“He changed his mind at the last minute.” To the detective, I explain, “He wanted to announce his withdrawal from the team. It was an incredibly difficult thing to do, and I’m sure he didn’t want his parents there for it.” I say the last part sharply, so she’ll understand. But she just keeps gawking at me with that pale, betrayed expression. I narrow my eyes at her. “Do you want to blame Tristian next?”
Her eyes widen, palm flying to her chest. “A Mercer? Goodness no. A young man with that type of upbringing would never do such a thing. But Dimitri?” She nods at the detective, sniffling. “You should check him out. I can definitely see him doing something like this.”
Jesus. My mother. You’d think she’d figure it out by now that the rich guys are the worst. She grew up waiting for that knight in shining armor, telling me stories about them, wanting my life to be a page out of a storybook, just like the name she gave me.
Which is why this will fucking destroy her.
“Mr. Rathbone and Mr. Mercer already have alibis,” the detective says, looking almost disappointed as he closes his notepad. “They spent the night at the Maddox hotel. Camera footage has them arriving at nine and leaving at seven the following morning.”
“You checked them already?” I ask, bafflement mingling with disgust. “Why?”
The detective looks unbothered by my tone. “Both Mr. Mercer and Mr. Rathbone have prior run-ins with the police, most on behalf of Mr. Payne himself. They were part of his inner circle of, er…colorful associates.” He looks at me, assuring, “It was nothing personal. We checked everyone in that group first.”
“Are you sure?” my mother asks, fanning herself. She’s breathing fast and her eyes are welling up again. “This is too much. It’s too much.”
I interrupt. “Sir, could you give us a moment? My mom’s barely had time to digest all this.”
“Of course, ma’am.” He stands, but even though he dusts off his knees and says, “We don’t need to do this now,” I see his eyes taking in the house, scanning, documenting, observing.
“Come on, Mom,” I say, resting my hand on her shoulder. “You should rest. Let me take care of you for a while, okay?”
She nods and offers the detective a brief, watery glance, muttering, “Thank you.”
“Call me,” he says, handing her a card. “Any time.”
I ignore the implication in Detective Eyebrows’ tone and walk her to her room as Martin escorts him out. I’d love to think this guy isn’t a dirt bag, but my mother and I have been surrounded by them our entire lives. It’s why she told the man who came to deliver the news of her husband’s horrible death ‘thank you’。 It’s why I understand her neurotically straight posture and efforts not to smear her makeup. Sometimes, appearances are all we have. The mask we pull over our faces to hide the ugly sadness beneath. My mother taught me plenty, but few lessons so important as this:
We are whatever people see.
If they see a whore, they’ll treat her like a product to be consumed. If they see a sweet, virginal princess, they’ll do whatever they can to mar her purity. If they see a woman who’s upstanding, wealthy, straight-backed and put together, they’ll shake her hand and hold her door.
We pass Daniel’s office on the way to their master suite, but I keep my eyes forward, refusing to look inside and remember. A strangeness settles over me as we approach her bedroom. After all this time, the threats and the drama, it’s hard to believe that he’s really gone. That he’ll no longer have power over me and the guys, and with the fire, the slate will wipe clean. Whatever dirt he had on me is gone.
I step into their bedroom for the first time since high school, idly noting the muted decor. It makes it easier to ignore that he slept here, woke here, fucked here, on that very mattress, with the woman I’m leading to it.
I prepare myself for the breakdown. The sobs and the cries. Tearing at the bed sheets. The futile question of ‘why’。 I prepare myself to console my mother, because it doesn’t matter that I hated her husband. She loved him, whatever that might have looked like between them. I think of losing one of mine—Killian, Dimitri, Tristian—and it makes me hurt so badly that I have to turn away from it, refusing to put myself in these shoes a second before I’m forced to.
She leans back on the pillows, her wet eyes staring sightlessly across the room. “He has appointments,” she suddenly says, forehead crinkling. “I’ll need to cancel them. And there will be a funeral. Won’t there?”