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“Is there?” I ask. “Would you forgive a man who told you that you were nothing but an intrusion?”
“Give her a chance,” Clara urges. “Not everyone holds grudges like you do.”
“Very funny. I’m glad this day hasn’t trashed your sterling sense of humor.” I roll my eyes.
She smiles, but it’s a shallow imitation of her old warmth.
“I have my moments.”
I let myself look at her. Really look at her, but I can’t muster any anger. Not even resentment at her bizarre betrayal.
Mostly, I’m just tired, but more than anything, I’m worried about the woman who raised me like a mother. Worried about what’s going on inside her that would drive her to do something so drastic, despite knowing how it would hurt Deb and me.
It must be something terribly important.
I refuse to believe the woman I love and admire this much has spent my entire life deceiving me.
Wouldn’t Elle be proud of me now?
Putting all my faith in a woman who more than deserves it, instead of cutting her off and rejecting her out of mistrust and my own selfish feelings of betrayal.
If only I’d had the sense to treat Elle the same way.
“What will you do now?”
“I’m going to have a cup of tea and read a book,” Clara announces pragmatically as she pushes the door open, stepping out. She leans in, giving me a long look full of love that I know isn’t a lie. She didn’t have to take on Deb and me after our parents died, but she was always willingly, happily here for us. “Take care of yourself, August. Regardless of what you think of me, even if you despise me now—I do love you, and I always will.”
I thunk my head back against the car seat.
“I can’t stop loving you, Auntie.” I sigh. “Even if I can’t shake the feeling that you’re hiding something important. I’ll never believe you stole Inky from Lester Sullivan.”
“Well ... that’s something you’ll have to wrestle with in your own way.” She straightens, pressing a hand to the small of her back with a groan. “For now, I need to grapple with getting these old bones inside. I’ll talk to you later, dearest heart.”
“Later,” I say as she pushes the car door closed.
I watch her make her way slowly up the walk.
Just another reminder that this isn’t fucking right, and I desperately want to fix it, but I don’t know how.
It’s only after Clara’s safely inside that I pull back out into traffic, pointing the G80 toward home.
My house feels too empty now.
Elle’s barely been here enough to leave a mark, even if her silky pajamas and her bathrobe are still on my bedroom floor. I pick up the soft rose-colored top, breathing in her scent.
Then I fling it away, leaving it crumpled on the bed.
I can’t stand the heartache right now.
Instead, I pick up the sheaf of papers, the report I tossed aside when I threw on my clothes and went dashing out earlier. I take them out to the deck and sink down in one of the high-backed chairs, slouching forward and paging through what the private detective uncovered.
Isn’t there anything here I can use?
Some evidence that Marissa fabricated the sketchbook, or—
Wait.
I stop and flip back a page. Clara’s name jumped out just now, but it was about Marissa’s mother and not Marissa herself, so I’d skimmed past it before.
