“She knows, baby. She knows.”
Chapter 56
Lucian
I swirl my drink in the glass, staring at the empty bed on camera. Teeth grinding in my skull, I recall her last words before she left. Let me go. They echo the night Amelia dangled from my arm, trying to pry my fingers loose.
I chuck the glass across the room, and it shatters against the wall. “Fuck!”
What the hell was I thinking, getting involved with this girl? I knew the consequences of falling for an unbridled thing like Isa. A young, sassy, package of poke-my-eyeballs-out-with-a-chopstick kind of girl. Like trying to contain a hurricane inside of a test tube. She’s whipping winds and half-torn rooftops, treacherous waves and dangerous undertows, and I can’t fucking get enough of her, for some reason. I don’t know if I’m a weatherman at heart, or a bona fide masochist who loves the torment.
The elevator dings, and Rand steps out, staring down at the broken pieces of glass as he skirts around them on his way to my desk. He lays the bracelet I gave Isa across the desktop, and my hand balls into a fist at the sight of it.
“I’ve gotten word that another dead body was found this morning,” he says, taking a step back and crossing his hands in front of him. “Another drug overdose, it seems.”
“And why do I care?”
“It was the body of Jenny Quinn. Isa’s mother.”
Easing back into my chair, I stroke my jaw in thought. “She never said anything when she left.”
“No, I suppose she wouldn’t.”
“Any connection to Nell? Any similarities?”
“Just that a needle was found lodged into her arm. Heroin is suspected with her, as well. Though, as I understand, Isa’s mother has been an addict for quite some time. I suppose there wouldn’t be anything unusual about that.”
“Any word on Isa? How she’s doing?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid.”
I push to my feet and tuck my cellphone into my pocket.
“Master … perhaps a couple days might be in order. To let her mourn, and all that.”
I’ve made a point of ignoring Rand’s advice over the last couple of years, since my father’s passing, finding his council mostly useless, but perhaps he’s right on this one. Maybe she needs time. “I’d like to attend the funeral. As soon as it’s known, make me aware of the date and time.”
“Absolutely.”
“And, Rand, what are your thoughts about this? Coincidence?”
“It’s hard to say. I don’t see any reason someone would go after Isa.”
“Unless that someone knew what she meant to me.”
“True, but the only one who might have motive is Stefano Scarpinato, and he seemed relatively appeased by your offer, when we met.”
It so happens, Rand isn’t privy to the meeting I had with Friedrich. I haven’t dismissed the possibility that the cocksucker is testing me, and if that’s the case, he’ll have more than a lack of funding to make his asshole pucker.
“Makaio tells me her attackers in the park were the two who gave her trouble a few months back at that party. I want to keep an eye on her.”
“I’ll dispatch Makaio at once.”
“No. She snuck away that night to avoid Makaio. I don’t need her running off, the moment she catches sight of him. And let’s face it, Makaio blends in like a clown at a funeral.”
“Should I look into hiring someone?”
Twiddling my thumbs, I chew the inside of my lip in thought. “Yes. I think it’s time we have a chat with our private investigator friend.”
“Mr. Goodman? I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Master.”
“Neither was killing Franco, but I did it, anyway.”
Chapter 57
Isadora
I hate funerals. If I was a grief eater, I could feast all day on the sadness and misery that comes with being forced to stare at a casket. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we prolong the anguish by shoving our faces in it for a full day?
Is it supposed to make it easier? Do we reach a point where we’re so sick of staring back at a lifeless body that we accept death?
My mother lies in a casket, surrounded in white silk and flowers. Four-dozen roses sit in pots on the floor around her, which I’m guessing came from Lucian, though the attached card was signed A Friend. Her long red hair has been curled, the tracks on her arms covered in thick makeup. That’s the other thing about funerals: they lie. If they were about truth, my mother would lying in a cardboard box, her hair half-cocked in a greasy ponytail, with a bunch of used needles around her.
Aunt Midge opted for an emerald dress that makes her look like the doll encased in Laura’s collection.
Something that isn’t real.
Her complexion, glowing and perfect, as if the drugs never even touched her blood. The pictures Aunt Midge gathered lie about her body, and I focus on the one of her and me, as the pastor rattles off some scripture I couldn’t begin to understand.
I opted not to give a eulogy, and instead wrote a letter for my mother, to be burned with her ashes. Speaking in crowds was never my thing to begin with, but being asked to share thoughts and feelings about a mother I spent most of my life despising isn’t something I care to eulogize, at all.
Only a handful of people show up, mostly the guys from the bar where Aunt Midge works, who came out to support her. Taking my hand in hers, Aunt Midge sobs into a tissue, as we watch the others pay their final respects. The woman must be an endless reservoir of tears. At some point, it has to dry out, and perhaps that’s where I’m at. It must look strange that I’m the only one at the funeral whose eyes are dry as a bone.
I need air.
Desperately.
This place is suffocating.
Smothering me.
Aunt Midge gives a squeeze of my hand, sending another round of panic shooting into my chest. An oncoming anxiety attack, I bet. I suffered them frequently after the attack of Aedon and Brady, and the tightness in my chest, the spinning of the room, serve as warning signs of another episode.
Mac stumbles over to the two of us, undoubtedly drunk, and plants a kiss on the top of my forehead. As he wraps Aunt Midge in a whiskey-scented hug, I set my palm on hers.
“I’m going to get some fresh air.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” she says, her voice muffled by Mac’s embrace.
How she can stand it right now, I don’t know. I’ll probably hyperventilate if someone tries to hug me, which is a good reason to walk away. This is when the hugs begin. When the sorry’s and memories and regrets pour out of everyone like a river of sorrows.
Breathing hard through my nose, I exit the showing room, down the hallway, through the foyer, and out the front door of the funeral home. Gripping the staircase handrail, I suck in deep breaths in an effort to calm my pounding heart.
Breathe, Isa. Just breathe.
Opening my eyes on a long exhale, I find a familiar face standing before me.
“Hey there, Isa.” Mayor Boyd stands with one foot propped on the staircase, his hand resting on his thigh. “How are you?”
“I’m good. What are you doing here?”