“Frank, what –?” Tate started.
“Do it,” Frank ordered, Jim-Billy nodded and Nadine started digging in her purse.
“I got a phone, Jim-Billy, I got her number,” Nadine said quietly.
Frank wasted no time, he moved to the hall and Tate’s arm dropped from my shoulders but his hand curled tight around mine and we followed. Frank stopped at the office door and waited. Tate dug his keys out of his pocket and opened the door, holding it for me to precede him. I switched on the lights before I took four steps in and turned. Tate was at my side in a second. Frank closed the door and turned to us.
“I don’t even know…” Frank started then trailed off.
“Just fuckin’ say it,” Tate growled and Frank’s eyes latched on Tate’s.
“May-December murderer, Tate, buddy, fuck…” Frank yanked his fingers through his hair before his next, heinous words came out. “Buddy, he got Neeta.”
My body jerked like I’d suffered a blow and, at that moment, I could swear that it had when the pain sliced through my innards.
But Tate didn’t move, not a muscle.
“Come again?” he whispered.
Frank’s eyes came to me then went straight back to Tate and he said gently, “She’s dead, buddy.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, my stomach tightening, my heart constricting, my head filling so full of thoughts about Tate, Jonas, Pop, Wood, Stella, even Neeta and Blake, my head so full, it instantly began to pound.
Frank took a step forward, saying, “Tate –”
Tate lifted a hand, palm toward Frank, and Frank stopped moving.
“Buddy –” Frank muttered.
“Does Pop know?” Tate asked.
“Only you,” Frank answered.
“Fuck,” Tate whispered, his voice tortured.
I turned to him and started to put my hands on him. “Baby –”
“Fuck!” he roared and walked passed me, my hands glancing off his body as he did and he picked up the desk lamp and tossed it, side armed, it flew across the room and crashed against the wall.
I rushed to him when he swept up the laptop Krys had bought after I presented my stock spreadsheet to her and he barely missed me when that followed the lamp, flying to pieces after it hurtled across the room and smashed against the wall.
I put my hands on him, one at his abs, the fingers of the other one curling around his wrist as I whispered urgently, “Tate, honey, stop.”
Surprisingly he stopped, looked down at me and I winced when the burning power of emotion coming out of his eyes seared right through me.
“Baby,” I breathed the only thing my brain could think to say.
Then his arms came around me, one at my neck, one at my waist and he pulled me to him so violently, my head snapped back and my body slammed into his. He shoved his face in my neck, I slid my arms around him and held on.
“Hold on,” I urged.
“Fuck,” he whispered into my neck and his arms got tighter.
“Hold on, baby,” I whispered back as my arms got tighter around him and the tears welled over, spilling down my cheeks.
“Jonas,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said quickly.
“Fuck,” Tate repeated.
“Hold on,” I begged.
He held on and I held him while he was doing it.
After awhile, I pulled in breath and advised using the word, “Band-aid.”
His head came up and he looked down at me, his eyes carrying anguish.
“Like a band-aid,” I said gently. “We have to tell them quick, inflict the pain, make it fast, so we can start to deal with it.”
“Right,” he said.
“Call everyone to the house,” I ordered softly.
“Right,” he repeated.
“Baby?” I called and he didn’t answer, didn’t let me go, he just looked at me. I lifted a hand, put it to his jaw and whispered, “Love you.”
His eyes closed slowly, he opened them and they were no less bleak. He let me go, stepped back and his hand went to his back pocket.
Then he pulled out his phone.
*
Wood came to the house first because Tate arranged it that way.
Tate told Wood on the deck while I made coffee.
Then the sliding glass door opened, Tate came through and his eyes came to me.
“Go to him,” he ordered on a growl.
I nodded and moved immediately to do as Tate said.
Wood was leaning into his hands on the railing at the end of the deck, his eyes pointed to the trees.
I walked up to him and stopped a few feet away.
“Wood,” I called.
“Get the fuck away, Laurie.”
My head twisted to the side and I pulled in breath.
Then I walked to him and placed a hand gently on his back.
“Wood,” I whispered.
“Laurie, fuckin’ leave me be,”
My other hand went to his hip and I rested my forehead against my hand on his back.
“Wood,” I whispered.
Wood didn’t reply and I didn’t move.
This lasted a long time.
Then Wood said, “She was a goddamned mess.”
“I know.”
“For fuckin’ decades.”
“I know, honey.”
“Walked all over people, fucked with people’s lives, didn’t give a shit about anyone.”