The first Pierce Whitfield link takes me to his law firm. Halfway down the page are several Facebook profiles for various Pierce Whitfields—who knew it was such a popular name—but after that there are endless articles connecting him to a line of popular children’s dolls. I consider typing in Whitfield family net worth, but I don’t want to know that yet.

I’ll come back to that. When I’m ready. Next I search Mills Hotel and Mills Family. The name is actually rather common, but the familiarity lies with my father’s disdain for them, because they always had what he never could, and eventually they took it all by uncovering his endless scams and lies.

I pull up article after article on their family dynasty. They’re worth an insane amount of money. The kind of money that could buy up an entire strip of homes in the Hamptons without even blinking. Hundreds of millions of dollars.

I think for a moment about Amalie, Pierce’s sister, and how normal she seems to be considering she’s marrying into what is likely one of the richest families in New York. But then, her family has money too. I’d be surprised if the Millses don’t have their own private jet.

I flip back to the Whitfield family who hold the patent for Amalie Dolls. And dear God, they have an app. It’s crazypants. I click on a link that takes me to a website with endless varieties of those creepy dolls with the blinky eyes that are more often than not the demonic, possessed stars of horror movies.

I’ve seen those dolls in stores. They’re a huge deal during every holiday. Easter, Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas; there’s a new doll with a new outfit and new app add-ons. It’s no wonder Pierce can afford to buy a three-quarter-of-a-million-dollar house with cash.

It’s ten thirty when I arrive home, and it’s a Monday, which is typically a slow day in real estate, so I don’t expect Marley to be awake, particularly since she went out last night with friends. It’s possible she has company. I hope not.

I pull up the article I read in The Moorehead Review on my laptop and send a text to my sister before I knock on her door. Then I send another one three minutes later because she still hasn’t answered. “Mar? Are you awake?”

I get a grunt in response.

“Are you alone?”

It takes several long seconds before I get a groggy “Yes.”

I feel a pang of guilt for my surprise. Marley after a night at a bar is usually accompanied by some guy, random or not, taking up space in our apartment and making things awkward.

“I’m opening the door,” I warn, in case she’s lying about her alone status.

She glances at the clock on her nightstand and frowns. “What’re you doing home this early? Shouldn’t you be having a sexathon with your lawn boy?”

I lean against the doorjamb, laptop propped against my hip, and attempt to feign calm. “I’m a little worried about my lawn boy.”

She sits up, rubbing her eyes, her frown deepening. “Uh-oh, did the condom break?” I shake my head, and she exhales a relieved breath, but it’s short-lived. “Are you okay? What happened? What did that asshole do?”

I love that she immediately makes him the villain, even though I’m unsure whether or not that’s true. I sit down on the mattress beside her and turn the laptop toward her. “Read this.”

“He’s not married, is he?”

“No, but it might be the same level of bad.”

She scans the article, eyes darting to mine when she gets to the part about the Mission Mansion.

“Is this even a credible news source? Isn’t Moorehead into those clickbait scams? And what does this have to do with Pierce?”

“His sister is engaged to Lexington Mills. Son of the CEO of the Mills Hotels. I met him at Lawson’s the day after we sold them the first house.”

Marley scrolls through the article again. “And you think Pierce is somehow involved?”

“I don’t know, but I told him a long time ago that we used to spend our summers there, and last night I told him our grandparents used to own it. He’s going to figure out how we’re connected to it sooner than later. What if he’s had a plan this whole time? What if he and Lawson are biding their time until the Millses start buying up property and he never said anything? Think about it: They’ve done minimal renovations on their properties this summer. We both know flipping is far more lucrative than renting, but they suddenly change gears and choose to hold onto everything they buy? What other reason would there be?”

“That they want to build a rental base? They obviously have money to play with. I don’t know that it has to be as sinister as all this.” She motions to the magazine spread out before us.

“The Mills family is beyond rich, though. They could buy up every single damn property on the beach and it would barely dent their bank account.”

Marley chews on her bottom lip and regards me with quiet speculation. “I don’t know, Rian. I mean, I guess I can see how you might think there’s a connection here, but Pierce doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to do something like this. It doesn’t seem logical, and honestly, he’s so into you. He sat on the front porch for hours waiting for you to come home.”

“How many properties have they bought this summer? Every time something comes up they’re right there, putting in an offer. It can’t all be a coincidence.”

She exhales a slow breath. “Okay, but if they’re going to sell it anyway, why put any money into renovations at all? Why not sit on it?”

“So they can rent until the Millses jump in and buy it up? Maybe it wasn’t their plan at first and then it changed when this article came out.” It’s a few weeks old. God, how long has Pierce known about this and not said anything?

“Pierce wasn’t all that excited about that plan, though, was he? I think you need to talk to him before you start jumping to conclusions.”

I run my palm down my face, hating the panic and the twisted feeling in my stomach. “I’m going to have to tell him how we’re connected to the Mission Mansion.”

“You can’t hide it from him forever.”

“Our dad screwed dozens of people out of their homes and money, including the Mills family, who he’s directly connected to, with my help.” Less than six hours ago I was sure I was falling for this man, and now the half truths are biting at my heels.

“You had no idea what he was doing, Rian. You can’t keep blaming yourself for something you didn’t do.”

“But I gave him what he needed to do it, which is just as bad.” And I’ve lied by omission, which is almost worse than lying outright. My phone buzzes with messages from Pierce. I don’t look at them. I’m pretty sure I know what they’ll say. He woke up to an empty bed.

Marley sighs. “Does he even know where you are?”

“He was asleep when I left.”

“What if he’s not involved? What if this is all on Lawson?”

“What if he is involved? What if he’s known this whole time and he’s been stringing me along, keeping me occupied while he and Lawson make deals with the Mills family.”

She sighs, her eyes sad. “Maybe you’re trying to make him into the bad guy so you can feel justified in walking away.”

“What about all these connections? It can’t be coincidental.”