38. Olivia
OLIVIA
I’m aboutto whimper in renewed yearning when his phone vibrates again.
He tenses.
It’s only slight. The barest of movements. But enough to cement the uncomfortable feeling in my gut.
He releases me to retrieve his cell.
Lucyremains illuminated on the screen.
“I need to take this.” He fixates on the phone as he walks farther down the hall, swiping to connect the call. “Lucy?”
He falls quiet, raking a rough hand through his hair.
I swallow the dryness taking over my throat, all the tingling lust previously coursing through my body now deadweight in my gut.
“Fuck,” Remy whispers a curse.
I turn to ice. “What’s wrong?” I snatch my clutch off the floor and start toward him, his eyes meeting mine over his shoulder, the starkness of his expression making me want to throw up.
“I’m with her now.” He holds my gaze. “We’ll be right there.”
My heart races as I approach.
Something happened to Dad.
Did he have another dizzy spell? Maybe a fall? Did he—I scrunch my nose, refusing to think the worst. We still have months.
“We need to go?” I ask.
He nods, every inch of him tense.
I focus on levelling my breathing, my heels clicking against the cement floor as I claim my cell from my clutch and open the group chat to Ivy and Allison.
Me
Sorry. I had to leave. Dad stuff. Will speak to you tomorrow.
I turn my phone to silent, too frazzled to handle any concern they might volley back at me, and follow Remy to the elevator.
I don’t ask questions while he drives us toward the suburbs in his Aston Martin, too scared my voice will break and trigger a meltdown. Instead, I pick at the quicks of my fingers and force myself to remain positive.
A million things could’ve happened to require our attention, and a lot of them don’t necessarily need to revolve around my father’s health. There might have been a blackout. Lucy could’ve fallen down the stairs.
I’m clutching at straws. I know I am, but Dad was in a great mood when I left. There’s no need to catastrophize.
Remy turns onto my father’s street, the lights of the lower level of the funeral home shining as we approach.
Hope sparks to life beneath my tightened ribs. Could Lucy’s call have been about the business? Was there a break-in? Maybe a retort gas leak.
Oh, fuck. Did someone find out about the illegal disposals?
I shoot Remy a glance, but there’s no panic in his features, only bottled concern.
He pulls into the parking lot, passing numerous cars I’m not familiar with. A white Chrysler. A grey pickup.
I undo the straps of my heels as he drives past Lucy’s hatchback and the hearse, my door in line with my father’s stairs.
“Stop the car.” I unclasp my belt as Remy continues toward the empty parking spaces. “Please stop.”
I open my door, needing to move, to run, to sprint.
He mutters a curse and hits the brakes.
I’m out of there in seconds.
I hop across the asphalt, kicking off one shoe before starting on the next. Once both feet are free I take the stairs two at a time, my breathing erratic.
I reach the landing, my chest aching from the exertion. Then the door opens and Lucy stands before me, no smile, no heartfelt greeting, no slither of positivity to cling to as tears dance in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Olivia.” Her words stab through me.
“No.” The denial slips free, the single syllable leaving a chemical burn down my throat.
I squeeze past her to scan the living room.
Dad’s not there.
I scramble along the hall, rushing toward the place I’ve found parental sanctuary my entire life and skitter to a stop at my father’s bedroom doorway.
The familiar sight of him peacefully resting in the hospital bed brings another burst of hope. “Dad?”
He’s still wearing the clothes I left him in, his cheek snuggled against a pillow, his hands gently placed atop the comforter.
“Dad?” I swallow over razor blades.
He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.
“Dad?”
Footsteps approach behind me, Remy’s tentative grip coming to rest on my shoulders as I fight to keep my breathing level. “I’m sorry, Ollie.”
The pained sorrow in his voice breaks me.
I choke on a sob and hurry to clasp a hand over my mouth, forcing the weakness to remain inside.
We don’t cry.
The memory of my mother’s voice has never been more punishing. It squeezes at my heart without mercy.
This isn’t right. I was supposed to have more time.
“I don’t understand.” My voice breaks as I pad forward, unable to drag my gaze off my father.
I thought my job would’ve better prepared me for this. The years of intrenched sterility. The constant chill that accompanies death. But it’s never felt this way before. Not even with my mother’s passing. It’s as if the devil’s claws are tearing my father’s soul from mine, leaving me raw and ravaged.
“I thought we had months.” I pause beside the clinical single bed, my stomach twisted in churning knots.
“I thought we did, too.” Remy follows, rounding the opposite side of the bed as I grasp my father’s fingers.
He’s still warm. Still flexible. Without rigor.
“It doesn’t make sense.” I scrunch my nose to combat the burn blurring my vision. “We saw him a few hours ago. He was fine. There were no signs… right?” I glance to Remy, finding him hunched over, picking up something from the floor.
I blink through my foggy vision as he gracefully straightens to his full height, casually sliding his hands into his pockets. “Remy?”
“No, Pyro.” He approaches my father’s side, his movements measured. “There were no signs.”
My throat tightens with unease.
Something about Remy doesn’t sit right with me. I sense more than grief from him. There’s trepidation, too.
“Did you pick something up off the floor?” I sniff back the tingle in my nose.
“Hmm?” His brow furrows as he breaks our gaze to focus on my father. “Do you want me to give you space? I can wait in the living room.”
I keep staring at him. Scrutinizing.
Why did he ignore my question?
“What was on the floor?” I guide my dad’s hand back to the comforter, fixated on Remy’s haunted expression. He continues to deny me eye contact, intensifying my anxiety, making it swirl with overwhelming despair.
“Why are you ignoring me?” I beg.
His stark gaze turns to mine, but he remains silent.
“What was it?” I swallow against the need to throw up.
He keeps staring, those beautiful lips clasped shut.
Panic creeps in, slow at first, the tingle of it climbing the back of my neck. I round the bed, my ability to think positive well and truly gone with the foreboding that strangles the room.
“Show me.” I hold out a palm.
He stands tall, his hands still firmly planted in those pockets.
I storm forward, decimating the few feet of space between us to grab his wrist and yank it upward, ignoring the remorse etched across his face. “Show me.”
His fingers remain curled tight around whatever is hidden in his grip. “Let it go, Ollie.”
Let what go?
I dig my nails into his skin. Claw at his hand. Pry his fingers open.
His posture loses the confident rigidity as he opens his palm, allowing me to snatch the tiny vial with a black lid.
“What is this?” The smallest drop of clear liquid remains trapped inside the glass. “Did you give him something?”
He doesn’t deny the accusation. Doesn’t do anything other than watch me suffer with pained eyes.
“Talk to me,” I scream.
He winces, raising his chin.
What is this? His dismissive demeanor. The pained silence.
I unscrew the lid and hold it to my nose, taking a sniff of the faint chemical odor. “Is it drugs?”
He remains mute.
“Is it drugs?” Panic consumes me, sharp and excruciating. I shove at his chest, causing him to stumble back. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“Ollie…” His eyes beseech.
“Ollie, what?” I can’t take the secrecy anymore. I won’t. Months of stacking concealments have towered over me. Now, they’ve fallen and buried me beneath the rubble. “Why are you doing this?” I turn away, shoving my pinkie into the vial. I touch my finger to the liquid, then raise it to my mouth.
“No.” Remy grabs my wrist, stopping me before I can taste. “Don’t fucking do that.”
I freeze. The slowly creeping panic plunders me like a tidal wave.
I can’t breathe. Can’t compute. There’s only pain and agonizingly thick guilt that stares down at me.
“What did you do?” I plead.
I left my dad with him. I left him alive and well.
“Did you kill him?” I maintain eye contact as I blurt the outrageous accusation, his hand still wrapped around my wrist.
The words seem to strike him like physical blows.
His tormented expression intensifies.
But he isn’t offended by the allegation. He doesn’t even deny it.
All he does is stand there, peering down at me, his answer silent yet so deafeningly loud.
“No.” I yank my arm away.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
He idolizes my father.
Idolized.
“Tell me you didn’t do this.” My voice trembles. “Please, Remy.”
His eyes implore me, wordlessly asking forgiveness.
“Please,” I beg.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to end.” His tone is roughened.
I shake my head. “Then tell me what was supposed to happen. What did you give him?”
“Pento.”
“Pentobarbital?” I gape. The euthanasia drug? “That’s what you delivered earlier?” When he’d smiled his gorgeous smile as he arrived while the cause of my father’s premature death rested in his pocket.
“It was part of the agreement, Ollie. Right from the start. He wanted to end his life on a high. On his own terms. He didn’t want to slowly deteriorate while you watched him suffer. But he promised he’d tell me first.” He reaches for me again, the gentle scrape of his rings over my forearm a sickeningly torturous form of comfort. “I fucking swear to you he promised he’d let me know when the time came.”
I retreat a step, my lower lip trembling, and the bile, oh God, it threatens to rocket from my throat.
He killed my father.
The man I adore—the one I trusted—stole my only surviving parent without cause or warning.
“Wow.” I choke on a sob. “I guess you got what you wanted.”
“What?” His face blanches. “How?”
“You said I couldn’t see you for who you are.” I slide a hand over my stomach, begging the nausea to remain at bay. “I do now. I finally understand what you’ve been trying to tell me all along.”
“Ollie, please.” The agony in his voice destroys me. The utter devastation of it all.
I back away, fighting against my body’s senseless urge to remain close to him. “I need you to leave.”
He straightens. Stiffens. “I can give you space, Pyro, but I won’t?—”
“You’ll go or I’ll call the cops.” I cross my arms over my middle, fighting to remain composed. “The agreement is over. Your work here is done. I never want to see you again.”