The Heiress(61)

They look like they’re sleeping.

That’s what I’ve heard about dead people. That’s what I’ve seen in movies––someone walking into a bedroom, calling cheerfully for the person in the bed to wake up, only to be concerned when they don’t move, that concern slowly turning to panic as they realize the person is never waking up again.

Maybe that’s true in some cases, but Nelle is unquestionably dead. Her skin is a waxy yellow, her eyes open and cloudy, mouth agape.

Next to her on the sheets is a doll, an old one if the flaking paint and yellowing lace dress are anything to go by. One of its eyes is half-shut, making it look as dead as the woman in the bed, and a shudder runs through me, making me chafe my arms as a bitter taste floods my mouth.

“I found her just before I called you,” Ben says, and I think he’s talking to the police, but it’s the white-haired man who nods, his wrinkled face creased with sympathy.

“Hell of a thing, Benji, hell of a thing. But her heart had been bad since … what, ’fifteen? ’sixteen?”

“Sometime around there,” Ben says with a sigh.

One of the police officers is holding Nelle’s thin wrist in his hand, but that’s clearly a formality, and he nods at his partner, who steps out of the room, pressing the radio on his shoulder as he goes, the static crackle loud in the quiet room.

“At least she got to pass here at Ashby,” the white-haired man says, clapping Ben on the shoulder. “It’s what she wanted.”

“She was tired last night,” Ben says, almost to himself. “She said so. Went to bed early.”

Trailing off, he swings his gaze to Camden, his jaw clenching. “It was too much for her. That little performance at dinner. Wore her out.”

Like “that little performance” was all Cam’s doing. Like they hadn’t all licked up the drama of it eagerly, Nelle herself in the starring role.

Honestly? It would serve her right if that shit is what finally made her heart give out.

“So. I came up here early this morning to see how she was feeling, and—what the hell are you doing?”

He barks the words, and the other cop, the one still by the bed, drops his hand from Nelle’s face. He’s young, probably barely in his twenties, and a flush actually rises up his smooth cheeks, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Like Ben is the authority, not him.

“I was just … I thought I could see some bruising on the inside of her mouth, and I wanted to check.”

“Now, now,” the white-haired man says, stepping forward and laying his hand on the younger officer’s shoulder. “This is an old woman who died in her bed, Officer Jamison. No need to upset anyone with that kind of talk. And Miss Nelle certainly wouldn’t want strangers pawing over her in her own bedroom.”

I wait for the officer to tell him that it doesn’t matter what Nelle would want, she’s dead, and he’s a cop, doing his job.

But instead, he mutters, “Sorry, Mr. Jackson. Mr. McTavish,” practically doffing his cap to them.

I’ve seen the house and the wealth and the way people in town respect the McTavish name, but until this moment, I don’t think I fully realized the kind of power this family wields around here.

It’s their own little kingdom, and everyone else is simply a servant bowing to their commands.

God, no wonder they’re all so fucked up.

The cop steps back into the room, skirting around me and Cam, still frozen just inside the doorway, and walking over to Ben. “The coroner is on his way. I guess you want her taken to Thornton’s?”

Ben nods, and the white-haired man makes his way over to us, giving me a broad smile with teeth that are just a little too big and a little too white. “Harlan Jackson,” he says, offering me his hand. “Family friend, foremost, but also family attorney. You must be Mrs. McTavish.”

“Jules,” I murmur, shaking his hand, and then he looks over at Camden.

So do I, and what I see makes my heart almost stop.

Cam looks nearly as pale as Nelle, his face gone gray, his expression shuttered, and Harlan gives him a sympathetic frown, resting a hand on his arm. “I forgot you were the one who found Ruby,” he says. “Hell of a thing.”

I’m guessing that’s his go-to phrase for anything bad that happens, but when Cam just nods robotically, swallowing hard, I get the sense he’s in his own hell right now.

I take his hand, his fingers icy, and when I squeeze, he doesn’t return it. Doesn’t even look at me.

His gaze is locked on Nelle in her bed. When Harlan turns back to Ben, Camden drops my hand and strides out of the room.

I stand there for a beat, suddenly remembering that I’m wearing nothing more than an oversize T-shirt that used to be Cam’s and a pair of sleep shorts, my bare legs cold in the chilly room, my hair a sleep-tangled mess. I murmur something about getting dressed, and hurriedly excuse myself, making my way back to our bedroom.

But Cam isn’t in there.

I stand in the hallway, unsure of what to do next, when I hear a sound from the other end of the hall.

The door is ajar, and I push it open to see Cam sitting on the edge of a lace-covered bed, elbows on his thighs, head in his hands, one foot jiggling up and down so hard that his whole body shakes with it.

Closing the door behind me, I hurry over to him, crouching between his knees, my hands reaching up to take his face. “Hey,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry. Not about Nelle, honestly, fuck her, but I didn’t know about Ruby. That you were the one to find her … that must have been so hard. And, Jesus, they had the nerve to say all of that to you last night, to accuse you of…”