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“He told me Isaac was making me a man and I should thank him. I have no idea what he said to Isaac. Obviously not much, since he’s still bragging about it.”
“What was Isaac’s mother like? I mean, how is he so different from you? It must be the mother that made the difference, right?”
“I don’t know. I never asked. She died before I ever came into the picture, at least from the standpoint of the family knowing me.I believe that’s why my mother was willing to come forward. She wasn’t around to be hurt.”
A really crazy thought occurs to me. “How did she die?”
“A car accident. Why?”
This sits all kinds of wrong with me. “Everyone seems to have accidents in this family.”
Eric picks up his coffee, his strong hand and long fingers, wrapping the heavy white ceramic mug. The colorful tattoos inking his forearms draw my attention, the letters and numbers telling a story of this man, that intrigues me more every day.
He sips his coffee and sets it back down. “You think Isaac’s mother was murdered?”
“I think that if we’re looking for a motive in all of this, and a tie to you, that it stretches back to your beginning.” I pick up my cup.
“You think this is somehow connected to my mother.”
“Both of your mothers,” I say. “I mean, I’d say Isaac’s mother had a motive to kill your mother if she wasn’t dead before that.”
Ignoring his cup on the table, he reaches for the one in my hand and takes a drink. “We’ve certainly seen that my father is willing to kill.” His cellphone buzzes with a text where it lays on the table and he glances at his screen. “Fuck,” he types a reply and then sips his coffee.
“What is it?” I ask anxiously.
“One of the investors in the NFL deal. I’ve neglected everything over this Kingston debacle. I have to deal with real life and this deal, which is too fucking good to lose. I’m going to set-up a few calls for tonight when we get home.” His phone buzzes again and he punches in another text message.
I watch him, savoring the word “home” because he used it with the word “we.” Our home. Our home together. He sets his phone aside. “Let’s talk about you. Me. Us. Movies. Anything but that family.”
“How about my house?” I ask. “I have to deal with it soon.”
“Do you have a mortgage?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Why don’t we pay it off and rent it out?”
He meanshe’llpay it off, and I don’t like how that feels. He owns me in so many ways right now. I just—I feel nervous. We’re still new. What if something goes wrong? “I can sell it for a profit.”
“Why? We’ll keep it as a real estate holding.”
He says this so nonchalantly and it’s logical, but it feels uncomfortable and there’s an uneasy sensation in my belly. He’s also spoken of us—we’ll keep it—and this unity pleases me. I don’t know why this topic and handling of the property is bothering me, but it is. Or maybe I do know, as Lord knows I paid a therapist a pretty penny to help me analyze myself after my father passed. It’s a fear of abandonment. Eric’s trying to take care of me, but the only person who’s ever done that for me, is my father. And then he died, and I had to just figure it out alone.
My mother was never much help.
I shove aside my unease, unwilling to allow my baggage to destroy a good thing with Eric. “Yes,” I say, offering my agreement on his suggestion. “It’s a good plan.”
His phone buzzes again and this time, when he glances at the message, he reports, “Finally, an update on your mother. Per Adam, she’s asleep.”
“Honestly, that doesn’t break my heart,” I say. “I’m having a hard time with her willingness to look the other way where your father is concerned. How can she know what he did to your mother and stay with him?” Guilt eats at me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even brought that up today, after everything this morning. And for not telling you sooner.”
“You didn’t want to punish me with something I can’t change. I know that I don’t blame you. I blame him.”
I fiddle with the napkin and twist it in my fingers. “I hate that my mother is okay with this.”
He covers my hand, where I’m attempting to destroy the linen, clearly reading my fidgeting as emotion. I thought my mother was a decent enough mother. Instead, she’s not even a decent human being. “She’s desperate and afraid,” he consoles, “and she could be afraid of him. He’s powerful and she knows he basically killed my mother. That has to come with fear. He’s a bad person.”
“And you saved him. Do you think you would have called the ambulance had you known about what he did to your mother first?”
