Mother May I(25)

He still thought she’d been right to say it. He never wanted his daughter to think love excused poor treatment. Worse, he was letting his lonely, bitter heart turn him into that kind of man. He didn’t want to be the guy who said bitchy things to a woman he was attracted to because he couldn’t have her. Not even a little.

His silly crush wasn’t Bree’s fault, or her problem. It was not her fault he was lurking around in the orchid house to escape party small talk. Not her fault she’d accidentally rammed into him.

“I really am sorry,” he said quietly.

“Fine.” She kept walking, fast, zooming across the green, weaving through the crowd.

He stuck with her. “No, really. I’ve had a couple, not that that’s a good excuse.” He’d never thought about how the ways he tried to keep his distance might read to her. “I’ve been shitty to you for a while, huh? Believe me, it’s not about you. I have some stuff to work out.” That was true enough.

Her anger seemed to be receding. She paused and put a hand on his arm to pause him and looked up into his face, serious.

“Forget about it. Okay? It’s fine. We’re fine.” She turned and hurried off again, clearly finished with the conversation.

Except . . .

She was drowning. He hadn’t seen it when she was cursing at him, angry. But in that single, soft forgiving glance, he knew. Even buzzed, he could feel his old invisible cop antennae quivering.

He’d seen drowning eyes like Bree’s before. A dozen-plus years back, when he was still in uniform and he and his partner took a routine noise-disturbance call. Someone had heard a scream inside a ground-floor apartment in a nice working-class neighborhood. He knocked, and a girl came to the door.

She was a cute little thing, fourteen tops, her hair in braids. She told them that everything was fine, smiling as wide as the Minnie Mouse on her T-shirt. But her eyes were deep, dark wells. She’d seen a spider, she said. She was sorry, she said. She promised to keep it down.

The second the door closed, he called for backup, and then he kicked open the door and he and his partner busted a serial who had raped eleven girls and women in their own homes. That asshole had been right behind the door with his knife pressing into the girl’s spine the whole time she was smiling and saying how afraid she was of spiders.

That was the bust that had taught him to follow his instincts. It had also gotten him his detective’s shield.

Bree’s eyes over her smile had been as shadowed as that little girl’s. Still, he hesitated. Maybe he wanted her to be in distress, damsel style, so he could save her. She’d made it pretty clear that she was finished with the conversation.

She was passing Trey’s secretary now, Janice, who reached out to take her arm. Bree shrugged her off, pressing onward, and in the bright, apologetic smile she gave Janice, Marshall saw something purely ghastly.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and he hurried after her.





8




I went back to the same shaded path I had taken in. It was narrow and secluded, hemmed by arches of hanging vines. I hadn’t called for my Lyft yet, though my phone was in my hand. Marshall had distracted me. I hurried forward a few feet, letting the darkness swallow me. If the daughter was watching me, she would think I was leaving the party, obedient. Then I paused to work the app.

“You’re calling a car service?” Marshall asked behind me in the darkness. I almost jumped out of my skin. “I’d offer you a ride, but I’ve got no business driving. Cara is at her friend’s lake house all weekend, and I’ve kinda tied one on.”

“I don’t mind Lyft,” I told him. The car was on its way. Fifteen minutes. Hopefully, if the daughter was leading Spencer someplace secluded, or even off the grounds entirely, she would choose another path. There were so many.

“I want to ask . . .” Marshall’s voice trailed off. Whatever it was, it was difficult for him.

“What?” I had time to listen. It was better than waiting alone with my thoughts. I might go mad. I would have Robert back, tomorrow at the latest, but I wasn’t sure how I’d survive this night.

Behind him, back up the path, I saw Spencer Shaw and the Clausens at a small bar on the edge of the green closest to us. I froze, feeling my eyes go wide and my mouth tighten. Marshall turned to see what had dismayed me.

Spencer passed a white wine to Mrs. Clausen. The daughter was not with them. No one was, unless I counted the bartender. I didn’t. He was male. The three of them stepped away and stood in a triangle shape, chatting.

Marshall stared from me to Spencer Shaw’s group with way too many questions rising in his eyes.

I wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since I’d dosed Spence, but roofies worked fast. He could start reeling and slurring any minute. He already didn’t look good. Sweaty and pale. He took a white linen handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped at his brow.

I was afraid to leave. Maybe something had gone wrong. If the daughter couldn’t get Spencer off alone, would I be blamed?

Marshall said, “Bree, are you okay?”

It shocked me that this conversation with Marshall kept on happening. Life kept on happening. Robert had been brutally taken from me, and yet here, on the green, Spence was clapping Mr. Clausen’s shoulder, a singer was crooning, waiters were passing signature gimlets and snacks. People were eating and gossiping and going to the bathroom and breathing in and out. It was wrong and crazy. I wanted everything to stop. I wanted the daughter to complete her business. I wanted my son.