13. Audra #2
The words come out automatically. A habit I formed over the years.
I'm fine. I'm okay. Because that's what people want to hear.
Something easy. Something they can nod at and move past. No one wants the truth.
Not really. Not the messy, complicated parts.
Not the unfairness. Not the things that linger.
So I give them what they want. I'm fine.
Annette once said, "Honestly, I don't know how you deal with your mother and still stay so upbeat. If she were mine, she'd be in her own apartment."
I've been strong for Mom for as long as I can remember.
Now I feel tired. I don't want to be the strong one right now.
I want to be the one in her arms. But instead, I sit beside her on the couch, holding her hand while she cries for the man we both just lost. I always knew she loved Pete like a son.
Probably more than me. Mom's hierarchy has always been pretty clear:
First: her.
Second: the cats.
Third: Pete.
Fourth: her sister.
And somewhere after that—if nothing urgent comes up, like a lost cat flyer—there's me.
I glance up. Gabe is standing across the room.
There's a massive opening in the wall; doorway isn't really the word.
It's like an entire section of the wall is just…
missing. An architectural choice. He's leaning against the frame of that space, arms crossed over his chest. Watching us. His expression is unreadable.
"Oh, honey," Mom murmurs suddenly. Her fingers brush gently against my swollen lip. "You were hurt."
Every now and then—like right now—I see a glimpse of the mother she's supposed to be. Soft. Protective. Present. But the moment passes quickly.
"We need to go home." She straightens suddenly. "I need to feed my cats."
"I'm sorry," Gabe enters the conversation calmly from across the room, stepping forward. "That won't be possible right now."
Mom stiffens slightly. I look at him.
"Whoever killed your son-in-law might still be out there," he continues.
"All the more reason to talk to the police," I insist.
He shakes his head slowly. "You don't want to do that, Audra."
"I don't?" I raise an eyebrow at him.
He studies me for a second. Then something in his expression changes. His posture shifts. His voice, too. When he speaks again, it's different. Harder. Official.
"Mrs. Hale," he says flatly. My stomach tightens. "We're just trying to understand what happened."
The tone is so accurate it's unsettling. He sounds just like one of those policemen on TV. "At first, you said you and your husband were kidnapped." His eyes flick to me. "By armed men, cartel members, in your words."
He looks questioningly at me, and I nod, unsure what he expects me to do or say.
"Those are some serious allegations."
Mom squeezes my arm nervously. Gabe continues. "But then we arrive at the scene, and what do we find?" He tilts his head slightly. "Multiple dead men." He pauses. "Your husband among them." Another beat. "And you." His gaze sharpens. "Alive."
Mom shifts closer to me. Gabe leans forward slightly, his voice dropping.
"So help me understand something, Mrs. Hale. If these men were planning to kill everyone in that warehouse…" He spreads his hands. "How come you're the only one who walked out alive?"
My heart starts pounding. He keeps going. "And then there's the shootout."
He gestures vaguely, like describing a crime scene. "Guns everywhere. Bodies everywhere." His eyes lock on mine. "You were holding a gun when the officers arrived."
My stomach twists even though that's not how this would go—I don't think.
But I think I know what he's doing. I can't walk into a police station now.
Claiming I was there. Where were you the entire night?
That would be their number one question, and even if I was willing to throw Gabe under the bus—which I'm not sure I am—it still would look bad for me. And Mom.
"So now we have another question." Gabe continues. His voice turns sharper. "Where did you get the gun? Did you fire it? Did you shoot anyone? Your husband? Did you hire these men to kidnap him?"
My hands clench.
"And if you did…" He straightens slowly. "…why?"
"Stop it," I snap.
The word cracks through the room. Gabriel immediately drops the act. The hard cop expression disappears. Mom leans closer to me and whispers shakily, "He's scary."
Gabe watches me quietly now. I put my face in my hands. What am I supposed to do? And there is more. I need to call his mom. Oh God, his mom. How am I going to tell Kelly that her son is dead?
And the bank. I need to let them know… let them know… Pete is gone. I need to call my job and… they'll probably fire me. I don't even know how I'm going to pay for Pete's funeral. And Pete… Pete is gone. New tears shake my body, and Mom wraps me into her arms, glaring at Gabe.
A few seconds later, Gabe holds a box of Kleenex under my nose and offers me a water bottle with the other hand. I take both. Blowing my nose first, very unladylike, then drinking half the bottle down.
"Okay, this is what's going to happen." Gabe sits back on his haunches and looks up at Mom and me on the couch. "My lawyer is talking to the cops. They found the bodies this morning and tried to notify you."
I swallow a lump, fight new tears, and listen. "He'll handle everything. He's going to send someone to the bank and to your job. I've already contacted a funeral home; they will handle Pete's body after the autopsy."
Mom makes a groaning sound. I feel numb.
"He'll also work on getting Pete's life insurance funds sent to you as soon as possible."
I appreciate Gabe's straightforward approach, and more than anything, I appreciate him taking the lead right now, because God knows I'm in over my head.
He's a complete stranger, but after almost being killed yesterday, I don't see many options for me that aren't uglier than the situation I'm in right now.
I don't know who Gabe really is. Why he was at the warehouse.
Why he saved me, or why he's helping me, but I'm not about to look a gifted horse in the mouth right now, either.
Later. Later, I can deal with all the other questions.
The most pressing of all being what's in it for Gabe.
If I've learned anything growing up in Vegas, it's that nothing is free.
Least of all, someone helping you. Especially not a man like him.
I'm not sure what price I'm willing to pay, but that, too, will have to wait.
"I need to get home and feed my cats." Mom returns to her reality.
"I will have your cats brought here, Mrs. Connor," Gabe assures her.
"You can't just pick them up," I protest weakly. "They're feral."
He takes my chin in his hand; the gesture is so unexpected and gentle that I nearly break out in more tears. "Let me worry about that. Can you trust me for a little while?"
Numbly, I nod. Because what choice do I have?