When Devils Sing(26)
Reid’s mother had upended Clearwater’s strict social conventions when she married into the Langley family. She was labeled a tick—a cruel word reserved for the impoverished outsiders of Lake Clearwater who found their way in.
Some people even believed Caroline’s outsider ways infected Russ Langley, made him soft. But Reid knew better. There had never been anything soft about his father. And if there had been, in some small way, it was extinguished six years ago: the day they found his mother’s body washed up on the shore of Lake Clearwater.
Reid looked to the water lapping on the shore a few yards away. His mother was gone, and now Dawson was, too. He couldn’t stomach any more loss; it would be his undoing. He had to believe Dawson was okay. He kept replaying their last conversation in his head, kicking himself for what he’d said.
The pair had been lounging on one of his family’s deck boats in the early evening.
Reid had asked, “When I leave after my birthday, why don’t you come with me?”
“Not this again.” Dawson shook his head. “You don’t gotta feel responsible for me.”
“I don’t—you’re not—” Reid stuttered, struggling to find the right words, as he often did. “I just … what’s keeping you here?”
Dawson had merely said, “I have obligations.”
“You mean, to your addict mom or to your secret boyfriend?”
“Low blow, Reid.” Dawson sighed, gaze lingering on the dusky orange sky above. “I’m not your charity case, all right? I wanna earn my way on my own.”
Reid had dropped it, but he hadn’t heard from Dawson since they’d parted ways that night.
Jonah cleared his throat, bringing Reid back to the present moment. “You think they know about the accident?”
“Of course not,” Farris scoffed, waving politely at a group of elderly women hovering near their table. They wore massive pastel sun hats and obnoxious pearly jewelry, fanning themselves with white gloves and floral paper fans as they no doubt tried to listen in on their conversation. “Dad made sure of it.”
A heavy hand squeezed Reid’s shoulder. Speak of the devil. His father’s face was fixed in a friendly smile, but Reid fought not to wince at the iron grip on his shoulder.
“Are you three incapable of doing what’s expected of you?” his father asked in a low voice.
Jonah’s cocky expression vanished. He looked down at his lap, like a dog that had been kicked. “Sorry, sir.”
Farris beamed. “I’m keeping them in line.”
His father kissed her cheek. “I can do that just fine, angel. Now get off your asses and socialize with our guests.”
Reid stood at once—an almost Pavlovian response to his father’s command, instinctive and unconscious. Jonah and Farris were already walking off into the crowd. Reid watched as Jonah joined a group of his friends, slapping one of his buddies on the back. They disappeared off behind a blooming dogwood tree to do Lord knows what. Farris had made her way to the wraparound porch that overlooked the grounds, where she stood beside their grandparents beneath a massive, slow-moving fan.
“Kiss-ass,” Reid muttered.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pressed khakis and started walking, wandering through the crowd of guests. His stomach growled again. The gnawing feeling only worsened the dizziness from the heat of the midday June sun. That was the point of the luncheon, though—to mimic the conditions in which his great-grandfather, William Langley, had founded Carrion.
It’s important to remember where we came from, his father had explained to him when he was little. But now, Reid only saw it all as archaic traditions calling back to a time best kept in the past.
Taking up a spot in the shade beneath a peach tree, he observed the attendees. There were about one hundred or so, each person a significant figure in Lake Clearwater and beyond the gates. Everyone from politicians to musicians, medical doctors, hedge fund managers, CEOs. The wealthiest people of the lake—even of the whole of the Southeast.
With a sly move of his hand, Reid pulled out his phone from his pants pocket and began recording a video of the lawn. He wanted to share the moment with Dawson, to laugh with him over the absurdity of it all. His friend was meant to be with him that afternoon, his designated plus one, but Dawson never showed.
Reid texted him the video anyway. Once again, the message didn’t deliver.
And once again, a tremor of fear rattled through him.
What if this is just like Mom?
“Always the loner,” a voice joked from behind Reid. His uncle, Grant Langley, threw an arm around Reid’s shoulder as he took a squat beside him.
Reid hid away his worry, then leaned into his uncle’s hug. “You’re one to talk. When’d you get in? Dad didn’t think you were coming.”
Grant plopped onto the grass, not minding the dirt that would surely stain his khakis. He scanned the lawn, his gaze lingering pointedly on Reid’s father, who was gathered with some of his attorneys. “That’s because my brother still expects the worst of me. Can’t say I blame him.” He gestured dramatically around them. “Fuck this dog and pony show.”
Reid let out a genuine laugh.
For Reid, Grant was the only redeeming member of his family. Younger than his father, he was honest to a fault, moving through Lake Clearwater with a devil-may-care attitude, in sharp contrast to the carefully cultivated Langley image. As it stood, Grant was the most nontraditional member of the family, as the head of one of the biggest music labels in the South. He carried himself like a rock star, even though his own music career had been lukewarm at best.