Chapter Twenty-One
Damion
Thirty minutes later, Alana and I have found our way to the couch, where we sit to devour pizza from a popular local New York City restaurant. Alana sits intimately to my right, her hair silky brown, a delicate quality about her at present, mimicked by the fragile silk of her pink robe. But slowly, with each bite she manages, the color in her cheeks begins to return. By the time she’s downed most of a bottle of water and a full slice of pizza, her voice is stronger, her energy measurably higher.
But while her body is on the mend, free of outward damage, I fear her emotions are far more battered and bruised.
She’s not talking to me about anything but how delicious the pizza is and how good it feels to be home. It’s as if she’s shut down the emotions, compartmentalized the hell she’s been through, and locked it away. There’s no doubt though that eventually that door will burst open and the monsters inside will not only have grown stronger, they’ll demand to be acknowledged. For that reason, and it’s a big one, I’m of the mindset it’s better for her to face those monsters now, on her own terms, rather than later, when they will sneak up on her. The idea that this day will cause a lingering effect the way being locked in the cellar did is literally gutting me alive right now, but it’s all too raw for me to push her.
All I can do is be here for her, be present, as I promised her I would.
We’re on the second slice of pizza each when my cellphone rings with Blake’s number. Looping her in, aware the unknowns are not good for her right now, I angle caller ID toward Alana.
“Can you please answer on speaker?” she asks, clearly paranoid about what comes next.
I answer the call with, “Blake, you have me and Alana on the line.”
“Alana,” Blake greets. “How are you?”
“Better,” she says. “We’re eating pizza, and the food is helping me feel more myself. Thank you for all you did today. Your voice was the first friendly voice I heard for hours. I know I didn’t react like I was relieved, but I was.”
I’m reminded of Blake telling me she’d been screaming when he’d found her, freaking out in the darkness. My fingers curl into my palm, anger ticking in my jaw. My father has to pay, and maybe death is too good. He needs to be locked in a dark, fucking room somewhere and left there. It’s not murder. It’s poetic justice.
“I’m just happy we have you back with Damion,” Blake replies. “And I’m calling for an update on your mother, anyway. She’s refused to leave with Joey. She went to the bathroom before they were to leave for the airport. She stayed in there a very long time, and when she came out, she announced she was not leaving. We think she was convinced by someone else not to go with us. We’re monitoring her phone, and there was no communication, but there could easily be another phone we don’t know about.”
Alana’s chin dips to her chest, and I can feel the intensity of her emotions punch at me, but before I can interject, her gaze is locked on mine. “Do we think she set me up, or was she an innocent victim? And I’m asking the same question of both of you.”
Blake doesn’t hesitate. “Do you want me to be gentle or shoot straight?”
“Gentle doesn’t save me, Blake,” Alana says, flattening her hands on the coffee table, as if bracing herself for the answer that will inevitably hurt her. “Hiding from the truth doesn’t help me.”
“All right then,” Blake says. “I believe she set you up, but I’m not sure she knew what she was setting you up for.”
“I disagree,” I say, holding nothing back. Alana is right. The truth is what she both needs and deserves. “I confronted her. I saw how she reacted. She knew what was planned. I know she knew. But despite this, I offered her protection and I convinced her to accept.”
“How?” she presses.
“I’d prefer to have this conversation with you alone, Alana, but Blake needs to hear this.”
“Go ahead,” she encourages. “Say it. Tell us.” There’s a brave lift to her chin, and I hate how easily I’m about to create guilt in her.
“The only reason your mother accepted the idea of leaving the country is that my father wasn’t taking her calls and with that knowledge, I was able to create fear in her. I scared her.”
“How?” she asks.
“When you accused my father of killing your father, you put eyes on him.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “That was my intent.”
“My father doesn’t respond well to being cornered. He’ll find a way to push himself free. I know how he thinks, and he’ll look for somewhere to place the blame. Or rather, someone to take the blame, and he’ll make sure they can’t fight back.”
She sucks in a sharp breath as a thick, muddy river of understanding seeps into her stare. “My mother,” she supplies. “And the only way she can’t fight back is if she’s dead.”
“I know how my father thinks. In his eyes, that will mean she kills herself and leaves a suicide note, declaring herself too guilty to live with her crime.” I don’t give Alana the space to drown in those words, quickly moving on and adding, “I told your mother as much. I suspect that Blake is right. She has a way to communicate with my father that we don’t know about, and when she was in the bathroom, they connected, and he reassured her he’s madly in love with her. She then reassured herself he’d never hurt her.”
Alana doesn’t crumble or cry. “My mother as a victim at this point is about as rickety as a rotting, old stairwell. And to that point, I’ve been too wrapped up in grief to realize that I haven’t heard anything about a will. Was there life insurance? Did she inherit money?”
“I was going to bring it up after you had time to rest,” Blake replies. “The answer is yes, your father had life insurance. The policy is two million dollars, and your mother is the sole beneficiary, meaning you’re excluded.”
Her nostrils flare, her jaw clenching.
“That in itself hits me as odd,” Blake continues, “but as I see it, it’s a welcome shelter in what is likely to morph into a nasty investigation after Alana’s accusations.”
“Meaning what?” I prod.
“The policy hasn’t paid out,” Blake explains, “and I think you both should expect the insurance company’s investigators to come knocking on your door.”
“In that case,” Alana says, “I get what I wanted. Justice for my father and the end of West Senior, which is exactly why he’ll want my mother dead, by her own hand.” She pushes herself up to the couch cushion, and her gaze locks on the space before her. I wait for her to speak, but all that follows is silence, her thoughts indistinguishable at this point.
“Blake, I need you to keep her mother safe. We’ll talk in the morning about the plan going forward.”
“No,” Alana says, her voice as hollow as her expression. “She’s living in some fantasy novel she imagined and willed to life, over who knows how many years. And on that note, she has to reap the consequences of how that story ends. She’s on her own.”