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“I’m going to kill your husband,” I vow, taking the handle, bracing myself, breathing deeply. “For what he’s done to Beau, to her mother, to me. I’m going to kill him.” Lawrence needs to know this isn’t over. He needs to be prepared.
“Who are you, James?” he asks on a snivel. “Really, who are you? You tried to save Jaz. You turn up in her daughter’s life years later. Tell me who you are.”
I turn to face him, taking no pleasure from the mess of a man he is. “Just see me as the man who saves your niece, Lawrence. That’s all you need to know.”
He swallows and nods. “May I?” he asks, nodding to the door past me.
“Give me five minutes,” I say, though he knows it’s not a question. I’m simply maintaining some civility for the sake of Beau. He accepts without fuss, and I turn to the door, spending a good few minutes bracing myself again. Tamping down the threatening rage before I look at her. Look at her and see the damage that’s been done because of me.
Pushing my way in, I stall when I see a nurse by her bed adjusting the line into Beau’s arm. She looks up and smiles in that way I expect they do to all loved ones whose closest are so desperately ill. “You must be James,” she says, taking a syringe to the cannula. “I’m Vera. I’ll be looking after Beau while she’s here in recovery.”
I close the door and focus on the liquid in the syringe getting lower, hearing the constant, consistent beeps from the machinery. I can’t bring myself to look at Beau, truly petrified of the further anger I will feel. “What’s that?” I ask, standing motionless on the other side of the room, scared to even get closer.
“Morphine.” She finishes up and drops the needle in a clinical waste bin. “It’ll keep her comfortable.” Pulling off her gloves, she makes a few notes before offering me a small smile. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
“Thanks,” I say, my eyes now on my boots. I hear the door close gently, and I will myself to man the fuck up and look at her. Or even just get closer to her. It takes more mental preparation than anything has taken me before, and when I finally lift my burning eyes and see her, the heat inside rises to a full-blown inferno. It doesn’t look like Beau. The woman on the bed, pasty in complexion, her skin gray and lifeless, does not look like the woman I’ve fallen in love with. And that just makes me angrier. I swallow down the fireball in my throat and lift my heavy feet, feeling like I’m trudging through thick mud as I cross the room and lower into the chair beside her bed. I gingerly reach for her hand. She’s warm. It’s the only thing I recognize. Her warmth. But there’s no sizzling when our skin touches. She doesn’t tense. Her eyes won’t shimmer and her lips won’t part with want.
Calm down, Kel.
“I won’t rest until justice is served, baby,” I promise quietly. “Justice our way.” And it’s going to be my bloodiest death yet. Lifting her hand to my mouth, I kiss the back, breathing her into me. But all I can smell is antibacterial liquid. Not Beau’s light, sweet, fruity scent. As if I need anything more to increase my motivation to kill.
The sound of a throat clearing pulls my attention over my shoulder, and I find Goldie’s at the door. She closes it softly and joins me by the bed. “Nathan Butler passed away ten minutes ago.”
I exhale, closing my eyes. It’s one more thing for Beau to be devastated about.
“And I found this.” She lifts her hand without looking at me. Held between her thumb and index finger is a key. “Taped to the inside of the box.” She tucks it into her inside pocket. “What do you want me to do?”
“For now, wait,” I say quietly, my thoughts all over the place. It’s silent for a while, but I can hear Goldie’s mind turning as fast as mine. “Whatever you’re thinking, just say it.” I look up at her, and she peeks out the corner of her eye at me.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to do something stupid?”
“What gives you that feeling?”
“The look in your eyes. The unrestrained rage.”
“Killing the man who did this to Beau would be stupid?” I ask, reining in my temper. “The man who killed my unborn child?”
“I don’t mean that.”
“Then what the fuck do you mean?” I ask. “And choose your words wisely, Goldie.”
“No one knows who you are.”
“The Bear does.”
“He knows what you look like. Where you live. He doesn’t know who you are.”
“And?”
“And, again, why do I get a bad feeling that soon every fucker in this town will know who you are?”
