Casanova(96)

“That’s very true.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I was alone either way. It didn’t matter.”

“You’re not alone now.” I moved and perched on the bed. “I’m staying, Con. I’m not leaving again.”

“Really?”

“Really. I promise. And when you’re out of here, you’re going to move into Grandma’s with me. There’s more than enough space. We’ll get Emery everything she needs and I promise it’ll all be fine.”

This time, she didn’t fight her tears.

She cried silently until she fell asleep.

She found some peace while I faced the long wait to get her test results and see if her labor could be stopped.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


BRETT



“Hey, have you heard from Lani?” I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

Camille looked over her shoulder, her hand stuffed into the cookie jar. “No. Why?”

“Get off the cookies.” Aunt Bel yanked Cam’s hand out and replaced it with her own.

I ignored her and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “Connie’s sick. She’s been there since this morning, but it’s almost six and I can’t get hold of her.”

“Have you tried calling Connie?” Cam wrestled the cookie jar away from Aunt Bel the instant she let it go and snagged three.

“Yeah. It rings and goes to her answering machine.” I rubbed my hand down my face. “I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

“She’s probably sleeping.” She bit into the cookie. “You said earlier Lani’s phone was dead. She probably hasn’t charged it and doesn’t have Connie’s phone. Stop worrying, you big fart.”

Aunt Bel snickered.

I shook my head. It was impossible to hold a real conversation with any of the women in my family except for my mom. Sue me for being worried. It was unlike either of them to not answer their phones, and since Lani said she was running home before going to Connie’s, I thought she might have grabbed her charger.

“Why don’t you just drive past Connie’s house if you’re that worried?” Camille wiped crumbs off her hands into the sink.

“Because if they’re there and they see him he’ll look like a little stalker.” Aunt Bel snickered again.

She wasn’t helping.

“Give it a rest,” I said tiredly. “I just have a bad feeling and I want to know they’re all right.”

“Actually,” Cam said. “I feel like that too. Like something kinda bad is happening. Do you think it’s the baby?”

I shrugged. “She was sick. But that’s normal, isn’t it?”

“Nothing in pregnancy is normal.” Aunt Bel’s tone was very matter of fact. “For some women, it’s normal. For some, it ain’t.”

“I gathered that when you said nothing in pregnancy was normal.”

“One of these days, boy, I’m gonna hunt you down and beat you with a batter-coated spatula.”

“Cam,” I said, looking at my sister. “Please hide the cookie jar. She’s had enough sugar.”

“Had enough sugar!” Aunt Bel shrieked. She started after me, whacking her cane against the floor. “I’m not three years old!”

“Then stop acting like it!” I rounded the table.

This was pointless. She was never going to catch me, and she was never going to be quick enough to double back and— She doubled back and smacked me.

I blinked at her. “Ouch,” I said flatly. “I think I need a doctor.”

Camille snorted.

“You...” She wriggled her finger at me.

Dad appeared in the doorway. “Family meeting. Library. Now.” He turned away without another word, his strong gait carrying him down the hall toward the library with ease.

“What are you waiting for?” Aunt Bel asked, tapping her hip. “The next Ice Age? Let’s go! I love a good family chitchat.”

I shared a look with Camille.

I guess we figured out where our mutual bad feeling was coming from.

“What’s going on?” I walked into the library.

My parents were sitting on the corner sofa around the coffee table, and Aunt Bel was busying herself choosing where to sit. She checked three places before my mother sent her a look and she stayed put where she was.

I didn’t even get a chance to sit down before my father handed me a sheet of paper.

I took it and looked at it. It was a printed email from an anonymous Yahoo email address. Nothing about it gave any indication as to who the message was from, but it was pretty easy to figure it out by the content.

After all—Whiskey Key was small, and there was only one newspaper in it.

A newspaper who now apparently knew that I had a sex tape.

Who knew I wanted that tape to remain hidden.

And who wanted money to keep it quiet.

“This is bullshit.” I looked up and dropped the sheet of paper. “We know exactly who’s sent this.”

“Anton Reeves,” Dad answered. “His efforts to remain anonymous were thwarted by his mention of the newspaper.”

“How the hell could he possibly know?” Camille asked, crossing her legs on the sofa.