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“I appreciate how you feel about me,” I said, hoping for an accurate explanation. “I’d be heartbroken for you, too. Having you as a friend, Kyle … that helps a lot. More than you’ll ever know.” I smiled at him. Brushed away my tears—for his sake.
“Just seems like this isn’t getting any better for you, Ari.”
On the one hand, there was no denying the situation with Mikaela stung. On the other hand, I was still in too fragile a state of mind to plan a service myself. The finality, the closure, was not something I looked forward to. I didn’t want it. I liked that I could continue to cling to the bizarre—and, yes, highly improbable—fantasy that somehow Dane had escaped that night.
Even though I knew I was only fooling myself.
* * *
I regretted my decision to seek out Mikaela every day after we’d visited her.
Remaining a bit delusional when it came to still fantasizing about Dane miraculously walking through my bedroom door, I faced the fact that I really and truly did not want a service for him. And God forbid she should write an obit to submit to the Republic. I couldn’t handle that. I didn’t want the finality I’d thought of on the drive home with Kyle.
But how did I call it off? Knowing Mikaela, she’d likely find it a fantastic way to plug her business and add more mystery and drama to her image by touting Dane Bax as one of her close personal friends.
Though I did not doubt she was hurting over losing him, I’d gotten enough glimpses of the true Mikaela Madsen to know she used every opportunity to her advantage.
But that really wasn’t what had me worked up. I didn’t give a rip if she found a PR golden nugget in orchestrating Dane’s memorial service.
I didn’t want closure.
At all.
I did a lot of pacing and ran a multitude of scenarios through my head as to how I could stop what I’d put into motion. My anxiety didn’t help my constantly unsettled stomach, and I returned to that previous state of not being able to keep anything down. Both of my doctors threatened me with IV feeding if I didn’t get it together.
So I fought for some calm. Spent more time with Kyle, because he was good at distracting me, diverting my attention. Over the weekend, we were in the solarium, poring over landscaping books at one of the round tables and debating what to do about the bald spot in the east courtyard that was a result of him having ripped out several dead plants and a couple of bushes.
Gretchen had CNN on the flat screen mounted in the far corner. Hannah braved the chill in the air to paint outdoors. She considered the patio her studio rather than the solarium. Chelsea put the Legos to brilliant use, as always.
Dr. Stevens and her staff were building the business by adding outpatient services for a limited number of athletes interested in her holistic approach to physical therapy and healing. They were seen in the detached rehab facility but came into the house from time to time with their specialists for exams. The moderate activity helped to sidetrack most of my wayward thoughts.
Though not all of them.…
Kyle ticked off the merits of installing a small pond of koi in the courtyard instead of replacing the greenery. I let him rattle on as he built momentum. But my brain came to a grinding halt when one word penetrated his diatribe.
Hilliard.
My blood ran cold as memories of Vale Hilliard instantly assaulted my mind. I whipped around in the chair and stared at the TV. The breaking news was the sudden indictment of billionaire Bryn Hilliard—Vale’s father—accompanied by video footage of him being led from a building, surrounded by what I presumed was his huge team of lawyers.
“Gretchen,” I said, breathless. “Could you please turn that up?”
She gave me a little more volume as I stood and walked toward the TV.
The reporter said, “Hilliard is believed to be part of the ‘Billionaires Club’ and is allegedly responsible for doling out hundreds of millions of dollars to politicians in order to push his own agenda. Until recently, the mostly cash contributions had gone undetected or reported to accountants and the IRS as gambling debts. Other sizabl
e donations were funneled through various companies, as were noneligible expenses.”
You almost have it right.
Except that Bryn Hilliard wasn’t part of the broader spectrum of the billionaire network—he was one of the select nine who comprised the poli-econ society of which Dane had been a part.
Chelsea rapped a hand on her table and made a disapproving noise. I glanced at her over my shoulder. She glared at me with big eyes.
“Sorry,” I told her. To Gretchen, I said, “You can lower the sound. But I still need to hear—”
The reporter continued, saying, “Hilliard’s indictment is the second one this week of this magnitude. Billionaire real estate and investments mogul Lennox Avril faces similar charges of criminal corruption, tax evasion, fraud … as well as possible murder charges.”
He droned on about legalities as my head buzzed and my ears rang. I sank onto the sofa next to Gretchen.
