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“A letter’s arrived.”
My cell becomes heavy in my hand. My heart heavy in my chest. “Open it.”
“Come home, Beau.”
“Open it,” I repeat, turning off the heaters, suddenly roasting hot. Nervous. Hopeful. “Please.”
“Not until you come home. We’ll open it together.” He hangs up, taking away my options.
“Damn you, Lawrence.” I smack the steering wheel and pull out of the parking lot as fast as Dolly’s capable, and I drive home in a haze of panic and fear, my body racked with shakes.
Jumping out of my car and racing up the path, I ignore the scratches from the overgrowth, not bothering to knock them out of my way.
Bursting through the door, I hear Lawrence and Dexter in the kitchen, and I make my way to them, my heart pounding dangerously. They’re at the table, and they fall silent when I walk into the room.
The letter sits between them, a harmless piece of paper waiting to ruin me or cure me. Lawrence jumps up and comes to me, taking my arms just above my wrists. “Promise me this is the end of it,” he begs, stroking up to my shoulders and gripping hard. “Whatever is in that letter, it’s the end. We put it to bed.”
I rip my eyes away from the letter on the table and look at him. I hate the doubt lingering on his face. The fear. I move past him and slide it from the table with a shaky hand. I work the seal open. Take a deep breath and pull out the paper, unfolding it.
I read the first line.
It’s all I need to see.
I loosen my grip and the paper floats down to my feet.
“Beau?” Lawrence rushes to collect it, scanning it as I stare out of the kitchen window into the darkness.
“They’re not re-opening the investigation.” I turn and walk out in a haze of devastation, feeling crushed, desolate, but most of all angry. So fucking angry.
“Beau!” Lawrence yells, coming after me. “Beau, wait.” He seizes me, swinging me around to face him more violently than is in him. “Where are you going?” he asks, frantic. “Stay here. Stay with us. We’ll meditate. We’ll talk. I’ll help you.”
I don’t need meditation. I don’t need to talk. I don’t need pills or therapy or sectioning. “I’m going out.” I pull myself free and open the door.
“To him?” he asks, his panic rising. “To the man who did that to you?”
I look at my hand on the door handle.
“Who is he?” he goes on. “Who did that to you?”
“He did nothing I didn’t ask for.” I walk away, hearing my uncle crying my name repeatedly, and I look back as I reach the bottom of the pathway, finding Dexter has intervened, pulling Lawrence back, trying to calm him.
“Let her go,” he soothes.
I’ve never seen disappointment on my uncle’s face.
Until now.
21
JAMES
“She’s heading toward your apartment,” Otto says as I dry off after my shower.
I hang up and stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t know what I hoped to achieve in the car park of Walmart. Seeing her in the arms of her ex clouded my purpose in that moment. I aimed to stall her. To delay her finding out that her appeal had been denied. To delay the repercussions and to stall her grief, even if only for one more day. All I did instead was discover I have a jealous streak, and I’m shaken by that. But seeing another man soothe her?
Rage. Rage spiked by jealousy, and that’s fucking new.
I reach for my jaw and rub a hand across my scratchy face, tilting my head back, but I keep my eyes on the stranger in the mirror. The face of a man I no longer recognize. He’s distorted by grief. By a relentless need for vengeance. And by a heavy, misplaced sense of responsibility. He could cure Beau Hayley. He could also end her.
This isn’t a case of fix me. I’m beyond that. Yet, scarily, I’ve discovered Beau certainly eases the torment. Masks the pain. She also injects my black soul with fragments of goodness, purpose beyond my only purpose. And perhaps the growing guilt I’m feeling, because I’m the reason she’s lost. I’m the reason she’s grieving her mother. I’m the reason Beau Hayley is so utterly damaged, both spiritually and physically. I can’t ignore the opportunity to redeem myself. Maybe give myself some light relief in more ways than one.
I pull on some boxers and go wait for her.
22
BEAU
When I walk into the lobby of James’s building, Goldie is sitting at the reception with her legs up on the desk, a can of soda in her hand. She glances up from the computer screen, says nothing, and gets up, walking to the elevator and punching in the code needed to take me to the very top. To James.
