“You obviously know a hell of a lot of something that you’re not telling me!” Her eyes shine as she fights against her tears. She’s furious with me, and I don’t think picking her up and tossing her into the passenger seat will work.
“Okay, fine.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “The night my mom killed herself, she was blind drunk and rambling all kinds of nonsense about how someone set up Abe and about how he was a good man and she needed you to know that.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me that when I asked?”
“Because I don’t know what’s true and I didn’t want to get your hopes up. Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Who says?”
“My uncle, who’s also the district attorney.”
“Well, good! If he’s the DA then he can make the police reexamine the evidence, right?”
“That’s the problem; there isn’t any evidence to reexamine!” I quickly explain the incineration mishap.
By the time I’m done, tears of anger are streaming down her cheeks. I reach up to brush them away, but she jerks her head out of reach.
“I’m sorry. I thought it might do more harm than good, telling you.”
With rough strokes, she rubs her tears away. She backs away from me. “I’ll go and see what Dr. Coppa will give us, if anything.” Her voice has turned steely, a mask for the simmering rage hiding beneath.
And the hurt.
I watch her march for the hospital doors, feeling the chasm between us widen. Getting her to trust me at all again will be an impossible feat. I can’t worry about that right now, though.
I need to focus on finding out what Dina knows.
CHAPTER 22
Grace
Noah’s SUV bounces over the speed bumps into the motel’s parking lot, jostling me in my seat. “I’ll see if there’s an extra charge to bring him in. You should carry him to your room, though.”
“Does he look like a dog that lets people carry him?” I snap. I haven’t said a word to Noah since I climbed into the passenger seat, my mind too busy replaying all of his words, trying to pick out fact from fiction. What else hasn’t he shared with me? What other lies might he have told?
He sighs. “He can’t run loose around here. He’ll freak people out, and we don’t need to be looking for a new motel.”
“Did she force that dog on you?” my mom asks from the backseat. She hasn’t spoken much either, whether it’s from the shock of Noah, the nausea that’s likely overwhelming her, or the thick, choking tension swirling around us, I can’t be sure.
“No, ma’am, but your neighbor did. The dog catchers were hunting him.”
“Vilma?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I have a soft spot for the elderly, so I couldn’t say no.”
“Of course you do.” There’s rare delight in her voice. It’s not a wonder; Noah is oozing Texas charm. I would have thought it would agitate her, but now I see she’s smiling. And she’s so much calmer than she was when I found her in front of the hospital.
Cyclops lets out an excited bark.
“Actually, Noah was talking about adopting him. He loves strays.”
I meant it to unsettle him, but Noah only chuckles.
“Meet you up there in a few.” He nods to the black duffel bag. “Can I carry that for you?”
“I’ve got it.” I’m guessing he slid the metal box in with the money.
I watch his long strides and his lean, strong body as he heads for the main lobby, wondering if he’s going to grab his things and bolt. No . . . Noah’s not the type to run.
And neither am I.
I ease out of the passenger seat, covered in soot for the second day in a row, a bag of pills in hand. Dr. Coppa was alarmed that my mom didn’t last even a day in rehab. After I told him we had lined up Desert Oaks—with financial help from “a friend”—he made me call them and confirm her spot for tomorrow morning before he’d give me enough medication to get her through until then. It’s a lie, of course. I can’t use that money, now that I have a good idea where it came from.
Still, we can manage the worst of her withdrawal symptoms, at least for tonight.
But what about the rest of it? I asked the nurses about this police officer who supposedly visited. They were adamant that no one—especially the police—visited Dina Richards this afternoon. They even checked the visitor logs in front of me.
So that means she’s either lying or delusional.
Or the hospital is lying.
Or someone snuck in to scare her into running, and Noah is right—I have no idea what we’re dealing with here.
* * *
“Don’t make me regret this,” I warn Cyclops as I release him from my grip inside the motel room. Surprisingly, he let me carry him to the second floor. His nose hits the ground in an instant and he runs off to sniff out every corner of the room. And, hopefully, not urinate in them.
Mom’s drowsy gaze drifts over the bed, the TV, and the curtains, her eyes tightening against the light. Whatever bit of energy she mustered to run from her hospital bed is long gone. A sheen of sweat coats her pale forehead. “Is this where you stayed last night?”
“Yeah.”
Her fingers smooth over the duvet cover. “With Noah?”
“He’s in the room next door.”
“I’m glad to see Jackie raised him right, at least.” She eases herself onto the bed gingerly, as if the frame might not be stable enough to hold her hundred-pound frame. “It’s nice here. Quiet.”
“Here. Drink some water.”
She accepts the bottle from me with a shaky hand. “They brought this woman into the wing, after you left. She was hysterical.”
“Probably her first overdose.” The first time in a long time that woman has had to face her demons sober, and that must hurt more than all the physical withdrawal symptoms, combined. I know because I went through the same thing with Mom, her first time in the hospital after OD’ing. I could hear her wails down the hall.
Only now I have to wonder exactly what those demons calling out to her have been saying.
Fourteen years.
It’s been fourteen years since I wrapped my arms around my dad’s broad shoulders, since he kissed me good night.
Fourteen years since he was shot and killed, and labeled a criminal.
Fourteen years since my life was turned upside down.
And here we are, my entire life turned upside down again in the span of twenty-four hours.
As much as I want to interrogate her about . . . well, everything . . . I can tell she’s minutes away from throwing up if she doesn’t lie down. I toss my purse to the dresser, realizing that every last possession I have is in there. “Get some rest.”
“Where’s the box?”
“It’s safe.”
She folds herself into bed. “Bring it to me. Please.”
Something in her voice stops me from dismissing her. I fish it out of the duffel bag and set it on the nightstand beside her, careful not to let her catch a glimpse of the money.
She gazes at it for a long moment. “You opened it.”
“Of course I did.”
I expect her anger to flare, for her to yell at me. The look of resignation on her face takes me by surprise, even as weary as she is.
“Is this stuff about Dad?”
“Everything is about him. It always has been.” Her voice is barely a whisper as she flips open the lid and rifles through it. “And now I have so little left. Just this box. And you.” She lifts the picture of Noah and Dad on the driveway, her thumb sliding over Noah’s face. “And him.” She smiles sadly. “Do you remember Noah?”
“Not really.”
“He was a good boy.” The wistful smile touching her lips slips away. “When I lost your dad, I lost Noah too.” Slowly, she places the picture back inside. She closes the lid. “I wondered if he’d come looking for us.”
“Jackie gave him our address. She sent him here.”
“He had nothing to do with what happened to your father.” She closes her eyes. “Don’t be so hard on him. He must be hurting a lot.”
She’s singing a different tune from the day she told me Jackie Marshall died, strung out and incapable of showing the smallest amount of compassion, even for the son who found his mother dead in their kitchen.