How fucked up was that?
Margaux came back and stopped beside me.
“You got a broom?” I asked. “I want to clean up this glass so no one slices themselves to bits.”
She shook her head. “I’ll take care of it.”
I laid a hand on her shoulder as she turned to leave. “Let me help. I’m feeling pretty useless right now.”
“Okay.”
When she returned with the cleaning supplies, I asked her, “What about the son? Where’s he at?”
Margaux frowned. “He was here, and he left. Think he went to his mother’s house. Or maybe to a friend’s. He didn’t say much, just heard what the cop had to say and turned and walked out.”
“What did the cop say?”
Her gaze sharpened. “I wasn’t supposed to be eavesdroppin’ I’m sure, and I know I shouldn’t be gossipin’, so you didn’t hear this from me. But he said that Mr. Denton was shot in the back. They aren’t sure of the motive just yet. He said maybe a robbery that got out of hand.”
“Shot in the back?” A cold shroud settled over me.
“When did it happen?”
“Last night. Detective Hennessy said he was leaving a …” she cleared her throat and lowered her voice, “a gentlemen’s club in the French Quarter.”
Fucking A.
My mind spun. Hennessy was on the case, and Denton had been shot in the back. How the fuck could it be connected? It didn’t make any goddamn sense.
The doorbell interrupted my thoughts.
“That’ll be the doc. He’s a neighbor. Said he’d be here fast as he could.” Margaux bustled up the hallway to the huge front door and pulled it open. An older man, probably in his fifties, stepped through.
“Where is Virginia?” he asked without any greeting.
The wailing from the library had quieted, so he didn’t have the same cues to follow that Elle and I had when we’d arrived. Margaux led him toward the library. I nodded at him, but I don’t think he noticed my presence. He strode across the broken glass, black doctor’s bag in hand, and dropped to his knees beside her.
“Oh, Ginny, I’m so sorry.”
Elle pulled back, and her ma’s attention jumped to the doc. “He’s dead,” Ginny whispered. It seemed to be the only coherent thing she was capable of getting out. She felt around on the floor and grabbed the empty bottle and brought it to her lips.
“Oh, Ginny. Shit. You cut yourself.”
Even from my position by the doorway, I could see the red smear on the clear glass of the empty bottle.
“Shit,” Elle echoed. “Mama—”
“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except why the hell this bottle is empty!” Her voice rose on every word and she hurled it—with surprising strength—at the wall. It bounced off, and I was glad as fuck it didn’t shatter and add to the mess.
The doc took that opportunity to flip open his black bag, pull out a syringe and bottle, and quickly measure out a dose. He was fast, and luckily Elle’s ma didn’t notice. She was too busy trying to struggle to her feet, but couldn’t quite get her legs under her. The doc slid the needle into her arm without a word, and she was too blitzed to even notice. Another minute of struggling and she sagged back against him. “What did you do…” The slurred words trailed off.
“Thank you,” Elle whispered. “I didn’t know what else to do. She was inconsolable.”
“And drunk. I only gave her a tiny fraction of a dose because of the alcohol. I’m going to have to stay with her and monitor her as long as she’s out. I’m not taking any chances.”
Elle lifted a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t even think about that. Hell. What a mess.”
The doc looked to me. “Could you help me get her upstairs?”
Finally, something I could do to be useful. “Of course. I’ll get her; Elle, you lead the way.”
Once we had Elle’s ma situated in her bed, and the doctor by her side, holding her hand in a way that suggested to me that he was a little more caring than your average doc, we went back downstairs.
Elle threw herself into my arms, and I squeezed her tight.
“What a mess,” she said. “What a goddamn mess.”
“We’ll work it all out. I promise.”
As soon as his arms closed around me, I let go. The edges of the wound that had been knitting together tore wide open, and years of grief flowed free.
I’d been transported back over a decade, to the moment when my mother had called to tell me my father was dead.
Her lifeless words still rang in my ears.
“He’s gone. You need to come home.”
But home wasn’t home without my father.
Tears streamed down my face, soaking the front of Lord’s shirt. I cried for everything I’d lost. Years of memories I never got to make. Knowing that my dad would never meet the man I’d fallen in love with and give his approval. Never walk me down the aisle. Never hold the children I’d have someday.
I cried for my mother and the wedge my father’s death—and everything that had followed—had shoved between us. I hadn’t just lost him that day; I’d lost her too. Nothing had ever been the same. I’d gone from the safety and comfort of knowing I had two parents at home who loved and supported me to being completely alone. Barely eighteen. Still trying to figure out who I was going to be and how high I could soar … but my foundation had crumbled. The night before my college graduation, I’d listened to all of my friends talking about their parents coming to see them walk, taking them out to celebrate, and all I could think about was how unfair it was that I’d never share another milestone with my dad.