He’s nothing but a con artist.
A self-centered, egotistical asshole.
“Demi.” I recognize my mother’s voice from the doorway of Brooks’s room.
“Hey, Mom.” I’m grateful for an excuse to leave his side. “Dad.”
Dad stands behind Mom, removing his fedora and draping his khaki trench coat over one arm.
“We were here last night. Guess we missed you,” Dad says.
Mom runs her hand along my cheek, cupping my face and giving me those sad, sympathetic ‘Mom eyes’ before pulling me in tight. I inhale the scent of my childhood home. Cinnamon, sugar cookies, Tide, lemon Pledge, and warmth. Pure nostalgia, with a side of comfort.
“How’re you hanging in there, Demetria?” Dad asks. He only calls me by my given name in grave situations, as if “Demi” is too informal.
“One day at a time.” That seems to be my standard response these days.
Mom releases me and glances over my shoulder toward Brooks.
“I just can’t believe it.” She sighs. “Our sweet Brooks. He’s always the life of the party. So lively and energetic. To see him like this . . . it’s . . . it’s just wrong.”
She takes his side, slipping her hand into his and tracing her thumb along his old scar.
“Never should’ve happened,” she says. “He didn’t deserve it.”
My parents haven’t asked where he was going or why he was on the highway at nine o’clock on a Tuesday night. Alone. Not even my father, a prominent prosecutor with an obsession with detail and facts.
I think they’re afraid to make a wrong move around me, as if all it would take is one question to send me over the edge again.
If only they knew.
“Derek’s on his way,” Dad says. “He was finishing up at the office and then swinging over to grab Haven. It’s his weekend.”
My heart swells at the thought of seeing my three-year-old niece. I want to sweep her up in my arms and bury my face in her silky blonde hair. Nothing’s better in this world than looking into the eyes of that little angel and feeling the tight squeeze of her arms around my neck.
God, I love kids.
I miss my kindergarteners too. All twenty-eight of them. I’ve got such a great class this year, and half of them were assigned to me at their parents’ request. Supposedly, I have a great reputation in the school district, and it’s only my third year in.
Dad stands at the foot of Brooks’s bed, his jaw set and his eyes focused, as if he’s silently willing him to wake.
“Where’s Brenda?” he asks.
I shrug. “She comes and goes.”
Mom laughs, halfway rolling her eyes. “That woman can’t sit still for two seconds. God love her.”
“How’s she taking everything?” Dad pushes the sleeves of his navy sweater up to his elbows before folding his arms.
“She’s Brenda. She’s handling it in her own special way.” I leave out the Pinterest board.
“I saw something online about a fundraiser she’s organizing?” Mom turns to me, her brows furrowed. “How she has time to organize one is beyond me, and the whole town knows they don’t need the money.”
Her voice is barely audible.
“Bliss,” Dad says.
“It’s her sister,” I say. “Her sister is organizing it.”
“Either way, it’s at the First Methodist Church next weekend,” she says. “They’re having a charity auction and something like two thousand people have already RSVP’d. The whole community’s rooting for Brooks to pull through.”
Maybe because half the retirement accounts in this town were built up by his father and grandfather over the last hundred years. Abbott Investments has made blue collar factory workers into bona fide millionaires. They’re loaded. Jack Abbott is known for his generosity. Rumor has it that his ninety-year-old, homebound father has a will a mile long, and everyone’s hopeful for a piece of the pie when he eventually passes.
It’s looking like that’ll be soon.
Or maybe they do actually care about the Abbotts. It’s hard to tell. People are so fucking fake these days.
And full of secrets.
And lies.
Saying one thing, doing another.
“I’m here, I’m here.” Delilah bursts into the room, a Styrofoam coffee cup in hand. “Sorry. Had to email my professor my paper, and the Wi-Fi wasn’t working at home. Did you guys change the password? Had to stop at a coffee shop and steal theirs.”
My sister pulls up a seat next to my mother, placing her hand on the edge of his bed.
“I hate seeing him like this,” she says to Mom. “So weak. And fragile.”
“And quiet,” Mom says with a laugh.
“He’s going to wake up, I just know it.” Delilah nibbles on a thumbnail.
“How’s old Jack Abbott taking this?” Dad clears his throat, turning toward me.
“I don’t think he knows what’s going on half the time,” I say. “I’m sure Brenda’s told him, but he’s usually pretty out of it.”
Last time I was over, Jack seemed coherent enough to join us for dinner. Ten minutes into our catered, coq au vin feast, he grabbed my ass, called me Bren-Bren, and asked me when I got the new jugs. Brenda turned a deep shade of red and called his nurse to come get him.
That was months ago, and I haven’t seen Brooks’s father since.