His expression shifts from concern to something like disappointment. “Sure.”

I follow Lincoln back to the living room, and he pulls up the email with the speech. I also brought a hard copy, which I retrieve from my bag. Lincoln quietly sips his scotch while he reads it over.

It’s about the importance of family and his role in carrying out his father’s legacy by stepping in as CEO of Moorehead. It also highlights his family’s contribution to the hospital’s charity foundation, which is the focus of the night’s event. He rubs his forehead and sighs heavily, tipping back his glass and nearly draining the contents in one gulp.

“It’s very straightforward. Only about five minutes, which I know will seem like a long time, but it’ll be over before you know it. We need you to get used to speaking more formally at events, and this is the perfect opportunity. Do you want to practice it for me? Sometimes it helps if you say it in front of someone else, or maybe you’d be better practicing in front of a mirror.” I don’t know why I’m rambling, other than I’d like to erase the distress from Lincoln’s face, if at all possible.

Lincoln runs his hand down his face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe any of this?”

I set my wineglass on the table and run my hands over my thighs. “I can’t pretend I understand what your relationship with your father was like—”

“I didn’t have a relationship with my family, not with any of them except G-mom, really. My father worked long hours when I was a kid, and my parents’ relationship was … difficult. Transactional? I don’t know how to explain it. There was no love in that house. Mostly I remember Armstrong getting into trouble, and my parents fighting about what to do with him because he was a nightmare even then.” He closes his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly before he focuses on me again.

“You probably knew Fredrick better than I did for all the time I spent with him growing up. He was never there, and he never tried to be. I spent my summers at camps, or I stayed with G-mom at her summer place so I didn’t have to be in the middle of my parents’ loveless marriage or deal with my brother. I went to college out of state, and when I was finished, my father figured I would come work at Moorehead. For whatever reason, he thought I would want to work with him when I didn’t even know a damn thing about him. Anyway, I got out of the country. I don’t even know these people, Wren, let alone like them, so this family legacy angle is a load of BS. The only reason I’m here doing this, is because I don’t want to give G-mom a heart attack, and my brother is mess.”

“I’m sorry this situation is so difficult—”

“My dad had a penthouse in Lower Manhattan. Did you know that?”

I’m taken off guard by the sudden shift in conversation, so I stumble for a moment before I respond. “Uh, no. I was unaware.”

“I found the deed today, and I figured I should check it out, so that’s where I was this afternoon. I thought I’d be gone for an hour or two tops, but uh … it wasn’t just some apartment. It’s where he took his mistress or mistresses.”

I don’t know how to take all of this. The only version of Fredrick that I know is the one who protected his son from the media backlash when he got into trouble. “What if it was an alternate work location? Or maybe it was a place he used for out-of-town clients?” I suggest, trying to find a reasonable explanation. Everything Lincoln’s told me shines a very different, unpleasant light on Fredrick. If what Lincoln suspects is true, it makes me wonder if he was condoning Armstrong’s behavior with all his cover-ups because he’d been doing the same thing all this time. No wonder Lincoln hates his family so much.

“The location wouldn’t be convenient; it’s too far from the office. Besides, based on the contents of the place, it’s pretty clear it was his sex pad. It’s just so in-your-face blatant. I can’t get my head around the whole thing.” His expression reflects his anger and disappointment.

Despite my own difficult family situation, I can’t imagine what it would be like to stumble on something like that, mere weeks after losing his father, regardless of how tumultuous their relationship was.

“You’re sure it was his? Could it have been Armstrong’s?”

“I might believe that, but I took him with me, and he was just as shocked.”

“Could it have been somewhere he took your mother?” I want to give him some kind of explanation that makes sense. It’s my job, after all, to fix things. Smooth things over and make them better if I can.