When he finished, they were both quiet for a time.
“Have you heard from her?” Daisy finally asked.
Chase realized he’d drifted. He had a tendency to do that now.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“From Aubrey. Has she been in touch?”
He nodded. “She’s been writing me. Trying to explain. She’d gone off her meds, she wasn’t thinking clearly. All the excuses you’d expect.” That she loved me, and wanted forgiveness. Wanted to be with me, to twine around me in the night like she used to . . . That she’d be out soon enough and they could be together. That Josh’s betrayal was so deep, breaking his promise that he would come back if she was put on trial, she couldn’t imagine ever seeing him again. That she understood Chase had lied to her, but when he’d come clean, told her the truth, she knew he really did love her. He was the only good thing in her life. The only truth.
Please, Chase. Please come see me.
He flicked a hand like it meant nothing to him. He didn’t tell Daisy he’d cried like a baby when he received the first letter, and wrote Aubrey back a long, messy screed pledging his eternal love. In the cold light of day, when he’d crawled out of the bottle he’d fallen into after he discovered her lies, her treachery, he knew he’d made a magnificently bad mistake, but he couldn’t seem to help the crazy feelings she dragged out of him. And truth be told, he didn’t want to. She made him feel alive, for the first time in his life. That she was . . . unpredictable was simply part of the allure.
Poor Aubrey. The online photos of the Middle Tennessee Mental Health Institute made it look like a pleasant suburban doctor’s office, its tall flagpole gaily snapping the American and Tennessee State flags, not a building that housed the criminally insane. He felt a stab of guilt, as he always did when he thought of her locked in there, stuck wearing white gowns and being shot up with Haldol—vitamin H, she called it—when she “misbehaved.”
“I might write a book about it. True crime is a really popular genre.”
Daisy smiled, picked up her glass. She held it like it was a cross to bear, her thirteenth station. Water. At least he thought it was water. She’d been sober since the accident. Started attending meetings in the rehab facility she’d been sent to when she managed to survive the heart surgery and started to mend. She even had her ninety-day chip. She’d been scared straight, or so she claimed.
“I think it would make an excellent story. I know you probably didn’t have room in this piece, but if you write a book, make sure you mention that I hated to give you up.”
He bristled. Always wanting to be portrayed in the best light. She’d been saying how much she regretted the decision to allow his father to take him, over and over, yet he wasn’t sure he believed her. And now, Daisy wanted him to move to Nashville so they could be a family. No chance—when it came right down to it, he was afraid she might be as crazy as Aubrey.
“I had a letter from Josh, too,” he ventured, and Daisy’s eyes lit up.
“And how is my sweet boy?”
“Okay, I think. He seems . . . settled in.”
“I can’t believe they sent him to that place. After what that woman did to him, he should have been given an award, not sent to prison.”
“Mmmm.”
She was still in complete denial about Josh. Always had been, always would be. Aubrey was the villain. Josh was the innocent bystander. The innocent bystander who orchestrated a deal with the devil, talked his wife into covering for him, managed to disappear for five years, and very nearly pulled it all off.
The letter from Josh had been simple: I’m sorry, about it all. I’d like to get to know you, see you again. Try to be brothers. Please come visit. My schedule’s pretty open, ha-ha.
Unlike Aubrey, held indefinitely in the psychiatric hospital, Hamilton was doing cold, hard time. Chase might go see him while he was here in town. Might. The only real contact they’d had was the night Hamilton had shown up at Chase’s hotel, full of righteous fury, demanding to know why Chase was fucking his wife.
Ah, brotherly love.
To hell with Hamilton, it was Aubrey he wanted to see. But that would cloud his judgment. Let her do her time, come back down to earth, get her head screwed on. Then, maybe, they could talk again.
Jesus, Chase. You are as insane as the whole crew if you think that any contact with her is a good idea.
“Daisy—”
“Mom, please, Chase. I’ve told you time and again. I am your mother. I would appreciate you calling me so.”
He couldn’t; he just couldn’t. Mom was a sweet black-haired gypsy woman who’d taught him to read and chased away his nightmares and made him lemonade, whose grave he’d been neglecting lately. This woman wasn’t Mom.