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Tati continued, “Now, let’s get to Birdie. Who, I am sure was coerced into marrying Errol, and a target, now living with him and his narcissistic mother. I don’t know about you, but I want to save the woman who dedicated her life to helping Marshall and Pearl.”
“And vindicate yourself,” Lucas said, watching her reaction intently. “For losing your job with the Bureau.”
He had to know. As a politician, he was often approached with flowery professions of benevolent intentions. Only to learn, through trial and error, that people rarely did anything from the goodness of their hearts, but rather for their own self-interest.
“Wow, after all that and you accuse me of being motivated by self-interest alone.”
It was like she read his mind.
She began to search for her purse amongst the wide expanse of tufted leather seating. She appeared equal parts angry and sad, her eyes welling as she tried to maintain bravado. “Second thought, we’re done here. You’re not who I thought… I don’t want or need your help. I’ll do this alone. Like I always do.”
Grant regarded Lucas with silence, communicating to one another that she had passed an important milestone of a character assessment.
“Ms. Northrop.” Lucas blocked her exit from the booth. “Please sit down and let me buy you a well-deserved drink.”
She stared at the table, as if contemplating her next move. And then primly sat down. “I’d like a rum and Coke, please.”
Grant waved down the lackluster waitress, whose fringe on her pasties looked more like unraveled shoe laces.
“The kitchen is closed.” The waitress popped her gum.
“That’s fine. We’d like a rum and Coke, please,” Grant said, pointing at Lucas who added, “I’ll take a Blanton’s on the rocks.”
Grant responded with the same.
Grant took over the conversation, asking a cautious Tati, “What are we looking for in terms of evidence?”
She took a deep breath, as if contemplating whether they could be trusted. Releasing a sigh, she said, “A diary, belonging to a Maisie Wellborn. Birdie’s sister.”
Lucas and Grant looked at one another in shock.
“What could Maisie have written in her diary that could be incriminating against Ariana and Errol?” Lucas asked.
“It’s not what was written by Maisie, but what was documented by Marshall, saved on a thumb drive and taped to the back of Maisie’s diary.”
Grant rubbed at his bottom lip. “Do you have any idea where we might find the diary?”
“I do.” She leaned in again, bringing her voice low. “Based on intel from a reliable source, it’s hidden in an old steamer trunk in the attic of the Cambridge estate.”
* * *
The garage was stiflinghot but Mia didn’t care. She didn’t deserve comfort, not even the smallest of cool breezes. Surrounded by her mom’s sparse belongings, her things abandoned without a second thought, made her feel the pain of loneliness even more.
Which was what she deserved.
It was like the insides of her chest ached in a way she could never recall feeling before. The closest was when she lost her dad. Her hand instinctively went to the heart necklace he gave her a few days before he died.
At the time, the pain of losing him had seemed unbearable.
But honestly, this was worse.
This was loss steeped with regret, solely due to her and her anger issues. Or what Angus referred to as a “wily temper for such a wee lassie.”
Why couldn’t she have just, for once, “Haud her wheesht,” stay the hell quiet?
The problem was she had no experience accommodating this level of pain. It reverberated through her, as if she crashed headlong into a sandbar. All because she’d failed to wear a proverbial helmet of coping skills that might have allowed her mom time to explain. To share.
Instead, she’d spewed deep dark hatred. Had told her she never wanted to see her again. What kind of daughter does that to her mom?
