Chapter Twelve
Noah leaves for work at nine the next morning.
Waking up next to him is everything. His arm thrown over my middle and his warm breath on the back of my neck.
To sleep so soundly while sharing my space with someone is a revelation.
The way we fit together seems perfect and simple so far.
I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I feel like cool girls live in the moment.
They definitely don’t indulge in a mental breakdown before breakfast. But death can do things to you.
And the knowledge that Grace was murdered sits heavy in me like a stone.
I stumble down to the kitchen and make myself some coffee. Then I sit on the back steps beneath a clear blue sky while the very good boy performs a thorough inspection of the backyard. Auggie has settled in with no problems (give or take eating a pillow) and I love having him around.
A story on corruption amongst local cops has the media too busy to hang around my door.
The sheriff’s department is the shiny new dramatic headline on the local newspaper’s site.
The update on Grace’s murder is sparse as can be.
Nothing more than a rehash of previously reported facts with nothing new on offer.
Though there is a photo of my aunt walking into the office of the Chief Medical Examiner.
She seems so alone. I know logically there was nothing I could do to save my cousin.
But the feelings of guilt linger just the same.
No idea what to do about it yet, however.
The desktop computer I do my work on is set up in the corner of the dining room on a nice old wooden desk.
The study or war room is too full of the mission for me to be able to work in there.
To be able to concentrate effectively. Certain areas of my life require compartmentalizing.
Numbers were never really my thing. Odd how data inputting has become my main source of income.
Guess life just happens like that sometimes.
The knock on my door comes at around midday.
Auggie barks his little heart out. Just gives the noise his utmost commitment.
I check the security camera on my cell and swear up a storm.
Her presence here isn’t a complete surprise.
However, surely I can be forgiven for hoping this particular shitshow wouldn’t happen.
“That’s enough. Bed,” I tell the very good boy. And he gives me a thoroughly disappointed expression but does as asked. It’s with a heavy-ass heart that I unlock and open the door. “Hello, Aunt Beth.”
She gives a sharp nod to the interior of the house, and I step back to let her enter.
I don’t love letting her into my safe space any more than I did the detective.
But doing this on the doorstep isn’t the answer.
The woman used to intimidate the heck out of me when I was a child.
Now, however, she seems smaller and a good deal less scary somehow.
I always knew she didn’t like me. It wasn’t something she particularly bothered to hide.
Though to be fair, it’s not like she behaved as if she liked anyone.
The fights she and Grandma used to get into.
She’d made the walls of the old house shake with her sharp words.
Guess some people are just born bitter and angry.
Her hair is the same perfect shade of platinum blonde as I remember.
And her features a sharper version of her daughter’s.
She wears her grief like armor. Though the black sheath dress she’s wearing is creased as fuck.
Something she never would have allowed under normal circumstances.
My living room and life in general are given a derogatory sniff.
But honestly, if that’s the worst she does I’ll count myself lucky.
“What was Grace doing here?” Her lips are a tight line. “It can’t have been just to visit. She hadn’t thought about you in years.”
The comment is ouch though probably honest. “She was on a fishing expedition for the people making the documentary and podcast about me.”
“Why was she involved with those cockroaches?”
“Guess she needed the money. She said she was broke.”
Her brows draw down tightly. “What?”
“Apparently the deposits on stuff for the wedding and getting kicked out by her ex really set her back.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?” And she seems so honestly perplexed that her daughter didn’t feel comfortable going to her during a time of trouble. “I would have helped her. But I hadn’t heard from her in weeks.”
My mouth opens and then closes. Because what the fuck can I even say? Telling a freshly bereaved mother that she’s both horrific and terrifying is not the answer. Honesty is all well and good, but it’s not going to help anyone right now.
She might even have figured the answer out for herself. Because her chin trembles as she asks, “And how, Sidney, did my daughter end up dead?”
“I don’t know.”
Her hand lashes out and I see it coming.
How the flat of her palm smacks hard into my cheek.
The sting of her slap is a hell of a shock.
She really gave the hit her all. I wonder if the woman plays pickleball or something.
She has a great swing. And this assault, like her sniff of much disdain, is no surprise.
Her pale pink–tipped dagger of a finger points at my face.
“This is because of you, Sidney. You are the bad seed, the rotten fucking apple.”
“I understand that you’re hurting, Aunt Beth, but—”
“My useless sister was just the same. I told Mom to get rid of you, but did she listen? No. And you and your bullshit and your homicidal fucking boyfriend ended up getting her killed too!” The woman isn’t saying anything I haven’t heard before or even thought at times.
Her words still hurt, however. She draws her arm back again, hand flat and ready to let fly at me again.
This time when she goes to swing, however, I catch her wrist and keep it in a tight grip.
“No,” I say in a firm voice. “I gave you the first one, but that’s all you’re getting.”
She pulls her hand out of my hold. And I let her go.
“I am sorry your daughter is dead. But I don’t know who killed Grace or why,” I say and it’s mostly the truth. Theories and guesses aren’t going to give her any closure. “You should leave now, Aunt Beth. Go back to New York. There’s nothing for you here.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.” The way her nostrils flare as she straightens her shoulders. “Don’t come to her funeral. I don’t want you there.”
Noah: Further to previous conversations re our relationship, communication while separated is of utmost importance.
Me: Why are you texting at me like you’re a lawyer?
Noah: I am now getting greens out of the walk-in fridge.
Noah: Thinking of working on a new sauce next.
Me: Okay.
Noah: I would kindly request that you take this seriously.
Me: My apologies for any perceived slight. I’m updating order codes for a customer. Which basically means I am sitting on my behind and inputting numbers while drinking my third coffee of the day.
Noah: What are you doing now?
Me: Still inputting numbers.
Me: How about you?
Noah: Still thinking about the sauce.
Me: This is amazing. I feel so close to you right now.
Noah: Yeah. I am usually right about things. Best for you to know that now.
Noah: How are you really doing?
Me: Honestly I am having a day. But you made it better.
Noah: Tell me all about it later?
Me: You got it.
“Grace’s body was found about half a mile from her car. She was killed by a single bullet to the back of the head,” reports the podcaster.
The second dude says, “Such a shocking turn of events for all of us here at Misled.”
“It certainly is, Steve, and our thoughts and prayers go out to her family and friends. While we have issued an invitation to Grace’s mother, we have yet to hear back from her. But we hope to have her on the podcast real soon.”
I snort. “I highly doubt that.”
Hana, Muriel, and I are seated on cushions around the coffee table.
Some nights are sitting-on-the-floor-and-eating-your-feelings sort of occasions.
We ordered palak paneer, chicken saag, shrimp biryani, cheese naan, rice, and raita.
Auggie sits beside me watching every bite of food like his life depends on it.
As if he’s starving and hasn’t been fed in forever. The drama is real.
I haven’t told my friends about the visit from Aunt Beth. There’s no mark on my face and honestly, I would rather forget it ever happened. I will, however, tell Noah due to his honesty-is-best policy.
“So, who do you think did it?” asks Steve. “Because you know who my money’s on.”
Hana shakes her head. “This pair of dicks.”
“For our new listeners, Grace was in Vermont to talk to her cousin Sidney Walsh for us. I trust you’re all familiar with that name.” And the fucker actually chortles. “I think we’re about to see sales of the Team Ryan merchandise go through the roof.”
I wipe my hands with a napkin. “Another woman has died and they’re talking about t-shirts.”
“There are respectful, ethical true crime investigators out there,” says Muriel. “Why they gave these two craven assholes the opportunity to make a documentary and expand their platform, I will never understand.”