“I’m sorry.” His hand cupped her cheek, filling her with warmth. “Tell me what I can do.”
Perfect words. Travis always had the perfect words. He knew her. He knew the last thing she wanted was a firm embrace and words of consolation. She didn’t need to be consoled. People in sorrow need words of sympathy, and though dozens of emotions were spinning through her chest, sorrow was not one of them. In fact, sorrow was the farthest emotion from her sights at the moment, and the thought sent an icy chill through her spine.
She took a step back, releasing his touch. “I’m not sad,” she whispered. She didn’t mean to say the words out loud. It must be horrifying for him to see the depth of her ability to be cold and uncaring, and she cringed as she waited for his reply.
His words were spoken carefully. “I wouldn’t expect you to be.”
Her breath held tight in her lungs. “No?”
He stepped toward her and cupped her face in his hands. “Rachel, she was never a mother to you. Did she ever once try to straighten herself out for the sake of you and Carrie?”
“No,” she whispered, as tears stung her eyes.
His thumbs caressed her cheeks. “Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t feel guilty because you can’t mourn her death. She doesn’t deserve your sadness or your guilt.”
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, sinking her face into the well of his hard chest. For the first time in her life, it truly sank in just how deeply she needed someone like Travis Gage in her life. Though she didn’t understand how, in some way, Travis seemed to understand her better than she understood herself.
“Let’s go take care of this,” he said, brushing his hand over her hair.
She didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay here, in his arms, where the world was a safe place to live in. When she made no motion to move, he feathered his fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head.
“Come on, sweetheart, let’s close this chapter of your life.”
His words choked her throat and filled her heart with a sense of love. She pulled her face from his chest, noticing the damp spots where his shirt had soaked up her tears.
“She’s at home. Wilma said the police are there.”
He let out a heavy sigh and turned to grab his wallet. “She died at home.”
“Apparently.”
She didn’t understand his sudden look of concern, but if any doubts remained that Travis shouldn’t go with her, they drained away when he made the statement.
“Does that make a difference?”
He pulled her sweater from the chair and placed it on her shoulders. “It could. We’ll need to find out what happened.”
He grabbed his wallet and led her out the door.
Three patrol cars and an ambulance surrounded Rachel’s childhood home. Two others were unmarked, and one simply had a county coroner emblem on the side. Her hands began to tremble as they neared the house. She hadn’t asked Wilma any questions, and had no idea what she would find.
Wilma had said Hattie died in her sleep, but Rachel wasn’t sure. Of all the men who traipsed through the house, Rachel remembered that some could be violent when drunk, and she suddenly wondered if Wilma had told her everything.
As if he heard her thoughts, Travis broke the silence. “This is standard. Don’t be alarmed.”
She clasped his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze, and he responded by raising it to his mouth and pressing his lips to her skin.
“It will be okay, Rachel. I’m here with you.”
Travis pulled up to the curb and turned off the ignition. “Don’t worry,” he said once more, and though they were just two simple words, they filled her heart and relaxed her nerves. If anyone else had said them, they would have been an empty attempt at reassurance. With Travis, they worked.
They stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. A patrol officer crossed the street to greet them, his hand held up in a gesture that they shouldn’t come near.
Travis held up his badge. “I’m Detective Gage, Chicago PD. This is Rachel Foster, the victim’s daughter.”
The officer relaxed his stance. He introduced himself as Tom Porter, then turned to Rachel and said, “My condolences, Miss.”
Rachel could only nod.
“The coroner is with her now,” Porter proceeded. “She appears to have passed of natural causes, but the autopsy will say for sure.” He looked to Rachel. “Miss Foster, when was the last time you saw your mother?”
Rachel glanced at Travis, who nodded in gesture that she should answer the question. “Last week. I come by every month to collect the mail and pay her bills. She hasn’t been well.”
Porter jotted notes on a pad. “Did your mother suffer from some sort of illness?”
“She’s…she was an alcoholic.”
That familiar look of pity crossed the officer’s features. Rachel stiffened her chin. She would have rather been accused of murdering her mother than look at the shame cloaking the man’s face.
“Do you remember what day last week you saw her?”