Amid Secrets

Prologue

Manhattan, New York, 2007

Faint voices from the other side of Georgia Cushing’s closed office door woke her from a short power nap. The dark sky outside her twenty-third-floor window, though, told her it had lasted a lot longer than intended. She couldn’t blame herself for being so tired. She’d worked nonstop since her morning meeting with William Castle that had left her feeling used again. She’d done what he’d asked, and like he’d done every other time her accounting findings reflected poorly on his heirs, he’d closed ranks. You are to tell no one about what you’ve found. Since all the money is back in place, I’ll handle the matter personally.

William Castle had brushed her off for the last time, and her nearly thirty-seven-year stretch of forgiving him was over. His son was an embezzler, and his daughter had covered it up. Those were crimes, and Alexandra and Andrew needed to be punished, not have their father reward them with keys to the Castle empire of hotels that she’d been part of since its first day. If William didn’t have the fortitude to do the right thing, Georgia would.

She’d spent the rest of the day digging deeper through Castle Resorts’ accounting records to document every irregularity. Now it was time to get back to work. Shaking off the fog of sleep, she thought she heard someone yell, You son of a bitch. Male or female? She couldn’t tell. Moments later, footsteps tore past her office and down the hallway and, if she heard correctly, out of the main suite. She checked her watch and silently chided herself. It was nearly nine thirty. She’d been asleep for hours.

Curiosity got the best of her. She opened the office door to an empty hallway. The earlier lightning storm having passed, the only visible light there came from William’s office suite at the far end of the corridor. The entire floor was utterly silent, and the soft carpet in the hallway masked the sound of her heels hitting the floor as she made her way toward the light source.

Walking through the thick wooden doors of William’s executive office, Georgia got the fright of her life. William was lying motionless on the floor, face up, near his desk. She darted toward him and knelt, avoiding the blood pooling around his head. She felt for signs of life, a pulse, but she couldn’t be sure she detected one. She put her hand on his chest. A slight intake of air confirmed he still clung to life.

She rose as quickly as her aging body allowed and started for the phone on the desk. A weak groan stopped her in her tracks and forced her to turn back. William moved his head from left to right, so she returned to his side, intending to comfort him. She knelt again and grasped his right hand. She was about to call out his name when her instinct to render aid gave way to the memories of how horribly he’d treated her. He’d strung her along for years, only to marry another woman once he’d finally rid himself of his first wife. The awful situation he’d forced her into years ago was another act she hadn’t forgiven.

She slowly released his hand, struggled to her feet again, and sank into the guest chair closest to him. She leaned back to grasp fully the opportunity that was unfolding in front of her eyes, cocking her head from one side to the other as she stared at him. She leaned forward, ready to release decades of pent-up anger.

Why did I love you for so long? Our on-again-off-again affair was such a mixed bag over the years. A never-ending cycle of joy and sorrow and pleasure and pain. Every time we started up, you were attentive, playful, and erotic. But then something would happen. Your wife’s birthday, an anniversary, or Christmas would approach, and you’d turn all business and treat me like any other employee. But I wasn’t just a subordinate! I was your lover. I was your confidant. I was the one you came to when your wife turned cold in bed. I was the one you came to with excitement when you wanted to expand the business. I was your sounding board, in the office and the bedroom.

She took in a deep breath to say what needed saying for thirty-five years. You’re a heartless beast. Before you die, you should know I took care of things my way, not yours.

William opened his eyes, and a single tear fell down his cheek. He then turned his face to look up into the heavens and took one last breath. Without any more blood to pump, his heart stopped. He was dead.

Georgia had wondered how she would feel when her former lover and long-term employer finally passed away. Would she feel sadness or joy or regret or satisfaction? To her surprise, she felt relieved. His death meant he would never again enjoy his favorite seared steak or bottle of fifty-year-old scotch. He would never see another beautiful sunset or feast his eyes on historical buildings he’d spent decades preserving. But most importantly, William would never again break her heart.

Burn in Hell, William Castle.

Georgia pushed up from her chair. As she lifted the telephone to call 911, several black and white photographs strewed atop the desk caught her eye. Her lip turned up, her first glance having revealed what she could only describe as pornography—two women in various stages of undress or wholly naked and engaged in unspeakable sexual acts. Closer inspection confirmed to her the identity of Alex Castle and solidified Georgia’s loathing of her. Of course, she would pose for such depravity.

Georgia had long thought William’s twins were unworthy of his trust and had never understood why he consistently defended their actions, even when they proved unreliable. These photographs represented everything she hated about the Castle family. She didn’t know how yet, but she would see that these pictures marked the end of Alexandra’s control of Castle Resorts.

She grabbed the photos, left William lying in a pool of his blood, and calmly returned to her office. Gathering her things, she thought about the police investigation that would commence once someone found William’s body. Instead of riding the elevator down and risking being recorded by its surveillance camera, she slowly descended the twenty-three floors via the stairwell, where sheets of plastic had blocked the building’s security cameras during construction work. Once out of the building, just like she did every night after work, albeit usually hours earlier than tonight, she made her way to the subway station two blocks away, rode the train to Brooklyn, and walked the rest of the way home. There she carefully tucked the photographs away in a shoebox and placed the box on the top shelf of her closet for safekeeping.

Enjoy your time at Castle Resorts, Alex, Georgia thought. You won’t have the reins for long.

Chapter One

Bedford Hills, New York, 2010

A soothing male voice drifted from the train’s intercom, announcing, This is the Mount Kisco station. Next stop Bedford Hills. Georgia stirred from the trance induced by her early morning trip from Brooklyn, a journey that had started with a half-hour ride on Line Five to Grand Central before segueing into an hour on this northbound Harlem line train. The sound of the train’s wheels rocking along the half-century-old metal rails would’ve lulled her into a pleasant sleep if not for the twenty-three stops, the constant coming and going of passengers, and the anger brewing inside her.

One more stop to go, Georgia thought. She spent the next few minutes mulling over how she would entice a long-term resident at the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women into providing her information. Hopefully, this woman would supply the golden bullet that would allow her to repay Alex Castle and her older sister, Sydney Barnette, for destroying her life and setting in motion plans that would force her out of the only home she’d known for four decades.

Georgia had loathed William’s oldest child the longest. Sydney had held her back from promotion for years because of Georgia’s affair with her father. Then she’d fired her for tipping off the press about Alex Castle’s falling out with her father shortly before his death, a death Georgia had hastened by not lifting a finger to help. Her unemployment had reduced Georgia to pinching pennies until she could start collecting Social Security without penalty. Those lean times, ones like no others she’d experienced, were nothing like those now facing her. In six months, Castle Resorts would sell Georgia’s house, the one William had promised her rent-free for life for keeping their secret, leaving her homeless on a fixed retiree income in a city too expensive for her to live in.

She had a plan in mind, though it would take months to pull off and require her to be patient and commit to the long haul. For it to work, however, she needed to gather more information and to find someone with a particular set of skills and flexible morals. In other words, she needed a criminal. What better place to find a criminal than a prison?

The train came to a stop. Georgia stepped onto the station platform, a robust gust of warm summer wind nearly knocking her over. She steadied herself by grabbing onto a nearby lamppost, silently cursing her reality. I should be at my desk at Castle Resorts Headquarters, not holding on to this dirty train platform for dear life.

Making her way to the main entrance, she flagged the only taxi idling curbside and directed the driver, To the prison, please. The facility was only a mile away, but at her age, she wasn’t up for a long windy hike. Thankfully, the cab was clean and free of the faint vomit smell that plagued many New York City cabs.

The crusty cab driver craned his head over his shoulder in her direction, rolling his eyes. Which one, lady? Remaining anonymous and unremarked being paramount, Georgia ignored his boorish behavior. She’d forgotten that the tiny hamlet of Bedford Hills was home to not one but two New York state prisons for women. Taconic was a medium-security prison for minor offenders. Bedford Hills was a maximum-security prison for violent and career criminals. According to The New York Times, the prisoner she needed to see had pleaded guilty to manslaughter and had already served three years of a minimum twenty-year stretch. That meant only one destination. I’m sorry. Bedford.

Minutes later, the driver made a sharp right turn and maneuvered through the prison parking lot, stopping at the foot of a short path leading to a temporary trailer marked by a weather-beaten sign labeled Visitors.

Georgia paid the cab fare and politely thanked the driver for the ride. Steps inside the trailer, she judged her visit would be a day-long affair. The room, filled with a dozen visitors and two uniformed guards, had the feel of a crowded DMV office and a bureaucracy running at a leisurely pace.

She approached the four-foot-high reception desk, where an overweight, job-weary-looking male correctional officer, likely nearing retirement, presented her with a clipboard with two forms attached. Fill these out and pull out two forms of ID.

Georgia carefully read and completed the forms, specifying who she was and who she intended to visit. Once she produced her valid New York State identification card and an expired passport she never used, the officer read through the forms at an agonizingly slow pace, made a few annotations, and directed, Take a seat. We’ll call your name soon.

During the next half hour, Georgia sized up the other visitors. Most had brought newspapers or books to pass the time—obvious frequent flyers here. The only things she had to read were the government signs lining the trailer walls. They provided no insight into the visitation process but warned of the penalties for bringing contraband into the prison. Given that the staff hadn’t yet ushered a single visitor out of the waiting room, it didn’t seem like that was much of a likelihood. At this rate the guards’ sloth-like speed might well make her miss the last train back to the city when she finished her business here.

Following a full hour-long wait, a younger correctional officer entered the room, his baby face and slim frame screaming recent high school graduate. He buried his nose in a clipboard he’d brought with him and announced several names. Georgia’s was among them. He instructed, Bring only one form of picture ID and no more than seventy-five dollars in cash. All other belongings must be stowed in a locker.

Like a well-trained herd of cattle, the called-up visitors shuffled to the lockers. Georgia stored her purse, minus the required items, and fell in line with the others. The group exited to a hallway where everyone, even the children, underwent a search. Though intrusive in its own way, the pat-down and a run through the metal detector didn’t approach the degrading full-body searches she’d read were forced upon prisoners. That was one positive aspect of this otherwise dismal experience.

The baby-faced guard marched the herd up a hill in the wind and heat toward a building a hundred yards away. Signs identified it as the Main Visitors Center. The challenging conditions winded Georgia, the group’s oldest member by far, causing her to lag behind the main gaggle. She considered calling for help, but again, remaining unmemorable was key to her visit, so she pushed on.

When it was her turn to sign in with the desk sergeant, he scanned her forms and entered some information into the computer terminal before looking up. You’re in luck. She was released from isolation yesterday. Georgia simply smiled, keeping her thoughts to herself. What on earth did this woman do to earn a stint in isolation? The sergeant then asked, Do you want a commissary envelope?

Georgia had heard stories from parishioners in her church who had family members in prison. They’d explained that while the state provided bare minimum clothing and items for personal care, each prison operated an on-site commissary, selling various preapproved items to brighten a prisoner’s otherwise dreary existence. She figured the prospect of potato chips, playing cards, or a bit of mascara might break the ice.

Yes, please. She completed the form printed on the envelope and placed fifty dollars inside—the maximum allowed per month according to the instructions. The other twenty-five dollars she pocketed.

Table six. The sergeant gestured toward the middle of the room and the dozen round elementary-school-like tables with four chairs surrounding each one.

Georgia acknowledged with a nod but waited to observe the other visitors. Several, one by one, took a seat at their assigned table, keeping their backs to the correctional officers at the desk. Others lined up at the vending machines to purchase snacks and drinks. When the line dwindled, Georgia bought two soft drinks and a bag of popcorn then sat at her assigned table with her back to the guard. After setting up her goodies, she glanced at the weather-stained, barred windows. They reinforced the oppressive nature of her surroundings and the fact that it was crucial that her plan to take down the Castle family not leave a trail of evidence that linked back to her. She’d rather die in a blaze of glory than spend one day behind bars.

Minutes had passed before a door on the wall opposite the check-in desk opened. Inmates filed in one by one. Spotting their visitors, they would smile, wave, and approach their assigned table. But once the children saw their mother, or who Georgia presumed was their mother, emerge from the inmate door, they darted straight toward her. The guards looked the other way without enforcing the rule forbidding running or contact.

Having never met the prisoner she’d come to visit, Georgia was relying on pictures from the newspaper at the time of her arrest to recognize her. She expected the woman to appear plain and frazzled, of course, compared to the Hollywood red carpet look she sported in the Times photos documenting her arrest and prosecution.

The woman Georgia had come to see was the last to emerge through the inmate door. She was dressed in the same dark-green jumpsuit as the other prisoners and appeared confused, scanning the room, clearly searching for someone she might recognize. Georgia stood and waved her arm as if hailing a cab. Over here.

She gave Georgia a quizzical look, scrunching her brow without a hint of recognition. She sat at the table, facing the guards like the other inmates, and grabbed a can of soda. Taking a big gulp, she ran a green sleeve across her mouth, clearing away the dribble on her chin. Not that I’m ungrateful for the Coke, but who the hell are you?

Now, that’s not the proper way to greet your old friend, she replied just as a correctional officer passed by, sticking to her cover story on the forms she’d filled out earlier, where she’d identified herself as a friend of the prisoner. Once the officer moved out of earshot, she continued, Miss Thatcher, I believe we have a common enemy by the name of Alex Castle. I need your help in giving the woman her just due.

Georgia couldn’t be sure if Alex’s name caught her attention. Kelly seemed more interested in the bag of vending machine popcorn Georgia had microwaved and placed on the table, eying it as if it were a canteen of fresh water discovered after a week lost in the desert. Are you going to eat that? Kelly asked.

Georgia gestured toward the bag. Help yourself. I wasn’t sure what you’d like. After Kelly inhaled a few handfuls, she continued, Is there something else you would prefer? It’s on me.

Can we look at what they have? You’re my first visitor.

Of course, dear.

Georgia led Kelly to the row of vending machines, where Kelly eyed the offerings like a child scanning a mesmerizing menu of thirty-one ice cream flavors. If Georgia was indeed her first visitor, she’d had nothing but jail and prison food since the night she confessed to a crime that they both had a hand in. That was three years ago.

Kelly stepped forward but came to a screeching halt when a guard yelled, Inmate, stay behind the black line.

Let me, dear, Georgia offered. Just tell me what you want.

Georgia hoped Kelly’s choice of empty calories wasn’t indicative of her mental acuity. So far, nothing this woman had said or done convinced her she had the wits to contribute to a multifaceted plan such as the one Georgia had concocted. She’d have to call on Kelly’s baser instincts to draw her out.

Back at the table, Georgia said, As I was saying, I have a proposal.

How do you know Alex? Kelly’s narrowed eyes made her appear skeptical. The speculation in the local rags about her and Alex’s stormy relationship, however, had made Georgia confident that it would be a low hurdle to clear.

I worked at Castle Resorts for thirty-seven years, ever since the door-opening at Times Square.

And what’s your beef with her?

She’s the reason I lost my job and will soon lose my home.

So, she’s finally turned into her father. They both deserve— Kelly checked her comment when another guard strolled past their table. If the lip snarl and flushed cheeks were an accurate barometer, the thought of William Castle made Kelly’s blood boil, as it did Georgia’s.

So, he manipulated your life as well. He was a master at it. Georgia bit back memories of how William had used her for gratification only to cut her off emotionally and physically when she rightly expected more of him. I’m here to make sure the business he built suffers along with his undeserving heirs.

Kelly cocked an eyebrow and a corner of her mouth turned upward, broadcasting that Georgia had struck the right chord—revenge. What do you have in mind?

The question was exactly what Georgia needed to hear. She had Kelly on the hook. I’ve come to possess certain photos of you and Alex. Georgia gauged Kelly’s reaction, and Kelly didn’t disappoint her. The lack of surprise or confusion meant Kelly was ripe for the pickings. I see you know what photos I’m referring to. They are quite lovely. As far as what I have in mind, for starters, I was wondering if there were any more current or telling photos.

What’s in it for me? And there it was. Georgia had successfully tapped into Kelly’s base instincts.

I’ve heard how bleak conditions can be here. I’d like to make it easier for you.

I’m listening. If Kelly was trying to appear stone-faced, her penchant for wearing her emotions on her sleeve explained why she was wearing green and Georgia was in her Sunday best.

I’m sure by now you know of the prison commissary. Georgia paused when Kelly nodded in the affirmative. I’m prepared to contribute one hundred dollars if you can help me find what I’m looking for. As a show of good faith, I’ve already added the first fifty to your account.

Kelly stuffed her face with more snacks and took another swig of soda. There might be something more current and more telling, as you put it, but you said, ‘for starters.’ What else are you looking for?

First things first. Now, about Alex.

All right. That bitch totally deserves what’s coming to her. Alex must have had a hidden camera on her when she came over to my place that night. We had just gotten into things, if you know what I mean, when the cops broke down my door.

And I assume the police have this tape, Georgia surmised. If the tape was salacious enough, it could pack a more potent punch than a sixteen-year-old set of photographs.

Kelly nodded. My alleged confession is on that tape because of that bitch.

The video was Georgia’s golden ticket, but it was of little use sitting in a police evidence locker. She’d have to figure out a way to get it out of official hands and into hers. In the meantime, she needed a Plan B. This could be helpful, Kelly, but that tape might be hard to get. Is there anything else you can think of?

Kelly gobbled down more of her salty and sugary snacks. Alex wrote me a letter several years ago. In it, she lists every bad thing I ever did to her and every bad thing we did together. In my opinion, she was just whining.

Do you still have that letter? Georgia curbed her bursting enthusiasm, hoping she wasn’t letting on that this was the bombshell she’d been dreaming of. If she could lay her hands on something that juicy, she could not only bring down Alex Castle a few notches but humiliate her enough to never show her face in public again.

It’s at my mother’s house with my other childhood stuff. Kelly hardened her gaze. Just so you know, if my next fifty doesn’t show up in my account on the first of the month, I’m writing Alex a letter about our little discussion here today.

Kelly’s fixation on money didn’t surprise Georgia in the least. There were two types of people who gravitated toward Alex Castle—those who had money and those who wanted it. Kelly didn’t appear the type who could hold on to a dollar long enough to make a penny in interest.

Very well. How can I reach your mother?

Kelly passed along her mother’s address before complaining, She hasn’t even visited me and has taken only one of my calls. Something about being too ashamed.

The next item of business that brought Georgia to Bedford Hills would require a bit more finesse. More buttering up was in order. That’s such a shame, dear. A mother should never turn her back on her own flesh and blood. Georgia swallowed hard. She regretted the choices she’d made out of desperation, but she’d done just that, hadn’t she? Now that my business regarding Alex is out of the way, I have one more item to discuss.

What’s that?

I read the newspaper accounts of your legal predicament and colorful past. Your work experience might be of some help with another item. I’m looking for someone of flexible morals who might have expertise in the wine or bottling business.

A devilish grin formed on Kelly’s lips. You must have a beef with Syd too.

I do. Let’s just say it’s personal.

I might know someone who has contacts in the beverage business.

Who is this person and how can I reach them?

You make it fifty dollars a month until I’m out of here, and I’ll give you his address.

Georgia wasn’t about to dip into her savings to pay off this parasite. She’d earmarked that money for something more sinister. It took some haggling, but in the end, she negotiated a deal to get the name and number of her contact in exchange for sending Kelly twenty-five dollars each month. She left out the part where she only intended to pay until her plan worked. After that, she didn’t care what Alex found out about her dealings with Kelly. It was a small price to shell out for keeping Kelly silent until Georgia could finally make Alex and Syd pay dearly for ruining her life.

On the southbound Metro train headed for Brooklyn, Georgia calculated that her visit with Kelly had put her in a position to take the next steps to set her plan in motion. Next on her checklist was traveling to Philadelphia to retrieve Alex’s letter and to talk to Kelly’s contact in the beverage industry. She jotted down the numbers of Kelly’s mother and contact as best as she recalled, unconcerned about memorizing them since Kelly mentioned, They’re in the book.

Georgia let a sly grin build, settling into a comfortable position and giving thanks that Kelly Thatcher was a convenient and gullible patsy.

* * *

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

The chatter of a hundred hungry patrons and the clatter of cutlery scraping across ceramic plates filled the busy café, making it impossible to discern a single thing being said at other tables. It was the perfect setting in which to pitch a plot of revenge