Consent (The Loan Shark Duet Book 2)

by Charmaine Pauls

  I give Valentina a peck on the lips. “Lock the door behind me.”

  In the lounge, I grab my shirt and pants from the back of the sofa. Stripping from the wet swimming trunks, I leave them in a mangled puddle on the floor and pull the pants on without jocks. While I button up my shirt, I call Quincy on the phone. I’m not wasting time walking to his room.

  “I’m going out.” I grab my wallet and jacket from the kitchen. “Keep an eye on Valentina and Charlie. They’re by the pool.”

  Once I clear the gates, I floor the gas, breaking every speed limit and pissing off more than one minivan taxi. It’s only a matter of minutes before I turn myself into a road rage victim.

  I use the voice control to call Magda.

  “I’m on my way,” she says. “Sylvia’s boyfriend called me.”

  The parking lot at the clinic is thankfully empty. I curse my leg as I run too slowly to the entrance and barge through the doors.

  “Carly Louw,” I announce at the front desk.

  The receptionist avoids my eyes. “Lounge number six, sir.”

  “It’s Louw,” I repeat. “My daughter has been admitted.” She’ll be in the emergency wing, in an operating room, or in intensive care. Not the lounge. Please God. Not the lounge.

  “The others are waiting for you, sir. Lounge six.”

  Not the lounge. Not the lounge.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes.” I turn toward the private rooms, every step slower than the last.

  Not the lounge.

  My palm flattens on the door, right under the six. Once I push the door open, I can never go back. Once I cross the threshold, my life will never be the same. But the world turns under my feet and around me, and there’s no choice but to move forward with time. I apply the necessary pressure, propelling myself into the room.

  The door clicks softly behind me with a bizarre finality, enclosing me into the reality sealed in the lounge. My gaze goes around the space, my eyes connecting with each person who shares my fate. Sylvia is hunched over. Francois, her boyfriend, strains under the effort of holding her up. Magda stands next to them, her Gucci handbag swinging uselessly back and forth in her hand. Facing them is a chaplain. He stops talking at my entrance. Magda’s eyes find mine. This is what my eyes must look like––barren and empty. She gives me a small shake of her head, preparing me.

  “Mr. Louw.” The chaplain bows his head and grasps my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  They still have to say it. Someone has to tell me.

  Sylvia lifts her head. Anger and blame twist her features, but not acceptance. I feel so much sympathy for her, right now. That’s the worst suffering––the road to acceptance.

  “Tell me.” Don’t tell me. Until it’s spoken, it isn’t real.

  The chaplain squeezes my shoulder. “Your daughter … eh…” he glances at a piece of paper on top of the Bible he clutches in his hand, “…Carly, is gone.”

  “Gone?” I say.

  The clergyman falters under my hard look.

  “Gone where?”

  “Mr. Louw.”

  He says my name like it’s an appeal. An appeal for what? An appeal not to make him say it?

  “What?” I challenge.

  It’s Sylvia who steps forward. “She’s dead. She’s dead, Gabriel. She’s dead!” Flinging herself at me, she hits my arms and slaps my face. “It’s you! It’s you! It’s all your fault!”

  I take her blame and punches, wishing to God she’d hit me harder so I won’t feel the torch burning a hole through my heart.

  The chaplain and Francois reach for her simultaneously, trying to pull her off, but she renews her attack, shouting and sobbing with snot flying from her nose. I hold out an arm, holding both men off.

  “Why?” she cries, looking at me for an answer. “Why, Gabriel? Why?”

  Why? Yes, please, someone, tell me why. I don’t know. I can only look at her.

  At my silence, she collapses against my chest, grabbing fistfuls of my jacket. “I’ll never forgive you. It’s you. It’s you and your games. You and your wife and new baby.”

  At the mention of my wife and child, I loosen myself from her grip, holding onto her elbows to keep her stable.

  Francois takes her shoulders, and Sylvia allows herself to be led to the corner where he rocks her in his arms.

  Magda regards me with a stoic, pale face. “She overdosed on sleeping pills.”

  I can only manage a nod in both acknowledgment and thanks. I needed to know.

  “They pumped her stomach,” she continues, but doesn’t say more. She doesn’t have to.

  “Would you like me to pray for her?” the chaplain asks.

  Praying won’t change that she’s gone. Dead. Praying won’t bring her back.

  “We should discuss the funeral arrangements.” I need to do this. I need to keep busy.

  Francois shoots me a ‘you can’t be serious’ look.

  “About counseling––” the chaplain starts.

  I don’t hear more. I’m already out of the door. Counseling will help as little as praying. No one in that room can console me. I can’t console them. I just want out.

  So young.

  Her face looks angelic. Peaceful.

  The doctor draws back the sheet to cover her. “We made arrangements for her to be transported to the morgue.” He hands me a hospital bag with her belongings. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I nod without cutting my eyes away from the shape under the sheet.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

  The door shuts with an agreeable click. At last, I’m alone with my girl. I move the sheet aside to take her hand. Her skin is cold when I press my lips to it.

  “I’m sorry I failed you, Carly.”

  My voice breaks. Scorching tears burn my face and trickle down my neck into the collar of my shirt. Inside, I’m pulp. A mushed bruise. It’s only my conditioning that allows me to construct a stoic wall on the outside. I’ve taken plenty of lives, but I’ve never lost one. My dad, yes, but that was different. We weren’t close. I’ve never been cut open, exposed, and left vulnerable. I’m a hollow shell of weakness, easy prey for any enemy, and I dare them all to take me on, take me out, and end this misery for which I’m solely to blame.

  I failed.

  Where did I go wrong? Was I too hard on her? Too soft? Why did I not see it coming? Did I spend too little time with her? Was I too self-absorbed? Was it my lifestyle? Did she find out what I do for a living? I should’ve refused when she said she was moving back to her mom. I should never have driven her home the day she confronted Valentina before we even started the barbecue. I should’ve insisted she stay. I should’ve forced her to talk. I should’ve been more patient. I should’ve taken her home with me after the drug scare. I shouldn’t have ignored my gut. I shouldn’t have lived in my ignorant bubble of selfish happiness.

  Regrets, regrets.

  Someone, God, anyone, please fucking tell me where I went wrong. I want to tear the sky in two and scream at life for explanations, but all I do is go down on my knees and press my forehead to my daughter’s dead hand. I pray to know. I need to know, but there will be never be an answer. No understanding. No absolution. No forgiveness. Only guesses and guilt. Only should haves and what ifs.

  When they come to take her, I find Magda waiting in the hallway. The exterior she works so hard on maintaining breaks, and her unspoken accusations show through the cracks.

  “Francois took Sylvia home,” she says. “The doctor gave her a tranquilizer.”

  “I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.”

  “You better. I doubt Sylvia will manage.”

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  “Scott will drive me.” She hesitates. “Will you be all right?” Her voice breaks on the last word.

  For a brief moment, she pulls me to her, enveloping me in her embrace. It’s the first time my mother put her arms around me. It feels foreign, and after a heartbeat she pulls
away. The cracks in her veneer break all the way open. Tears stream down her cheeks, running black mascara rivulets through her foundation.

  “I’ll never forgive her for what she did to this family.”

  It takes me a second to understand who she’s talking about. It’s easier to shift the blame, but not even Magda can be so blind.

  “It’s not Valentina’s doing.”

  “It’s the baby,” she whispers, “and everything else.”

  Dumping everything else in my lap, she leaves me with that heavy burden and walks away. She’s right, of course. I’ve always fucked up everything in my life. My relationships. My daughter. Valentina. I should be under that white sheet. It’s me who doesn’t deserve to live. Albeit, ironically, here I am.

  Parking in the garage at home, I sit quietly for a long while. The life has been sucked out of me. I’m numb. I can’t cry, rant, or rave. I can’t sleep or eat. I can’t work or think. Most of all, I can’t face myself. I sit in my car, because I simply don’t have the willpower to do anything else.

  The door connecting to the house opens and the light comes on. Valentina stands in a pool of tungsten brightness that shines through the thin fabric of her nightdress. It throws a spotlight on the roundness of her body, the lies and mistakes I planted in her belly.

  “Gabriel.”

  My name is a sob. She must’ve heard. Scott or someone from Magda’s staff would’ve called Quincy. She doesn’t come closer or speak. She waits for me to make the first move, to see what I need.

  Steeling myself, I force my body to comply and exit my car. Her arms reaching for me are too much. I don’t deserve her sympathy or soothing. I did this to her. I did this to Carly. I’m destruction. I’m a monster. A look of pain filters into her eyes when I sidestep her embrace.

  “It’s late,” I say, facing away from her. “Get some sleep.”

  As I stalk away, her soft whisper reaches my back.

  “I’m sorry, Gabriel.”

  I keep on walking. It’s what she wants. It’s best for her.

  I take a blanket and pillow to my study. There’s not a chance I’ll sleep, but I need the pretense of routine like I need the Scotch I pour. I down the hard liquor and pour another, then another. Alone, I fall on my knees and wail into the pillow, grieving for the life I created and destroyed.

  At some stage, I must’ve passed out, because I wake with a headache from hell and my throat on fire. It’s five in the morning. Quietly, I walk through the big house, going from room to room of nothingness and empty meaning until I’ve done the full round and am back in my study. The bag from the hospital sits on my desk like a shrine, a reminder that will never let me go.

  My hands shake as I reach inside. It’s like plunging your arm into a box full of snakes. I don’t know what I’ll pull out or how it will poison me with further self-blame and sorrow, but I can’t stop myself. I remove a white tank top and blue shorts. Underwear sealed in a plastic bag. Her favorite pair of sandals. A raw sound leaves my throat. The clothes are familiar, yet strange. Not on her body, they look like someone else’s, and the estranged sentiment scares me. I want to hold onto every memory, not lose a single fiber of intangible emotion or the lifetime of movie reels imprinted in my head. Her first tooth, her first smile, her first step. God, it hurts. It cuts and cuts until I’m nothing but meat shredded to the bone.

  I fall into my chair, fighting my shirt collar and tearing at the button strangling me. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Forgive me, Carly. I’ll never forgive myself. My hands curl into fists. I bang them on the desk so hard my knuckles bleed. I want her back. I want to turn back time. Smoldering anger burns through my body, shaking my muscles. Every ounce of that thick, black fury is directed at myself. How could I not know? How did I not see?

  It takes several deep breaths before I somewhat calm myself. I have to behave rationally. For everyone else’s but my own sake. I have to wear the mask and carry on.

  My attention goes back to the paper bag. Turning it upside down, I give a shake, longing for more. Something. Anything. A sealed envelope drops out with a clank. Inside is something bulky. I run my fingers over the paper ridges. It feels like a chain. I break the seal and let the object slide out. It’s Carly’s platinum butterfly pendant, the one I gave her for her seventeenth birthday. Picking up the chain, I hold it up to the light. It dangles from my fingers, the butterfly soaring like a pendulum from left to right, right to left.

  “Fly free, princess.” I press the silver wings to my lips. “Goodbye.”

  Goodbye. This is where I make my peace, find my acceptance. It’ll be a long road to healing, and I honestly don’t know if I can do it. Holding the pendant over the jar of keepsakes, I let the chain run through my fingers, allowing it to slip from my grasp, link by link. It drops with a clink on top of the mementos. This is where it belongs, with all the other lives I took. I wring my hands together, intertwining my fingers until it hurts.

  This was the last time.

  The last one.

  I’m done killing.

  Valentina

  The night is one of the longest of my life. I toss and turn and tiptoe downstairs several times to check on Gabriel. The door of his study remains closed. Not a sound comes from inside. Only a shard of light seeping from under the door confirms his presence. What do I do? How do you make something like this better? Sick with helpless grief and self-blaming worry, I pace between the kitchen and lounge until the first light pierces the awful night.

  The sun is weak today with mist clouds gathering in the sky. The day feels broken. Everything feels broken. My heart shatters for Gabriel. I burst into tears every time I recall Quincy’s horrible words, the way he looked at me with concern and pity as he stuttered the news, because I play a guilty part in this tragedy. The pregnancy was hard for Carly to take. Even harder was the implied meaning that her father and I were intimate in secret, right under her nose. If I hadn’t fallen pregnant, none of this would’ve happened. Carly would’ve been blissfully unaware and maybe still alive. Yes, definitely alive. The more I think about it, the more I cringe in shame and burning sin. This is my fault. If I didn’t beg Gabriel to selfishly let me keep the baby he never wanted, this wouldn’t have happened. Will Gabriel ever forgive me? Can I forgive myself? I can’t deal with the answers, so I focus on the most pressing matter––taking care of Gabriel.

  My gaze alternates between the rising sun obscured behind the clouds and the study door. When the door is still closed by eight, I take a hasty shower and check on Charlie before starting the tasks of the day on autopilot. I feed Oscar and Bruno and cook breakfast for Quincy, Rhett, and Charlie.

  Quincy watches me from under his lashes as I prepare a tray for Gabriel. “How is he?”

  I avert my eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “He hasn’t come out of his study,” Rhett says in understanding.

  I add sugar to the tray. “He needs time.”

  “Of course.” Rhett gets to his feet and reaches for the tray. “Let me take that for you.”

  “I’ve got it,” I say hastily. “Finish your breakfast.”

  What I mean to say is that I need to see Gabriel. I ache to see him, to soothe him, to tell him how sorry I am, if he’ll even listen to me.

  At the door, I balance the tray on the table in the hallway and knock.

  His voice sounds simultaneously strong and tired. “Who is it?”

  “Valentina.” I clear my throat. “I brought you breakfast.”

  The sound of his chair scraping over the floor reaches me through the door, followed by his uneven footsteps. The door opens on a crack.

  “Gabriel––”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Picking up the tray, I hand it over and lick my dry lips in preparation for what I want to say, but the shadow of the door falls over me as he shuts it in my face with a curt, “Thank you.”

  “You were right,” Rhett says behind me, making me jump. “He needs time.”

 
I flush with shame that Rhett witnessed the rejection of my condolences. It’s a clear reflection of Gabriel’s judgment. I feel like guilt is carved on my chest. First my father and Charlie, then Tiny and Jerry, and now Carly.

  “Yes.” I take several steps away from the door. “He needs space.”

  “Val.” Rhett reaches for me. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s not me who’s suffering.” Tears burn in my eyes. “I wish I could take it away for him.”

  “I know.” He gives my shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “I know how you think, Val. It’s not your fault.”

  Unable to look him in the eyes, I turn my face to the side.

  “It’s not your fault.” He accentuates his words with a gentle shake.

  “Sure. Yes.” I twist free. “I’m going to start lunch. We’ll probably have visitors popping in throughout the day.”

  So many people stop by to pay their condolences I lose count. Business associates, mafia, government officials, employees. They all arrive in dark suits with respectful faces and expensive flowers, muttering words of sympathy and solace. Gabriel sits in the lounge, receiving the drips and drabs of guests who never dwindle enough to grant him a moment of solitude. The only way I can make myself useful is to bake savory and sweet pastries and prepare salads and casseroles, which I serve as the hour of the day demands. Savory snacks in the morning, lunch from twelve to two, and sweets in the afternoon with tea. Quincy and Rhett help to load the dishwasher and unpack the crockery in a continuous cycle. Charlie is happy to take charge of brewing fresh tea and coffee.