Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Six months later
DRAKE
The light across the memorial gardens is fading as I sit on the grass next to my mother’s plaque, clearing the dried grass from around the edges as I provide her with a detailed update.
“The police can’t close the case, but they’ve returned it to the coroner. Our lawyer thinks the likely finding will be death by misadventure. Especially given the state of the path after the storm.”
Arnold’s face is there when I close my eyes.
I see him aim the shotgun, not caring that its barrel pointed at his own flesh and blood. Just wanting to dig himself out of a mess and not caring who he hurt.
Because he never cared.
Not for any of us.
Not beyond our role as an extension of his favourite story. The tale of Arnold Fletcher. A tale that ends in apparent tragedy.
To the outside world, he threw himself over the side of a cliff as the noose tightened around his neck. The last act of a depraved individual, trying to take his family along for the ride.
“With my suspended sentence finished at the end of the year, we’re also going to move. The seaside house is far too large and ostentatious and I’m sick of Emily scowling at me every time she has to climb the staircase.”
A grudge she also held against Arnold, but one I hadn’t expected to inherit along with the rest of his estate.
“And since we’re all completely unprepared for real life and have no intention of letting go of her services, we’re moving to the central city apartment instead.”
According to the criminal defence lawyer Elaine Ngata connected us with, the suspended sentence was lenient. An assessment that might be truthful but doesn’t feel that way.
Not when I had to escape to save the lives of the people I love.
But, as the man points out every time I grumble, mitigating circumstances don’t rewrite the laws around being in custody, and I should be glad the worst I’m suffering is monitoring and a tough curfew.
A car pulls into the lot, parking near the fence, and I wave, then splay my hand to let her know I’ll be five minutes.
“Remember Cadence? The girl at school I didn’t have the courage to ask on a date?”
I stretch out my legs, thinking back to those days where I’d stare at her in the classes we were lucky enough to share. Stare in the corridors at school. Stare at her in my dreams , but never dared to get close enough to say anything.
“Turns out, she was quite amenable to going out, after all. I should’ve taken your advice and just risked it. Then none of this might have happened.”
Although it’s hard to imagine that scenario. Not just younger-me finding the courage, but taking Cadence on a date back then, experiencing all the awkwardness of first love.
And with those ‘good’ times hard to picture, it’s impossible to think how I would have reacted to Harriet’s news under those circumstances.
It devastated me when I thought my crush was unrequited. Would I have let myself believe in Cadence’s involvement? Would I have talked to her? Asked for clarification?
I’ll never know and it’s a moot point.
The universe got pushy and jammed us together, so all the might-have-beens are nothing more than thought exercises, and I’m sick of exercising that particular muscle. For the future, I intend to spend a lot more time exercising my heart muscle instead.
My heart, and a few other essential pieces of equipment I’m finally putting to good use.
“One day soon, I’ll get her to come over and introduce herself properly. You’ll love the woman she’s become.”
A scenario that would have unfolded already if I hadn’t been so protective of this adjustment period.
The acceptance of my mother’s murder came with the same emotional work accepting her suicide would have, but the certainty of knowing exactly who to blame has been a tonic to my racing thoughts.
Nothing could make it easy, but the change in narrative made it possible to grieve.
The same vulnerability required to fully connect with Cadence came in handy when I had to expose the raw nerve endings of my sorrow, pushing through the pain and uncertainty.
Now my head blossoms with hope for the future.
When my thoughts race at night, it’s through thinking of new methods of seduction, more ways to adjust my outlook and expand my capacity for joy.
Two more minutes.
I stand, stretching out my joints and brushing dry blades of grass from my jeans. My gaze travels to the car where Cadence stands, hands resting on the door behind her as she waits patiently for me to be done.
And I repeat the sentiment. “You’ll love her, Mum. I promise.”
I place my hand flat on her plaque as a goodbye, then wind through the other memorials back to the carpark. My lips are chilly as they press against Cadence’s, but soon warm as she sticks her hands in my back pockets, and I wrap her tightly in my embrace.
“Well, that was a pleasant welcome.” She smiles up at me and my heart swells. “Did you have a good chat?”
“I did.”
“And what were you telling her?”
My hands cup her arse, pulling her hard against me while I kiss her again, hungrily, greedily. The kiss of a man who can never get enough.
“I explained how my girlfriend is the most beautiful woman in the world, and that I love her with all my heart.”
“You do, huh?”
“Absolutely. My heart and several other pieces of my anatomy.”
She wrinkles her nose, the smile remaining in place.
My hand roams into her jeans pocket, fishing out the car keys and swinging them around my index finger. “And I especially love that you drove my car, and you know what that means.”
The smile stretches all the way to her eyes, dancing with laughter. “I can’t imagine what you’re referring to, Mr Arlington.”
I lean close enough to whisper in her ear. “Forfeit.”
As we relax in the lounge after dinner, Cadence waits until her mother fetches a nightcap, then nudges me in the ribs. “You’re sleeping in your own bedroom tonight, I’m afraid.”
“Am I?” I wrap my arms around her, squeezing tight until I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. “It’s the first I’m hearing of it.”
“You are.” Cadence stages a dramatic yawn, stifling it against the back of her hand. “I’m so tired, I need a good night’s sleep.”
She pulls herself away from me the moment we finish watching an episode of our favourite shared show, heading upstairs after bestowing a chaste kiss on my cheek.
I stay downstairs, listening to the house settle as the cold bite of winter contracts the tall panes of glass like it’s moving around, trying to find a nice place to settle before it goes to sleep.
After ten minutes, I check the cameras on my phone, scrolling to the one mounted in her bedroom.
Cadence had a few words to say about my secret portfolio of images. Luckily, I convinced her over to my side by giving her access to the same controls.
Now, when I look, she stands a few metres from the corner. Tilting her head to one side, arching an eyebrow.
She unscrews the cap on a bottle of valerian, a natural relaxant her doctor recommended for those nights when she needs a little something to help her sleep.
Not that she does.
But some games benefit from a tiny helping hand.
I watch her place the pill on her tongue, chewing the tablet while I wince; the few times I tried, it tasted like rotting vegetation with a sweet kicker, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
Then she lays down on the bed, slowly removing each garment in an elaborate striptease, replacing them with the skimpiest pyjamas in the world.
I expect her to lie back, but she grabs a sharpie from the desk, writing on her lower abdomen before tossing the pen aside.
The same place I intend to bury my face later tonight.
Within half an hour, she’s lost to sleep but I linger, zooming in on her face on the screen, admiring every detail of her beloved features, sketching their likeness on my heart.
Then, when I’m sure she’s deep under, I head upstairs to kiss my sleeping beauty awake.