Royally Benevolent (Resplendent Royals #4)

66. The Offender

66

THE OFFENDER

WYATT

“ J ennifer Lowery is her name,” Detective Powers said.

She slid a file across the table. It was like a bad police procedural. Did people still keep everything in paper files? Did they not have a decent cloud provider? I opened the manila folder and stared at pictures of a late-model Mercedes. It was in a garage with a dented hood and a scratched grill. I fought all the tears I could, but the prosecutor, a man named Robertson, who was the size of a building with the voice of Pinocchio, handed me a tissue. I never imagined we’d get closure. And in any imagining I had of it, it didn’t look like this.

“Where did you get these photos from?” I asked.

“The car has been parked since the accident,” Detective Powers said. “Mrs. Lowery parked it. She cleaned it up, but we found it like this in her garage after she confessed.”

I flipped the pictures aside to find a photo of a woman in her late sixties. It was a mugshot.

“Is this… her?”

Robertson, the prosecutor, nodded.

“She’s… older than I thought. I always assumed it was a young person who panicked.”

“We did, too,” Powers said. “Mrs Lowery was driving on a suspended license when she hit your wife. She was driving drunk—per her admission—and headed home from a male friend’s house. She panicked and left the scene.”

“So why come forward?” I asked, confused.

“She’s dying,” Robertson explained. “She needs a liver transplant, but given her situation, she’s ineligible. She wants to die with an empty conscience. This was something she needed to confess.”

“It makes me so angry,” I said, unable to temper my anger. “And now what?”

“She’s been charged with manslaughter, leaving the scene of an accident, and driving with a suspended license,” Robertson said. “None of that will matter to you. I am sure nothing about this is enough.”

“How many years is that?”

“The plea is for ten, but given her health, she will never serve that, sir.”

“Ten years for the lifetime of what I am missing without Isla,” I scoffed.

The Detective patted my arm. “I am sorry, Mr Worthington. This is all awful, and nothing that Robertson or I tell you will make it better.”

I knew that was true. There was no bringing back Isla. I couldn’t go back in time and save her. Torturing this dying woman—no matter how awful and cowardly she was—wouldn’t save my wife. I’d only grow more and more miserable the more I thought about it. I couldn’t make up for this. And the more I thought about being vindictive, the worse I felt.

“Well, thank you. I will enter a statement,” I said. “If I can read it, I will stay to do so.”

“Of course, sir,” Robertson said. “We appreciate that this might be painful for you. If I can do anything?—”

I stood and rebuttoned my jacket. “Uh… it’s fine, thanks. I’m… I’m alright.”

Nothing about the last week of my life was right—not this trip, not the feelings of insecurity about Theo’s well-being, and not the loss of Odette. I wished it was all different. Despite my attempts to turn back time or make the press go away, I hoped for a miracle—one that brought me no closer to reaching the princess in a tower who refused to answer my calls and returned the roses I sent.

I felt rejected on all fronts. Whatever I did, it didn’t matter. When I returned to the house, I sat on the couch and stared into space. Mom entered and sat by me.

“Theo is watching television in my room. I figured it would give you a break when you got home.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“How was it?”

“I’m numb… to all of it,” I admitted. “I need to write a statement and reconsider everything. And I think we’re moving back to St Louis.”

“What?”

“I learned we won the bid this morning before I walked in there. So, I’m going to be working here. I can get Theo in school somewhere, I’m sure. And… we can relocate until the Neandian project wraps. Once it enters phase four, it will make more sense to go back, but that won’t be until Spring. I don’t want to stay.”

Mom’s face showed confusion.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just… I think Theo prefers it there,” Mom said. “And it’s a place he has stability?—”

“What? So he can ask where the fuck Odette is every five minutes?” I lashed out.

“Hey, calm down. I’m not interrogating you.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are under a lot of stress, and also… the thing with Odette is very fresh.”

“Odette doesn’t exist anymore. She’s made that clear.”

Mom’s face showed she didn’t believe that, but in my mind, it had to be true. I couldn’t force her to love me if she ignored my calls, texts, or apologies. And, even if she accepted these things, I feared this world with her would never work.

“I think that is what is best,” I said. “No more argument.”