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“Jesus,” I said under my breath, then stood from the chair. I felt heat rising in my chest. “Why didn’t… Jesus, Ma. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I paced the room and ran my hand through my hair. “Six to twelvemonths?”
“Stop fretting, darling. Sit down.” I started into a rebuttal, but her voice, suddenly austere, sliced through me. “Sit.”
When my rump hit the chair, she continued. “There were plenty of unknowns these past months. I wanted definitive answers oneverything. I also wanted my doctors to figure out a suitable medication plan that would allow me to stay at home and live a manageable life. I needed all of those elements ironed out before I summoned you home.” Her eyes fell to the floor. “I intended to avoid an incident like what you saw this morning.”
“It wasn’t as ignimous as you think.”
Her face pinched together as if she smelled something foul. I knew instantly that I butchered the word Bennett had used. “Ignominious. Don’t attempt words you don’t know, darling. It’s unbecoming.”
A deft jab from a master writer, but I had heard worse from scriptwriters during table reads. I let it slide. “Well, regardless. I’m glad Rachel told me.”
“Rachel’s incompetence eclipses her usefulness, unfortunately. She shouldn’t have told you.”
I shook my head and fought through the simmering anger that bubbled up my throat. “I dropped everything to get here, you know.”
“Everything?” she asked and quirked a single brow. “Have you any prospects?”
“Not exactly. But I do keep busy out there.”
“Thank heavens for small blessings then, mm? Help me up, darling.” I stood and held out my hand for her. She was featherlight in my grip. “Fetch Rachel.”
I swallowed the adolescent obstinance rising in me and did as my mother bade. Rachel flowed easily into the room. I was pretty sure she stood in the hallway listening in. As she escorted Cordelia down the hallway back to her bedroom, she looked over her shoulder and said, “I texted you a to-do list.”
I saluted and spun to head toward the stairs. “Put me to work. Got it.” I watched my mother vanish around the corner. She had a finger pointed at Rachel, terse words slipping down the hall.
I’m glad you’re home, darling.Nope.
I’m happy to see you after eight years. Nope.
Send my best to that nice policeman who shoved something up my tuchus.Definitely nope.
“Great to be home,” I said as I climbed the stairs to retrieve my phone and get the day started.
ChapterFour
IDIDN’TFINISHmy errands and chores until the evening. Rachel had dinner from a local sub shop waiting for me on the kitchen island. A handwritten note notified me that Cordelia had turned in for the evening, fully medicated, and that Rachel would be by first thing in the morning.
After scarfing down my sub and a bag of chips, I fixed a shaker for a dirty martini, grabbed a glass, and jogged upstairs to my room. The windows faced westward, and a falling sun set the room aglow in melted butter and molten orange. I left the door ajar, one ear attuned to any noise I might hear from downstairs. One quick shake and a pour later, I had a drink ready to go.
I set out a portable Bluetooth speaker from my travel bag and put on some tunes, nondescript, background Lo-Fi beats. In my youth, a boombox stationed in the corner would crank out alt rock while I learned the ropes of working out at home. The bench still sat in the corner along with an assortment of barbells recently dusted, courtesy of Rachel or a maid, I assumed. I’d need heavier weights than that if I planned to get in a good workout.
My phone chimed with a text from Deacon after I took the first sip of my drink, a relaxing mix of olive brine and Belvedere. Yesterday, on my way to LAX, I gave him a buzz and asked if he could cover at the Achilles Center for me. Like the loyal friend that he was, he swung in and helped, then offered to take care of anything at the house that was needed. I made a joke about some drug-addled music starlet who probably needed more help, and he politely ignored the comment. I always liked to see how far I could push my knowledge of his clandestine occupation.
I thumbed the new message notification.
Deacon:Hello, my friend.
Me:Good evening, neighbor.
I had responded in Greek, punching the words into a translator app and copying back the letters used in the Greek alphabet. He hearted my response.
Deacon:I am sorry to send you this, but I figured it was best coming from a friend.
My heart kicked as an article followed his text that I immediately clicked. The lede gave me everything I needed. “Small screen actor Johnny Parker found dead from apparent overdose in LA hotel room.”
Johnny, one of my old regulars who kept it on the down-low like me. We had initially hit it off after meeting at one of the gazillion soirees in Hollywood. Our eyes locked, a certain smile appeared, and then we understood each other. It was difficult to sync our schedules and things faltered after a month. Then we became middle-of-the-night buds when certain cravings appeared.
I scanned the rest of the article and felt queasy. We were intimate, of course, and I had come to know him well enough to call him an actual friend. He never showed signs of addiction other than the occasional drink. He was, in actuality, quite square. No weed, no pills. He always insisted I wore protection, not that I needed to be told. The article indicated heroin; I never encountered curious bumps or marks on his body. Did something happen, I wondered? Two years had passed since we last connected. I knew he was becoming a series regular on a suspense serial.
