One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(64)

Just as he finishes my intricately tailored manifesto for his new life direction, he tosses his breakfast into his trashcan. Searching deep, I find absolutely no fucking empathy if he chooses door number two.

If anything, I’ll rest easier knowing his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter is now safe from another late-night attack. The paycheck we’re about to receive—if he opts for door number one—will only be a bonus.

A year ago, I would have thought this a much bigger victory.

But now?

Compared to what I’m up against—along with the visions I’m minute by minute trying to tamp down from playing in a loop—Timothy’s demise feels insignificant. Eyeing the clock, I decide to work a little on the Buick. Rolling back from my desk, I pull out my earbuds and tense, swearing that I faintly heard Cecelia call my name.

“Dom!” Cecelia bellows from below as the front door slams downstairs. I didn’t imagine it or the shake in her voice. Pulse elevating, I rush out of my bedroom as she calls for me again, the urgency in her summons unmistakable. I’m halfway down the stairs at the landing when she spots me and flies into my arms. I barely manage to catch her, my back hitting the wall behind me as she buries her face in my chest.

“What’s wrong?” She’s full-on shaking in my arms as I flit through a list of scenarios while my heart continues to pound, the hammering beat in my ears.

“Cecelia, what happened?” Gently prying her away from me, I examine her from head to foot and see no sign of injury. The thought occurs to me that maybe she’s discovered the truth about us—about me and her father. But she can’t know, or she wouldn’t be clinging to me this way . . . unless it’s pity. It’s when she looks up at me that I see nothing but appreciation. Beautiful features twisted, mascara streaks lining her face; I palm it between my hands.

“What?” I ask again, furiously wiping her tears with my thumbs. “What happened?” I prompt as her face falls again, and a sob bursts out of her, the sound of it cracking my insides.

“Jesus, tell me,” I demand, my tone stern. I’ve seen her cry silently while watching movies or after finishing a good book, but this is completely different.

“Cecelia,” I grit out, “I’m about two seconds away from—”

“You, what y-you do for them,” she murmurs, pulling back. “I w-went w-with Tyler today to d-deliver the checks, and I,” her lip quivers as she stares up at me, another tear giving way to another, her expression hitting with the impact of a sledgehammer—a mix of admiration and adoration, for me. “What you’ve done for them, Dom, it’s incredible.”

“Cecelia,” I grunt as relief courses through me, “It’s not—”

“No,” she scolds, furiously shaking her head as Tyler saunters in behind her, his lips tilted in amusement. I narrow my eyes at him over her shoulder. He shrugs. “Don’t look at me, man. She figured it out,” he sighs, “she’s been like this all day.”

He lays a consoling hand on Cecelia’s back while passing us on the way to his room. “See you soon, beautiful.”

“T-thank you for today, Tyler,” Cecelia sniffs, her respect-filled gaze following him until he clears the stairs before she zeroes back in on me.

“You don’t get to downplay what you’re doing, Dominic. You deserve to know how you’re changing their lives.”

She grips the hand I have palming her face, her need to express this to me outweighing any of her typical emotional sidestepping for my comfort. “You’re saving them—” She crumbles again, and it’s then I recognize just how personal this particular club errand was for her. Wiping more of her tears with my thumbs, it becomes clear that she’s reliving years of repressed acknowledgment of the neglect she endured at her mother’s hands. Gently gripping her arm, I usher her up the stairs and into my room, sitting her at the edge of my bed before kneeling in front of her. A few seconds tick by before she collects herself enough to speak—her eyes gloss over with memory.

“I w-was five the first time I remember it happening . . . the first time she got lost in her head and checked out,” she sniffs, her voice raw. “It’s like she forgot I existed . . . her eyes . . . it was like she was looking right through me. You could tell, you could feel her pain, so much pain,” her voice cracks. “I don’t remember how long it went on. What I do remember is her lying on the couch, day and night. She didn’t move, Dom. She didn’t change clothes or shower . . . When I tried to talk to her, it was like she couldn’t hear me. I remember thinking . . .” she shudders as another lone tear tracks down her cheek. “. . . That maybe if I swept the floor and did the dishes, it might make her happy.”

The gap in my rib cage widens as I imagine Cecelia trying to work a broom handle taller than she was and straining on her toes to do dishes in a sink she probably couldn’t reach.

“I ate wish sandwiches,” she admits sheepishly, body shaking as she struggles to quiet her cries enough to speak, “do you know what those are?”

“Yeah,” I whisper, all too aware, “when you wish there was more in between the bread than just—”

“Cheese,” she finishes as we share a sad smile.

“Until the cheese ran out, and then it was ketchup and bread.” Her deep blue eyes finally focus on me, pinning me. “She tried, Dom, she really did. So hard. Her highs were amazing—some of the best memories I have. But her lows—her spells—they would always set us back so far that she’d spend her time between them playing catch up.”