“We don’t need the money.”
“Well, that little sociopath doesn’t deserve it.”
His lips thinned in the way that made her cringe. “Daisy. Aubrey is not a sociopath, and damn it, Josh loved her. He wanted her to be taken care of. That’s why he had the life insurance policy in the first place.”
“And what about me, Tom? I was his mother. I raised him, and loved him, and tried to keep him safe. Safe from his real father. Safe from her.”
The comment struck a nerve. He quietly stood, took the overspilling ashtray and the empty tumbler, and said, “You should probably eat something, dear.”
Daisy tried not to glare at Tom. She really did. How was she supposed to eat? Her son was dead, and the woman who killed him lived.
She’d lost nearly forty pounds in the past five years, twenty of which she’d needed to lose, another twenty that made her look like a washed-up model still trying to cut it on the runway. Some of it was muscle—she tried to keep up her tennis game—but she was mostly just skin and bones and sinew. A walking bag of seething loss.
Tom was right. Vodka and cigarettes and regret were only enough to sustain her temporarily.
She stood mechanically and went to the kitchen. Tom followed. She sensed he wanted to talk more, to be touched. To have her apologize for throwing Ed in his face. To something. But she kept her eyes and hands averted, started a pan of leftover soup to warm, put a small baguette in the oven, placed napkins and spoons on the table.
They ate in silence. That is to say, Tom ate. Daisy just swirled her spoon around in the thick gold broth. When the scrape of metal against china signaled that Tom’s bowl was empty, she stood. Tom stood as well. He started to open his mouth, closed it again, sighed, and shuffled to the basement door, disappearing down into the gloom.
Daisy grabbed both bowls, dumped her meal down the disposal, tidied the kitchen.
She took the vodka from the freezer and poured one last shot. There was a bottle of pills in the cabinet, ones designed to help her sleep. Help her forget. She reached for the orange plastic, dumped two in her palm. Dropped them on her tongue and used the vodka to chase them down her throat.
Day one thousand eight hundred and seventy-four was over.
CHAPTER 11
Aubrey
Today
When Aubrey woke, she was acutely aware of three things. One, the sun was well up in the sky, which meant it was late morning. Two, her head was splitting, caught in a vise grip of throbbing pain. Three—and despite the pain, she was at once relieved and disappointed—her bed was devoid of the man she’d met last night. The man who’d so passionately made love to her. The man whose touch, whose kiss, reminded her of what she’d lost.
What a dream. What a delicious dream.
Eyes closed, she stretched, and felt the soreness in her legs, and between them. She wanted the fantasy to continue. To pretend that the world she knew was something different.
Josh.
Josh always had risen before her. Was he in the kitchen, making breakfast? She didn’t smell anything. No coffee. No bacon and eggs and toast. Only the stale breath of a hangover, and a sudden brimstone whiff of regret for what she’d done.
She opened her eyes, worried, glanced at the pillow. No one there.
Her drowsy mind caught up to the situation. Not Josh. Chase.
Jesus. She’d actually brought a stranger home and slept with him. How could she have let that happen?
What did you expect, Aubrey? You had enough alcohol to drown a horse. This is why you don’t drink anymore. You black out. You lose time. You do stupid, reckless things.
She got up and walked downstairs.
The house was very empty.
The alarm was set.
She was alone.
Winston was asleep in a pool of sunshine by the kitchen door. She must have let him out when she got home last night, so he’d slept through his morning constitutional. She roused him, took him out into the yard, played for a few moments, left him to his business. Went back inside to make herself some coffee.
Maybe take a few aspirin.
Should she try to eat? Her stomach flipped, and she decided no, not yet. Let the coffee get in first. Then she could self-flagellate.
She saw the edge of a piece of paper under the phone. It had been ripped from a notebook.
Her heart skipped a beat. She picked up the paper. Read with incredulity.
Aubrey,
Last night was . . . Well, I’m speechless. I can’t wait to see you again. I apologize for slipping out this morning. I had an early flight and didn’t want to wake you. I’ll call you later. I hope that’s okay. I’d love to come back and spend some time. Maybe next weekend? Or maybe even before that. If you’d like, that is. Anyway, thank you. It was a lovely night.
He’d signed it simply, a one-word scrawl: Chase.