Scott Free by John Gilstrap Page B

chalet and all. It’s Audrey Lewis.”
    Now, that got her attention. Sherry sat up straight. “Are you sure it’s not Brandon?”
    Larry stared at her through the opening that separated the kitchen from the dining room. “Am I sure? Let’s see, I think I can probably tell the difference between your ex-hubby and your agent.”
    Actually, it wasn’t as easy as it might seem. A teetotaling health freak in reality, Audrey had the voice of a Camel-smoking barmaid and the chops of a prizefighter. The world of New York publishing lived in fear of crossing her, and her clients had the bank accounts to prove it.
    Sherry reached across the coffee table for the portable phone. “What does she want?”
    Larry tapped his lips with his forefinger. “Mmm, to talk to you, maybe?”
    “You’re such an asshole.”
    “Oh, cut me till I bleed, why don’t you?” Larry rolled his eyes and made himself busy in the kitchen.
    Sherry brought the phone to her ear. “Hello? Audrey?”
    “Oh, my God, Sherry, I just heard. How are you?”
    “Not well,” Sherry said, her voice cracking. “I’m terrified.”
    “I can only imagine,” Audrey said. “Have you heard any news at all?”
    “Only that they’re reasonably sure that he and this Jamieson kid tried to fly into the storm, and now no one’s heard from them. From what they tell me, no one even tracked them on radar. I don’t know…” She stopped for a second. “Wait a minute. How do you know about this?”
    Audrey sighed. “Brandon called me. Look, Sherry, you have to talk to him.”
    “No. I don’t need his shit. Not tonight. I don’t need his speeches.”
    “He’s worried about his son, Sherry.”
    “His son,” Sherry repeated. The phrase brought real pain. “It’s always his son. Brandon’s son. You know, he’s my son, too.”
    “Have you been drinking?”
    That was it. “Why does everyone think I’m drunk?”
    “Because you’re not making sense! Jesus, it’s not a parenting competition.”
    “Where Brandon’s involved, it’s always a parenting competition,” Sherry growled.
    Team fucking Bachelor. Where was the cute nickname for her relationship with Scotty? Nowhere, because Brandon had never left room for there to be one. He wanted Sherry to be June Cleaver, and she wanted to build her career. Was that so difficult for everybody to understand? Certainly, Brandon was smart enough and twenty-first-century enough to understand. While they were married, he’d pretended to do just that. Then in the divorce depositions, he’d turned it all against her. Such was the magnitude of his jealousy for her success that he used her ambition—the very ambition that had paid for the Mercedes he drove and the sprawling estate he lived in—as evidence that she was an inattentive mother. Asshole. Well, two could play at that game, as he’d found out when she put the bank account into play. “You want custody?” she’d challenged through her lawyer. “Then just give me everything else.”
    Sherry had trumped the bastard at his own game. Brandon had climbed so high on his high horse that he couldn’t possibly say no. It was the perfect trap. Even her lawyer couldn’t believe he’d fallen for it. Sometimes, it was just too easy.
    But with her victory came Brandon’s unending access to her baby boy’s brain, the ability to spin every confrontation in his own favor. Well, two could play at that game as well. For eighteen months, Brandon had promised Scotty a trip to SkyTop, yet he’d never delivered. Cue Super Mom for another delicious victory.
    “You can’t shut him out of this, Sherry,” Audrey pressed. “I just talked to him. He’s out of his mind with worry.”
    “And I suppose he claims this whole thing is somehow my fault.”
    “To tell you the truth, we didn’t get that far. He asked me to ask you to talk to him. And if that didn’t work, he asked me to get some details to pass along.”
    Sherry sighed deeply. “Let him call the police if he