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Lucas didn’t bother to mention the mass murder-suicide pact in Guyana and the correlations one of the local reporters had written about in an article, comparing the poisoning in Jonestown to the complicit couple’s suicide. A bit of a stretch, but an article that caught the attention of every person in Wayward.
The story of a suicide pact ordered by a woman who had been mentally psychotic and held delusions of religious grandeur. Her husband too weak and verbally abused to stand up to her and deny her fanatical ravings, and ultimately giving in to her divinely inspired insistence that they commit this last testament of faith.
The suicide note was signed by them, confirming both were complicit in their skewed thought processes.
Birdie held on to his arms for support. “Oh my God, how do I begin to tell Mia that her grandparents were, literally, suicidal maniacs?”
Only to console her, he held her closer to him. He rationalized he was comforting someone who had just been told some pretty heavy news about the death of their parents. It was justified.
God, she smelled good.
He should let her go. But he couldn’t seem to make that happen as she clung to him with her forehead buried in his chest. Stroking her back, his chin resting on the top of her head that smelled like orange blossoms, he resolved his actions for the sole purpose of consoling her. Helping her through a crisis. Regardless, holding her so close was dangerous territory for him, despite his good intentions.
“I’ll tell Mia,” he said, the compulsion to fix this woman’s problems a never-ending story.
She finally pulled away, running her hands through her hair. “I’m her mother and those nut jobs were my parents. I should tell her.”
“If you think that’s what’s best.” Lucas sat in the chair, crossing one ankle over the other leg, with his hands clasped on his lap to better hide his intense and progressively uncomfortable feelings for her, which was unconscionable considering the circumstances.
Birdie began to pace. “Who has the note? Should I read it? Do I want to?”
“Don’t read it, Bird. From what Grant told me, it’s nothing more than pages of senseless religious ranting.”
“I’m in the note,” she said wide-eyed, more a statement than a question.
He didn’t respond, he didn’t have to.
She huffed, throwing her arms up and shaking her head with disgust. “Of course I am.”
“For whatever it’s worth. I’m sorry.”
Birdie’s attention moved to the floor, as if embarrassed. “I guess it wasn’t enough to treat me like—” She stopped and pulled her hair back by her fingers. “They had to go and make a spectacle of their deaths, living in infamy for the whole town to talk about. A stain on their memory for their granddaughter to have to suffer through.”
“Hey,” Lucas said, tugging at her arm and pulling her toward him. “Mia’s a strong kid.”
“It’s just…” Tears began to pool in her eyes. “I feel like such a disappointment. To Mia. Lying to her about you and then having to learn her grandparents were batshit crazy… all after losing Marshall, the only dad she’s ever known. Telling her she had to move to another town, away from her school and friends. Coming to Wayward to find you, only to discover her grandparents chugged cyanide in some sort of messed-up suicide pact. How much more can the kid handle?”
He rubbed her forearms, her skin prickling and pebbling beneath his hands. He couldn’t absolve her of her mistakes. They were real and hurt a lot of people, including him. But he could help her with those things that weren’t her fault.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but Mia is a great kid. And that’s largely because of you. You gave her a great man to look out for her.”
“Marshall was a good father,” she said, nodding. Then, as if realizing her faux pas, added. “But that doesn’t absolve me of lying about you. I’m so sorry, Lucas.”
For some reason, he knew there was more to the story but let it go. For now. He had time to get to the bottom of what happened between them, unravel all her secrets, but now wasn’t the time.
“Don’t forget Angus,” he added for her benefit.
“And Angus,” she agreed with a sniff. “I can still remember the big lug playing hide-and-seek with her in the house when she was three years old. The house was huge so it took a while, but Angus never complained.”
She smiled at the memory. “I came home from class one night, and he was frantic. His red hair was sticking straight up and he had these wild eyes. Said he’d been looking for her for hours. We searched the house and he found her inside the laundry room, hiding in one of the lower cabinets. She had fallen asleep on a pile of bath towels. He was nearly delirious with relief. That was the first time I’d ever seen him cry,” she mused, and then she turned sad. “The second time was when Marshall died.”
While talking through the story, she placed her hands on his shoulders, standing between his legs. He swore if he had a blood pressure monitor wrapped around one bicep, it would register astronomically high. But he didn’t have the wherewithal to remove her hands. This was no time for inappropriate touching, so he kept his hands on her waist, the urge to move his thumbs up and down and enjoy the feel of her skin beneath her T-shirt destroying him.
His thoughts cut through his desire to touch and noticed she had become quiet. He waited, the desire to pull her onto his lap and nudge her face up so he could kiss her, battling his conscience.
“You okay, Bird?”
She nodded, but when she looked at him, her eyes were brimming again, tears making their way down her cheeks.
