazy. Those story-hungry vultures tried and they
couldn’t make their accusations stick. Implying you meant to cause that
accident and that the Mitchell money covered it up was nonsense. It was
an injustice to this family. You did all you could to save her.”
“If we weren’t arguing maybe I would’ve been paying more attention to
the road. If—”
“You’re just torturing yourself, and for what? You think your guilt is
gonna bring that girl back?” Henry’s voice lowered. Or the baby?”
Henry’s reference to Candace wasn’t surprising. His uncle disliked her
the moment her manicured hands shook his callused ones. Never one to
hold his tongue, the old man had no qualms telling Devon what he
thought. After that, Henry only referred to her as “that girl.”
“I know my guilt won’t change anything, but I caused the crash that
killed her and our unborn child. I’ll live with that burden for the
rest of my life.”
Slamming down his coffee cup, Henry refuted the statement.
“Bah! The police reconstruction crew deemed it an accident.
It was a mechanical failure, Devon. The gas pedal got stuck, your tire
blew and you lost control of your car—it happens.”
His uncle was thoughtful for a minute. Besides, what that girl did to
you was shameful, and to make matters worse, she’s still torturing you.”
“Whatever Candace did pales in comparison to her losing her life,
Henry. She didn’t deserve to die.” Devon struggled for composure.
“My boy, you know I’ve been happy for your company these last
few months, but enough is enough. You can’t hide here forever, raking
yourself over the coals.”
Henry slowly stood. Walking to the sink, he rinsed his cup then faced
his nephew. “You’ve got to go. You’ve been idling here far too long.
You ain’t doin’ nothing but making yourself nuts.”
Devon gave his uncle a quick look. “You’re kicking me out?”
“That’s right.” It’s been three months since the accident. The media
has gone on to more news worthy stories, and that girl is dead and
buried, God rest her tortured soul. I can’t bear to see you suffering
anymore.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to pick up where I left off.”
“Sure you are. I spoke with fancy pants a few days ago. My brother
thinks it’s time you got back in the saddle—so do I.”
Before Devon could protest again, Henry retrieved a large brown
envelope from a cupboard. Sitting, he slid the package across the table.
“What’s this?”
“Everything you’ll need to get back up to snuff.”
His stomach tightened at seeing his father’s bold, pronounced writing
on the envelope. The thought of resuming his old fast paced lifestyle
at his family’s technical services company, made him uneasy. That
uncertainty was reflected in his expression.
“Just take your time and mull it over, son. I’m going to get dressed
then go milk my girl.” Squeezing Devon’s shoulder, he left the kitchen.
“Watch yourself,” Devon warned.
“Always do.”
Chuckling aloud, Devon played the familiar scene in his head. Abigail,
the obstinate cow, would stand quietly while Henry got himself
positioned. The moment he reached for her, she’d move. It was a battle
of wills, and the winner of the skirmish changed daily.
A minute passed before Devon gave the envelope his attention. Turning
it over, he ripped open the top, dumping its contents—a letter from his
father, current earnings reports and other pieces of mail. Putting them
aside, he glanced at a note from the Wells Gallery, one of the
companies his grandmother had bequeathed him, before reading the
financials. After reading the page, his jaw dropped. “What the hell?”
Tossing the note aside, Devon picked up the earnings statement. He’d
read it twice. He bounded out of his chair and paced the floor. “How
the devil could profits be off like this?”
Six years ago, before she died, his grandmother Cecilia Grayson Wells
had bequeathed Devon her company, Wells, Inc., and several business
assets. One in particular, the Wells Gallery was her pride and joy. The
gesture humbled him. He’d been surprised that Nana Wells hadn’t left it
to his mother or his Aunt. Voicing his concern, he asked why the shrewd
businesswoman entrusted him with her life’s work. He recalled his
mother’s words.
“Your nana wanted you, her only grandson, to inherit her legacy—to have
something of your own.”
Vowing never to jeopardize her faith in him, Devon solemnly accepted.
By any means necessary, her interests would continue to prosper.
His grandmother’s friend and long-time director, Paolo Gambrini handled
the day-to-day operations of the gallery. Unlike his grandmother, Devon
remained behind the scenes, but final decisions rested on his
shoulders. Up until now the arrangement had worked out well—or so he’d
thought. Within the missive was the director’s letter of resignation.
Since Devon was out of touch, the second-in-command at Wells, Maxwell
Shaw, had no choice but to grant Paolo’s request.
First Candace’s death, followed by the media frenzy that descended on
his family, and
now the gallery was in jeopardy. His subsequent need to avoid the
public eye had been his only concern. He’d been selfish. The wall clock
indicated it was 6:45 am. He was on Central time. He strode to the
counter and picked up the phone. Devon dialed Wells and waited. He was
calling Eastern Standard Time so they were an hour ahead. When it was
answered by the receptionist, he spoke. “It’s Devon Mitchell. Put
Maxwell on.”
“Oh, Mr. Mitchell. I’m afraid Mr. Shaw is in a meeting. If you’d like
to—”
“What he’s in, doesn’t concern me. Why he isn’t on the phone does.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman said quickly. “Just one moment, please.”
Seconds later Maxwell Shaw’s voice came over the line.
“Devon? Where in the world have you been?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you later. Bring me up to speed. You can start
by telling me what the hell is going on at my gallery.”
“Frankly, Devon, I’m at a loss myself. Over the last few months the
gallery has suffered setbacks of one kind or another. As I stated in my
last report, late shipments, lost packages and mishaps are causing a
strain on our overhead. We’re hardly bankrupt, but the gallery can’t
continue losing profits. It’s not good business.”
Devon remained silent for so long Maxwell cleared this throat.
“Devon? Are you still here?”
“Of course I’m here,” he snapped. “I take it Gambrini’s gone?”
“Yes. He’s moved back to Italy.”
“Have we hired a replacement?”
“We’re in the process. We have an acting director, Jayde Seaton. She’s
been with us for quite some time. Devon, maybe you should consider—”
“I’m not closing the gallery,” Devon interrupted. “That’s not an
option.”
“I would never suggest that. I was going to say maybe you should
promote Jayde to directory. She’s Paolo’s intended replacement.”
“I’m coming to D.C. for an extended stay to get the gallery back on
track. Have the house opened up and get everything ready by the time I
arrive.”
“Forgive me for being blunt Devon, but are you sure this is going to
work? Art isn’t
exactly your forte.”
“It’s time I took a hands-on approach. I’ve been remiss in handling my
grandmother’s affairs. I’m going to be at the gallery as long as it
takes to get things back on track.”
“What about Ms. Seaton? As I said…we already have the
paperwork—”
“I’m sure you’ll find a diplomatic way to break it to her. The gallery
is my responsibility. I plan to find the problem and fix it. How long
it takes is irrelevant. I’m not going back to work at the Mitchell
Group until the gallery’s on solid ground. Get the ball rolling, Max.
You’ve got three days.”
After he ended the call, Devon closed his eyes and ran a hand over his
face. Guilt twisted his insides. How could I have let this happen? With
a shake of his head Devon headed to the barn.
Milking Abigail, Henry was singing loudly and slightly off key.
“I’m leaving,” Devon shouted over the ruckus.
“’Bout time,” his uncle replied over his shoulder. “So, when you headed
to Chicago?”
“I’m not. I’ve got some problems at the gallery that need my attention.”
“The gallery? Can’t someone else handle it?”
“No. I’ve been negligent in handling my responsibilities for too long
as it is. Besides, I made a promise to my grandmother, Henry, and it’s
one I intend to keep.”
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