Chapter 23
MAE
“You’ve been out here all night, haven’t you?”
Marco gently closes the studio door after having gone home to sleep, now returning as a man somewhat lighter from the darkness he’s carried for so long.
Knowing the circles under my eyes and my disheveled state will betray me, I simply offer a small smile. The truth is, I couldn’t sleep. Four faces I know well, and one imagined, keep me awake, each with a story of their own.
Damon, Marco, Peter, Carlson, and Dalia.
Removing my apron and draping it across the stool’s backrest, I reluctantly meet his concern. “I’ve always worked better at night. Things are just quieter, if you know what I mean.”
“I get it.” And he does. Of all people, Marco would understand the most. He holds up a fabric delicatessen bag. “This is for you.”
I take it and find inside a bottle of black truffle oil and a wheel of Manchego cheese. When I look back up, Marco is grinning, and my heart skips in appreciation because, though far away on the other side of the world, there’s a man who misses me as much as I miss him.
“Damon says that should you feel like your usual Saturday omelet, add a dash of oil and a handful of finely grated cheese.”
I bet it still won’t taste as good as the one he made me, but at least it’s a welcomed memory. “Please tell him thank you .”
“I will.” Now, he looks over my shoulder to the painting. “Looks like you’ve made quite the progress since I’ve been gone.”
Hours of rendering have breathed more life into the piece, and I’m satisfied with the progress. There’s no hesitancy in my brush strokes. I play The Weeknd’s ‘Lost in the Fire’ on repeat and the creativity just flows. The more I think of our time together, the more I become lost in detail.
This time when Marco turns to me, I note his unease in broaching the subject. “Mae, instructions from Damon aside, I’m worried about you.”
I’m a mess. I know.
Under his watchful gaze, my hands begin their nervous fidget, rearranging the assortment of paint brushes by color. “Don’t be worried for me. I’ll be fine.” Will I be? One abuser is dead. The other still lurks. Then there’s still the issue of Damon making it out of Dubai without a death penalty and the barrage of problems I wished didn’t exist between us. “I’ll get some sleep in a few hours.”
I won’t. Not unless sleep takes me by force. The nightmares that taunt me in my waking hours follow me as soon as my eyes close. The difference is I can distract myself the moment an intrusive thought presents. When I sleep, I don’t stand a chance.
There’s Damon waging war on others until he becomes his own greatest adversary.
The snarling faces of Peter and Carlson as they claim more of me, which was never theirs to take.
Dalia and the sheer horror she encountered in her final hours on this earth.
And Marco with the endlessly cruel battle he faces each day because he couldn’t protect the one person who saved him from death.
No, I don’t want to sleep.
He pulls the stool around for me to sit, so I do, and then I watch him shift his weight from foot to foot. “I’ve, um… I’ve actually come with an update.”
Hope dwindles with the uncertainty in his voice, and if I’m to be completely honest with myself, I’m terrified of what sounds like impending bad news.
Opening the yellow envelope he’s been holding, Marco hands me its contents, but I can’t bring myself to look.
“He’s okay, Mae,” Marco reassures, noting my trembling hand. “But he needs your help. We realize we’re asking a lot of you, and we’ll do everything within our power to make it easier, but…” He nods to the document.
A coroner’s report.
Beneath the UAE letterhead, I scan the information once and then again. “I don’t understand. This states Peter died from a brain hemorrhage. How… how is this even achievable?”
Marco carefully forms his response, but in trusting me, says, “Damon made use of a fairly substantial favor owed to him.”
That’s some hell of a favor, particularly if it was the Sheikh owing. There’s no mistaking the relief I feel that he’s navigated this monumental hurdle with his typical Damon Shaw ease and expertise, but it begs the question, “So, this is how easy it is for someone in Damon’s ‘world’ to just disappear? ”
He winks. “I guess you wouldn’t know until it’s too late.”
Back in Dubai, Jason’s word of warning hit exactly as intended, but with Marco, I’m not so sure. “That was a joke, right? ”
“I mean…”
“Marco!”
“What? I’m just saying it might not be a brain hemorrhage next time. It’s Damon .” A cheeky smile alights his face, and I love seeing the return of this side of him. “He’ll let you choose your flavor.”
“That’s so generous.” I laugh, and it feels good and long overdue. “He’ll grant me that much grace, would he?”
“As long as it’s clean and mess-free. That man hates a mess.”
“Sounds romantic.” A painful pang in my chest reminds me of how much I miss him.
“It’s nice to see you smile again, Mae.”
“You, too, Marco.”
He takes the falsified report from me and stows it back in the envelope. “I hate to think it’s all short-lived because I know what I’m about to ask won’t bring joy to anyone, especially you.”
“Just tell me. It can’t be any worse than what I’ve already heard.”
Marco clears his throat. “Well, Damon’s got a favor to ask, and that’s for you to attend Peter’s funeral.”
~
“Poor dear, you must be beside yourself.”
Peter’s grandmother, Beth, pats my hand to commiserate. She’s always been an endearing little lady, but her battle with dementia has many times left her unsure of how she’s actually related to the Cooper family, including now. For all Beth knows, she’s attending the funeral of a friend.
“It’s okay to cry,” she adds, noticing my dry face as we sit on the front row pew. “At my age, I’ve been to more than enough funerals.” Her pale eyes which look just like Peter’s move to the closed casket. “Julie here says he was a good boy.”
Julie , Peter’s mother, has no idea of the gross atrocities her sons have against their names. She sits on the other side of Beth, repeatedly dabbing her cheeks and sobbing quietly while her husband fails to provide any comfort. He’s a man of only two settings—stoic and misogynistic. The apples haven’t fallen far in this family, and I loathe the sight of every one of them for spawning such evil pieces of shit.
“I’ve got no more tears left,” I reply to Beth, who instantly assumes I’ve spent the last ten days mourning my late husband and running myself dry. She has no idea that if he were still alive today, I’d probably kill him myself. And Carlson. Only God knows how many times I’ve fantasized about exacting my own revenge.
Speaking of which, I turn slightly in my seat and scan the room once more, ensuring Carlson Cooper has been kept from attending his brother’s funeral as was promised. Even from an exotic land, Damon is always so masterfully in charge. Peter’s body was already in transit when Marco last visited, and the funeral was preplanned by his people to ensure I had as little to do with it as possible. I did, however, carry out the formalities and alert his family and friends of his passing. I told the same story to everyone, and when pressed for more detail, I ended the call, explaining I wasn’t emotionally well enough to go into depth.
It was an easy script.
“Peter was on a business trip in Dubai, where inebriated, he slipped and fell in the shower, resulting in a brain hemorrhage. He was discovered the following morning by housekeeping.”
As the service draws to a close, the grievers stand and move into the adjacent room hosting the wake. I remain, staring at the closed black oak coffin containing a man who took joy in hurting me every way he knew how. The numbness I’ve felt the last ten days has worn off, and rage intoxicates my blood, spurred on by every asshole who stood behind the white rose-adorned lectern and proclaimed, ‘Peter was one of the greatest men I’ve ever known.’ It took everything and my love for Damon to refrain from shouting what a psychopathic rapist and sadistic fuck the man was. And worse, there’s another sharing the same surname still living and lurking among us.
I find comfort in knowing Peter is where he belongs, only hours away from burning in a furnace the same way his soul will be in hell. Until then, I’m forced to wear the mask of a wife in mourning.
“Mrs. Mae Cooper?”
I turn to find a young man wearing the Eastern Heights Funeral uniform, his name badge reading Gavin .
“Mae is fine,” I say, desperate to drop the family name.
“Apologies for interrupting, but there’s a phone call for you at the front desk.”
“Oh, thank you.” Grateful to leave the room, I follow the man down the hall and out to reception. Once he rounds the counter, I’m handed the receiver. “Hello?” I say, fidgeting with a pen left abandoned. Silence. “Hello, this is Mae.”
Looking at Gavin, his brows furrow in confusion as he shrugs.
My face mirrors his, but in blocking my other ear, I listen closer. That’s when I hear it.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
The sound of someone who simply wants to hear my voice and perhaps my fear.
An involuntary chill travels up my spine because it can only be one person.
I turn away from the counter and search beyond the fogged-up glass double doors, scanning the rows of parked cars as the heavy rain beats down on them. “Carlson?” I whisper.
More breathing and I can almost hear a smile.
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I end the call in haste. The receiver falls from my trembling hand and clatters onto the marble counter.
“Is everything okay?’ Gavin asks.
No.
“Fine.” I step away, my eyes finding those of a man who’d been standing against the far wall during the service. Big and broad, his presence didn’t go unnoticed, and I likely assumed he was Damon’s hired help to keep me safe. He waits down the hall in the direction I came from, watching my every move, a frown of his own forming when noticing my sudden alarm.
My cell vibrates in my handbag, and without thinking, I move to retrieve it. The screen alights with a new message and four chilling words that sound so terrifyingly familiar.
Unknown: I had you first.
~
“You should be locking your doors.”
The voice from inside the dark studio frightens me into a state of panic. About to slam the door back closed, the space suddenly illuminates, halting me on the threshold. There, sitting on the chaise with one ankle hooked over a knee, I find Marco. He cocks a brow, amused at me being caught and ready to follow through with his reprimand.
Relieved it’s just him, I place a trembling hand over my pounding heart and suck in a deep breath. “You absolutely scared the hell out of me.”
“All the more reason you should—”
“ Lock the door. I know.” Stepping inside, I place my handbag on the stool and flop down beside him. “If it’s any consolation, the house is fully locked up.”
“That means nothing to someone who knows you’re always in your studio.”
Fair point.
“My hands were full loading the car that I didn’t even think to come back and lock up. But you’re right. Now isn’t the time to become complacent.”
Marco considers me for a long moment, a small smile playing on his lips. “That’s really nice what you did.”
He watches me fidget with a tassel on the throw blanket. “What exactly did I do?”
“The flowers, Mae.”
Oh.
Awash with guilt, I’m forced into an admission. “It wasn’t totally out of charity. I couldn’t stand looking at them.” Since Peter’s death was announced, there’s been an endless stream of stunning flower bouquets delivered to the house, only serving as a cruel reminder of how much my husband had everyone fooled. So, I packed the car and drove the colorful blooms to the children’s hospital where they’d be more appreciated. “And how did you know where I went? I wasn’t gone for long.”
He offers a subtle shrug. “There are eyes on you at all times to ensure your safety.”
“Is that your directive or …”
“Both.” Marco smiles, and it encourages my own. “My boss, however, can be rather persuasive, even when he knows I’ve got you covered.”
My laugh rings of melancholy, troubled by the memories of my time with Damon. “Yes, I’m certainly familiar with his art of persuasion, but I think the word you’re looking for is controlling.”
His grin widens. “I was trying to be nice.”
“Okay,” I tease because I hate how much it hurts, and being lighthearted eases some of the pain. “We’ll settle for demanding.”
“Done. I’ll let him know.”
“Don’t you dare!” I toss the cushion I’ve been hugging at Marco who catches it before impact. Truth be told, I love that side of Damon. Granted, initially, it was difficult to accept, and I warred against it simply because that ‘control’ was being used as a weapon against me. I can be mad over how the weeks played out. The agendas. The betrayals. But nothing will change the fact that I loved the sound of his deep voice as he led me deeper into a world where all I saw was him.
“Jokes aside, Mae…” Marco says, seemingly on the same trajectory, “… he wants to protect you even when he can’t be the one physically here to do it. Especially when one-half of the fucked-up equation is still living and breathing.”
Two nights ago, after the service, I informed Marco of the phone call and text message I’d received while at the funeral home. He’d reassured me that Carlson Cooper was housebound and that Damon’s people were stationed outside on the road. If the asshole had even opened a window, they’d have known.
“I just want justice, you know? Instead, I feel like I’m suffocating in some sort of purgatory that Carlson’s put me in. I want him punished for what he’s done, but I physically have nothing to show the police. No photos or videos, no admission.” It keeps me awake hours on end, knowing my repeated rapist lives just thirty minutes away. If I go to the grocery store, it’s in the opposite direction and at night. If I need some supplies from the art store, I have them express delivered. All in an effort to avoid running into my brother-in-law. It’s exhausting having his face at the forefront of my mind. Scratching at a smear of oil paint on my wrist long after it’s gone, my anxiety remains in the form of raw and tender skin. “While I wait to see if Damon’s ready to part with whatever evidence he’s accumulated, Carlson just gets to carry on living his life as if he isn’t a sadistic fucker who should be locked up.”
Marco takes my hand, preventing me from causing more pain. “You will get your justice, Mae.” And because it’s him, I’m inclined to believe it. “In good time, when all rocks have been upturned, every one of his crimes committed against you will be exposed, and he’ll wish to God it was him dead and not his brother.”
I frown because the words cannot be unheard. “Marco, what do you mean ‘when all rocks have been upturned?’ What exactly is left to unearth?”
Shifting position, he drags his bottom lip through his teeth and exhales heavily. “There is something in the works, which other than checking up on you for my own peace of mind, it’s the reason why I’m here.”
I feel it deep down. This doesn’t bode well for me. “Okay.”
“Damon has one last favor to ask of you, Mae, and you’re not going to like it.”