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“Yes,” he said cautiously. “She’s my ex.”
“Good, good. I . . . have something important to discuss with you that wouldn’t be appropriate to tell you through an intercom.”
Frowning, he buzzed the gate open, then opened the door and stood on the front steps waiting for her to pull up. Had Beth sent an attorney to ask for financial support or something? They’d broken up over a year ago, so it seemed weirdly late now. And if she needed money, wouldn’t she just call? Hell, he’d even offered a few times. They’d drifted apart as friends, especially since she’d moved to Albany for work, but they weren’t on bad terms.
The woman smiled tightly as she ascended the steps. “Mr. Ellis?”
“Yes. Do you want to come in?” he asked.
She nodded shortly.
He led her in, doing a mental inventory of rooms being renovated, and rooms that might have stray beer bottles or dirty dishes laying around. He needed to find a new cleaning service. The last one was too intolerant of his organized chaos.
“You have a beautiful home,” she murmured as he led her into a weird little sitting room off the foyer that he still wasn’t sure what to do with.
“Thanks. Please forgive the mess. I’m renovating.”
She nodded, and he gestured her to take a seat on a leather divan that had come with the house.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“No, but please . . .” She gestured for him to sit. “I’m sorry it’s so early, but it couldn’t wait.”
He sat even though everything in him was fighting to get up and pace. Fight or flight. He had a horrible, sick feeling in his stomach that he wouldn’t have if he believed this was just about money.
Something had happened to Bethany . . . but why would they come to him?
Beth with her quick grin, full of mischief. Her wide, dark eyes. Her love for musicals, and ballet, even though she’d never had the opportunity for vocal or dance lessons.
“My name is Sue Davidson. I’m with CPS.”
Child Protective Services? Sure, they’d paid Beth’s carousel of foster parents until she’d aged out, but she was twenty-seven. Why were they visiting him?
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Ellis,” she said, her voice quiet. “There’s been an accident.”
Abruptly, he couldn’t feel his legs.
Ice spread along his spine.
“Is she . . .”
“Ms. St. Germaine was driving home from a late shift at work. A delivery van crossed the center line—she didn’t make it.”
His throat felt like it was swelling closed. His eyes stung even though he didn’t believe her. This had to be some sort of sick fucking joke. Bethany hadn’t gone through her shitty childhood just to die like this. Just to die and have her ex-boyfriend be the only person authorities could think of who’d care.
Dead.
No, this was a mistake.
A prank.
Fucking Grant. Grant was pranking him.
But even Grant wouldn’t think this was funny.
He stared at the woman, waiting for her to take it back, but she only watched him compassionately.
He leaned his elbows on his knees and gripped his forehead, feeling sick and faint. His heart was pounding weirdly.
