“After going to that butcher, she managedto drive her Buick here and into the parking lift out back,” Cal said. “The cashier thought he saw her walking away. Swore he did. Another car came along, and he tossed the lever, lifting the stall to let in the next car. Didn’t think anything of it.”
Fern hadn’t used one of the lifts before, but the lift doors would close in the auto, and a ticket dispenser in the stall would churn out a stub. The driver took the ticket with them, to be returned to the cashier when they came back to claim their car.
“We couldn’t find her for hours. No idea where she was. Finally, I had the cashier bring down the Buick.”
Cal paused. He didn’t need to continue. Fern knew what he had found when he finally got the car onto the ground.
“She’d bled to death,” she guessed. “Something went wrong during the procedure.”
Cal glared at her. “Procedure,”he sneered. “She’d had her insides ripped to shreds.”
Fern looked to the carpet with a wave of nausea. It hadn’t been a procedure. Cal was right. It had been a brutal and desperate act. Her heart ached for his sister. For Cal, and for what he had gone through when he found her like that.
“You think Buchanan took her to have it done,” Fern surmised.
“I don’tthink. I know. Genie’s friend told us.” He took out his cigarette case. Rolled one free and stuck it between his lips.
“And the doctor?”
His lighter flared. Cal’s eyes met Fern’s over the flame. “Taken care of.”
He capped the lighter, and a streak of cold shot into her chest. He’d had the doctor killed? Or maybe he’d done it himself.
“If you blame Buchanan, why haven’t you just taken care of him too?”
That’s what gangsters and gunners did, after all. They took the law into their own hands and meted out justice as they saw fit. In Cal’s eyes, her brother was guilty.
He came to stand next to her in front of his desk. At his height, he towered over her, but Fern refused to back up even a single step. After a moment, he leaned against his desk, crossing his ankles. She hadn’t noticed his attire until now. The business suit was stylish and clean. Thin pinstripes made him appear more formal and enterprising than she’d seen on previous occasions.
“Sometimes, justice is a long game,” Cal finally said.
He picked a flake of tobacco off his tongue, appearing bored.
“And you think you can hurt him through me?”
He set the lit cigarette into an ashtray and angled himself toward her. “I don’t want to hurt him—I want to destroy him. Obliterate him.”
Hatred simmered in the false calm of his expression. It reminded her too much of Rodney. She tried to step away from his desk. Cal caught her fingers.
“Him. Not you, Fern.”
She tore her hand from his. “He’smy brother.” Though she wasn’t particularly proud of that at the moment.
Cal rubbed his eyes and then his forehead, as if massaging away pain. “I thought you never wanted to see me again,” he said, his eyes still closed. His lashes were thick and black.
“I didn’t,” she said, distracted. “I don’t.”
He laughed weakly as he peered over at her. His attention caught on the neck of her dress. The tips of Fern’s ears burned; she could guess what he was thinking about. A gentleman from any of the novels she’d read wouldn’t have said anything. Why she continued to think Cal would adhere to such social graces, Fern wasn’t sure.
“Is it bad?” he asked.
She covered the high neck with her hand. “It’s unseemly.”
He reached for her collar. She slapped his hand away. He laughed again. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed?”
She lowered her hand and stood taller, then searched the walls for something else to look at other than him.
“You’ve never had a boyfriend.”
