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“Actually, I was wondering if you might talk to her,” he said. “She seems mad at me for some reason and I’m not sure why.”
Reasons why Donni could be pissed at Christophe scrolled through his mind, all of them valid. He picked up a carton of strawberries and tilted them, looking for mold. “I’m only here for a few weeks at most. I don’t have time for whatever thisis.”
“You weren’t here for the shit your dad did. People want blood. If they can’t have his, they’ll settle for hers.”
“That isn’t going to happen.” Rafe glanced at him sharply. “So I suggest you back off.”
Christophe stared at the red berries. “You always were weirdly possessive of your stepmother, Rafe. Bit of an Oedipus complex, you know? It’s not healthy.”
“You know what’s healthy?” Rafe said. “Shutting the fuck up.”
A nasty curl formed at one corner of Christophe’s lips. “If you’re buying that wine for Donni, then you should know—she likes white, not red.”
Slowly, Rafe turned to look at him. “I know what my stepmother likes.”
Christophe’s eyes went to the basket. “I just bet you do.”
“You know,” Rafe said calmly, “While we’re reminiscing about the good old times, I could punch you in the nose again. Would you like that?”
Christophe laughed, although Rafe noticed he took a quick step back. “Try it and I’ll sue your pants off. Speaking of, who are you trying to fuck? Strawberries and red wine? Subtle.”
“Christophe,” Rafe said, in a low, pleasant voice. “I’m about to rearrange your face. So either you walk away now, or I’m buying you a new nose through your lawyer. Understand?”
The other man sneered at him before turning away, hands in his pockets. Probably off to the nearest bar to slum, Rafe though. He watched him go, vibrating with anger. He was an adult man now, not a thirteen-year-old boy. There were consequences for violence.
But he itched to do everything he’d threatened until the smell of blood was ripe in the air.
In the hotel, he showered and changed, setting the wine and strawberries on the nightstand. For a while, he pulled out his laptop and pretended to work, but after writing on a typewriter for so long, the way his fingers settled on the computer keys felt wrong when he was trying to write and soon he found his eyes flicking continually to the faded red digits on the clock.
He ended up leaving early—in case she tries to run, he told himself, though truthfully it was because he just couldn’t wait any longer. But when he pulled up in front of her house at seven-thirty with the lights off, he noticed her car was already gone.
Maybe it’s in the garage. He doubted this, though. The garage had always been his father’s domain, not hers, and she had done her best to avoid it.
Rafe left the car, grabbing the wine by the neck in one hand with the carton of strawberries pinched under his arm. He was wearing all black again, the better not to be seen, because in spite of what she believed, this was a private punishment.
The fitted black button down had originally been intended for his suit, but he’d saved it for this, to wear with his tightest black jeans and the motorcycle boots he’d worn to the funeral. In place of his watch, which was very heavy and could catch on skin, he was wearing Tibetan prayer beads and the silver ring his grandmother had given him.
He knocked on the door, tilting his head. No sounds came from instead except, he thought, for the distant barking of a dog.
Coward, he thought, sitting down on the stone love bench outside, with one leg crossed over his knee. He was pretty sure he still had a key to this place, but he wasn’t sure if his parents had changed the locks after he’d left. Even if they hadn’t, he didn’t want to scare her. The balance of power was already tilted heavily in his favor and he had her right where he wanted her. Any more, and he’d send her falling.
And he didn’t want that.
Not yet.
It was almost nine o’ clock when she pulled up, slamming her door with the viciousness of the tired and weary. He knew the exact moment when she saw him, because she stopped short, folding her arms defensively. The effect the gesture had on her substantial cleavage nearly left him breathless.
He stretched his arms over the back of the bench, shifting his hips discreetly to lessen the pressure of his belt. “You’re late.”
“Opal Walters died,” she said. “I just got back from the police station.”
Remembering Christophe’s self-satisfied air at the store, he frowned. That hadn’t exactly been the behavior of a man whose mother had just died. “When did she die?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Rafe. Do I look like a coroner?”
“You look upset,” he said, which made her fists clench. “Understandably so. Have you eaten?”
That unnerved her, he could tell. She had walked a little closer to get a better look at him and the porchlight was gleaming off her skin, giving it the luster of brown jade.
