CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It’s All Too Much For Me
SERENITY
I run my palms down my face, hard enough to make my eyes feel like they’re close to popping out of my head. This can not be happening. It can absolutely not be happening.
“What?” I repeat myself.
Tommy sighs. He rubs his fingers along his temple and forehead. “I’m going to break this down for you, Serenity.”
I collapse back into my chair, pondering how much I’d love to scream at him right now.
“A man has disappeared. His name is Eddie Mancini. His family has more money than the entire royal family. They’ll do—and have been doing—anything to locate him.”
I shake my head. “I know—”
“Just listen.” Tommy holds his hand high. “Eddie Mancini is an addict, last seen at the Luna Motel, a notorious spot to shoot up.” He waves his hand in the air, restating things I’m well aware of. “They found his blood in his hotel room. They also discovered tire tracks nearby, from a car that matched your vehicle. A car you sold.”
“They didn’t find anything—”
Tommy cuts me off. Again. “They found drug residue, and a used needle.”
Oh, the way I want to shriek.
I wish I could bolt out of here and slap my sister across her cheek. I never let her use my car. She had her license, but I saw how often she was strung out, and I didn’t want her driving high. I had zero trust in her, just a ton of love, but she stole my car multiple times.
I remember the first time it happened. I almost called the cops because I thought someone snatched my car out of my driveway, but then I realized Delilah must’ve taken it for a joy ride.
Each time she stole my car, we’d argue, and I’d clean it by myself from top to bottom.
Since we were kids, I liked to think I was a step ahead of Delilah, but she was always somewhere ahead of me.
I wasn’t aware of the last time she stole my car until after it was submitted to evidence. She must’ve stolen it when Mancini was last seen, and then returned it. All under my nose, but I was worried when she disappeared, then heartbroken when she passed. It never crossed my mind to inspect or clean my car.
But I should’ve. Finding coke in the glove box sparked me right up to the top of their suspects list. The coke residue led them to find a needle. That drove them to pop open my trunk. The search ended with brown hairs found in my trunk’s carpet. There are no roots to identify them, but the color matches Mancini’s hair.
“A witness said she saw a blonde woman with a height and frame similar to yours the night Mr. Mancini disappeared.”
“I told you that was my sister!” I shout.
“Serenity.” He moves his hand out again.
Tommy’s always moving his hands, doing anything to keep me quiet, but I’m done. I am so exhausted of living a lie that isn’t even my lie. My body, and my mind, are aching and ruined from all this worthless suffering.
“No! I took multiple drug tests. I’m clean, I’ve always been clean.” I tap my hand to my chest. “There’s nothing. I have never done drugs in my life—”
“They found his hand, Serenity.”
My heart plummets straight into my stomach. “What?”
Tommy makes a disappointed face, and he drops his eyes to the floor, sighing deeply. “They found his hand, shot from the rest of him. His family ring was still on the bone.”
I blink a billion times. “Is he dead?”
Did my sister murder a man? Cut him into pieces? What if she left my ID there on purpose, trying to frame me for a murder she committed? Then tore blonde hairs from her head and abandoned the strands with the bloody clothes?
I know Delilah was angry. She got into physical altercations with me many times, but I don’t believe she’s capable, or was capable of murder, especially not the murder of a grown man.
Still, what if she was? Did she think framing me would at least throw the cops off of her trail? So she’d have time to get away while they investigated me?
She understood me too well. How I’d bite my tongue at throwing her to the wolves. I would’ve done all of this, granting my sister an opening, even though she would’ve never done the same for me.
I almost broke my wrists as I did compressions into her chest, having no clue what she’d done. That she’d use me, frame me, destroy my life, so she could’ve kept living half of hers.
“It’s still uncertain,” Tommy says, and he scrolls on his desktop. He stretches his neck left, causing a low pop in the silent room. “The police only discovered his hand and identified it from his ring.”
My heart feels as heavy as a mountain, stuck in place, and too difficult to move. Impossible. Just impossible.
“This is awful,” I whisper. I place my hand on the center of my chest and dig into my skin. “My sister may have actually killed that poor man.”
Tommy frowns. He reaches over his desk and takes my non-occupied hand in his. “Serenity, they still don’t have enough evidence to take you to trial.”
My eyes flood. “They’re trying.”
“Well, yes.” Tommy tilts his head. “But you’re innocent. Every piece of evidence they assume they have, we can counter.”
He pulls his hand away and taps his fingers on his keyboard. “Mr. Mancini was a troubled individual, and you have no prior record, you’re stable.” He nods to himself. “We can claim your sister is responsible, as you suppose her to be. She was your height and close to your size.”
I don’t want to cry, but the tears keep rolling down my cheeks regardless of how quick I swipe them away.
“But you said Mancini’s family will stop at nothing to have someone pay for this. Delilah can’t, she isn’t here,” my voice rips.
He stares at his screen for an entire minute before piping up. “We’ll just need to make them believe the truth, that Delilah is responsible,” he smacks his lips. “In the meantime, I’d consider hiring a private investigator to look into details of your sister’s life. The police aren’t targeting her, so perhaps we should find our own evidence.”
I nod. Although, it’s not possible. I’ve searched every corner of her life on my own time. The only thing I discovered was what I already knew.
Delilah wasn’t consistent. She never held a job for long or stayed in one place, making it impossible for anyone to learn more than her name. Her friendships never lasted, and she was involved with the wrong crowds. Those who knew her are dead from overdose, or too entrenched in crime to share any information.
Regardless, I can’t hire a private investigator. Lake’s allowance and soon-to-be personal salary are helping me keep money in my pocket, but it’s only enough to cover Tommy’s premium time and my basic bills.
Tommy smiles at me. Only this time, he isn’t flashing off his shiny veneers and ushering me out. He’s just, sorry.
At least someone believes me.
***
The moment I enter my home, my eyes return to swamping with tears. I only kept my composure on the drive because I didn’t want to end up crashing Lake’s truck.
I thought about shutting the door and dashing upstairs to my room, so I could fold myself in my sheets and sob, but I forgot I don’t live alone anymore.
The floors are glistening beneath me, my wet footprints are gone from the stairs. Every surface in sight is free of any dust and grime. Mine and Lake’s shoes are organized beside the door. He left a space for my rain boots, next to his shoes.
My lips quiver.
I don’t think he understands how helpful this is to me. Coming home to a clean house is keeping me from snapping my last straw in half.
If it wasn’t for Lake, I’d be moving dirty takeout containers to make room for more. I’d end up resorting to sleeping on my sofa. I’d be beyond exhausted, unable to climb upstairs. My bedroom would be a wreck, with piles of laundry and an unmade bed, but my husband has taken all of it off my shoulders. Even my laundry.
“Angel?” Lake calls out.
I kick off my boots, place them in the open space, and I hang my jacket on an empty hook. “I’m home!”
I follow to where I hear his voice, turning into the kitchen, but he isn’t here. The clink of silverware chimes from the dining room, so I take another few steps, and there’s Lake.
His bouncy waves flow in every direction around his face. The fading scars on his arms extend as he stretches out to place silverware on a napkin.
Two napkins, two forks, and two knives.
A large bowl in the center of the table, with Alfredo sauce drenched over pasta and chicken. Broccoli, too, from what I can see. Bread, butter, and a glass of my favorite cranberry juice. He poured it into a fancy wine glass. The ones I use only when my parents are visiting.
Lake has the tiniest smile on his face. He hears me step into the room and ascends to his full height.
“Made Alfredo.” He nudges his head toward the bowl.
“It looks delicious,” I croak.
I brush my fingers along my throat, wondering why my voice sounds so hoarse, but it’s not hard to discover why.
I’m drowning, and this thoughtful gesture is what I need so I can swim.
“Baked chocolate-chip cookies too.” His eyes crinkle at the corners.
And I burst.
I let out a cry that sounds something like a child rediscovering its cherished missing toy. Like I’m healing, breaking, and healing again. I drop my shoulders as my lips pout. My chest shakes and my knees bend, barely able to hold my heavy heart. Slouching in the doorway of my dining room, I sob about everything going through my brain.
“Angel?” Lake’s eyes are wide and he sprints toward me. “What’s wrong?”
He stops in front of me, bending forward to look me in my eyes.
“I’m sorry.” I wipe my wrists across my cheeks and eyes. My words replay. “I’m sorry.”
Lake takes my hands and pulls them away from my face. “Why are you sorry, Angel?”
I want to pop the top off my bottle and tell Lake everything. I believe he would stay and help me, but he’s just beginning to find his way. I don’t want to be his burden. I don’t want to ruin him. I don’t want anybody to concern themselves with me.
“Did your mother say something to you?” he asks.
He shifts both my wrists into one of his hands and wraps his free arm around my back. He pulls me closer until I’m standing straight, and he places his chin on the top of my head.
“You know, you’re not responsible for other people.”
“What?” I manage.
He sighs and then goes silent. He tugs me tighter into his chest, and this time, I find relief. I breathe. He gives me his air with nothing but his presence.
“You don’t need to impress your mother, or save x amount of lives, to be a good person, Serenity. You are good on your own.”
If my heart hadn’t shattered before, it does now.
“Not sure what’s happening, but you shouldn’t be in tears.” He holds my chin, lifting my head. “Talk to me.”
Oh, Lake. If only I could.
I just can’t slap more onto his plate. Not with recovery, and a new job. Not with the fact that I should’ve told him long ago, before this mess got deeper. Before they found Mancini’s hand. Before Lake married me.
So, I lightly shake my head. “I just had a tough day.” My voice is so quiet, I’m shocked he hears me.
“Are you upset about your sister?”
I decide to nod, because that isn’t a lie.
“I’m sorry, Angel.” He releases my chin, wrapping both arms around my lower back and squeezing me. “It’s not easy.”
His teakwood scent hugging my nose gives me a fragment of relaxation. “It’s okay, Lake. I’m fine. Thank you.”
He draws a long breath. “How did she die?”
The copout leaves my lips before I can think to stop it. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“That’s fine.” Lake shrugs. “I don’t want to talk about how my sister died, either.”
He pulls away from our hug. His thumbs rub against my cheeks, clearing them from tears. Then his awareness falls to my lips, and he doesn’t hesitate. He kisses me, softly and surely.
“Come eat with me.”
***
Lake spends the whole evening intently watching me. At first, I figure he’s worried I won’t like the Chicken Alfredo. Which is insane, because anything homemade is bound to taste amazing, and it does.
“This is so good, Lake,” I exclaim.
Juicy chicken, creamy sauce, and perfectly cooked pasta.
He hums, watching me through his eyebrows as he chows on his own meal.
He’s bleeding into me, or maybe I’m bleeding into him. There’s a force swimming in the surrounding air, flowing over the table between the two of us, blending us together.
I want to ask what he’s doing, but the different shades of bark rippling through his eyes hit me through my soul and arrows out of my spine.
The pasta my fork jabs into feels three times as heavy as I lift it to my lips. I am in slow motion, nearly stuck in place.
I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes, changing patterns when he asks me questions about my day, and my pulse flutters like a caged bird when he reaches over the table to feed me more pasta.
He does things so subtly. Like when he pops the cap to my cranberry juice, topping off my glass without me asking, and when the lids of his eyes ease when he’s being sly.
Or when he says things like, “you’re beautiful, Serenity.”
My body stutters. I can feel the mascara I cried off of my lashes sticking to my cheeks. I know my day was long. If anything, my appearance is more crazy than beautiful. Not to mention the free donut I snatched from Tommy’s office lobby and scoffed down in two seconds. I instantly became bloated and shameful the moment I swallowed.
He softens. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, honestly.”
“Lake—”
He stops me. “Sucks that you had a tough day, but,” he takes a minute to let the quiet in. “You’re here now, you’re okay.”
I am falling for my husband.
With every passing moment, I worry everything is temporary. I’m his stepping stone to a new life, but I’m not sure I’ll always be kept around. Everyone I’ve poured myself into has disappeared from my life. They’ve left me alone. I wouldn’t blame Lake, though.
I can’t trust that he and I will turn out any differently, but here I am, tripping over him.
“Don’t cry anymore, okay?”
He is sneaky, and it makes all the difference in my heart.
Lake kept up his charades all night until we both headed upstairs. Each step tightens another military knot in my chest. Everything, prior to getting home, re-surfaces. And I ache, because I know I’ll get no sleep tonight.
We reach our doors at the same time. I turn the knob to mine, listening to the familiar creak as it opens.
“Serenity?”
I look down the hallway. “Yes, Phoenix?”
He stands there with his head falling back. “Don’t wanna be alone tonight.” He shrugs. “Sleepover?”
“I’m not up for anything tonight.”
“No, Angel,” he laughs as he speaks. “No sex. Just want to have a sleepover.”
I realize what he’s doing. It’s what he’s been scheming this entire night. My husband doesn’t want me to be sad, and he doesn’t want me to be alone.
The more I know him, the clearer his goodness becomes, all the way to his core, because Lake Phoenix doesn’t want any credit. He’ll distinguish his scheme of dragging me into his bedroom as a need of his, and not a need of mine. Almost subconsciously making me forget I’m overwhelmed.
I’ll give it to him. My fake-real-husband is intelligent as much as he is charming.
I smile, and I nod. He meets me in the middle of the hall, placing his big hand on my lower back, and gently hauling me into his bedroom.
All so I can sleep tonight.