My hands won’t move. There’s a small part of me that isn’t crushed by the agonizing weight of loss. It says I have to move my hands, get the cloth out of my mouth because I’m not getting enough air.
The screams are these harsh, hoarse sounds, ripping at my throat, and my stomach churns as I try to suck in air through my nose. Another one builds, louder, harder, and I bite down on the shirt, punching my fist into the floor as the fabric absorbs the scream.
Pain streaks through my limbs, and I curl tighter, squeeze harder, the screams finally changing to whimpers and hiccups. I want my dad. I want the chance Isaiah stole from me. I want the father who gave me piggyback rides and taught me the cleanest way to kill a man twice my size.
Bombarded by memories, I slide into sleep, his shirt clutched in my hands.
Chapter 14
I feel sick. Sore and nauseous, my head as heavy as a brick and swollen as a balloon. My face is stiff with dried tears, and I desperately need a glass of water.
And I’m still holding Turner’s shirt.
It’s a sodden, snotty mess and no longer smells like him, but I don’t want to let go. Not yet. I don’t want to get up. I have no idea how long I’ve been on the floor. I tentatively stretch out one leg, wincing as the aches in my joints sharpen and drill into my bones. I roll onto my stomach and push to my knees. I manage to sit without falling over, the side of the bed propping me up.
Some people think of crying as a purge, a way to rid the mind and body of poisonous emotions. I wish that were true. I wish I could say I’m lighter, calmer, better prepared to handle what comes next. I’m almost dead certain it’s a prelude to a long, dark spell, and I may never want to come out.
I stare at all the clothes Turner will never wear again, and the tears begin anew. I’m surprised I have any left. They burn my eyes and drip onto my cheeks. We lost so much time, me trying to be the child he wanted, Turner unwilling—or unable—to accept that I couldn’t. I tip my head back to rest against the bed and let the sobs come.
“Cass?”
I bite my lip to keep from calling out. Come find me. He shouldn’t have to deal with my mess, my problems. I’ve leaned so hard on him, and he should be leaning on me now.
“Cass? You in here?” Soft thuds from the other side of the room, and I hunch over to make myself as small as possible, body shaking as I swallow my sobs. “What are you doing on the floor?”
I turn my swollen, tear-stained face to him and watch as his expression softens in understanding and hurt. “Fuck, Cassidy. Why didn’t you come get me?”
All I can do is shake my head and lower it to my hands, knees pulled to my chest in an effort to calm myself. There are some grunts and hisses as Nick sits next to me. “C’mere,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around me.
The barest hint of cinnamon drifts under my nose as I turn my face into his shoulder. “It’s not okay,” I mumble. “He shouldn’t be dead.”
“No, he shouldn’t.”
I sniffle back tears. “I always thought there’d be time. He’d get over himself one day. Maybe we never would have had a happy relationship, but…polite. He’d stop being so disapproving and I’d let go of my anger and we’d get along. Maybe grandkids would have changed him.” None of this will ever happen. It presses on my chest, pushing all the air from my lungs, and I huddle closer.
My ass goes numb as we sit there, me curled into Nick’s side, his heartbeat steady under my hand. Someday soon, Mom and I will have to clean out Turner’s things and face the memories they hold. For now, I can shut the closet on them.
I untangle myself from Nick and stand. The closet doors are silent as I slide them shut. Nick takes my hand, and I help him to his feet. He brushes a stray tear from my cheek. “Go get some water. I’ll deal with the sheets.”
“You have work to do and—”
“Stop.” A glimmer of anger sparks in his eyes. “Stop it, Cass. I’m not a fucking invalid, and you’re hurting. Let me take care of you.”
How is he going to make a bed when he can’t—or shouldn’t—put any weight on his leg? “Let me get the sheets, and I’ll help you.”
His scowl is fierce as he tucks the crutches under his arms. “It’s a bed. I can stand long enough to make a damn bed.”
When he gets that look on his face, I know better than to argue. The man’s the most stubborn person I know. I find a set of sheets in the linen cabinet and drop them on the guest room bed, leaving Nick to wrestle with the covers.
My eyes are so swollen I can barely see, and my head is pounding in time with my heart. Full dark fell while I was asleep, and the shadows make it hard to see where I’m going. In the dim kitchen, I fumble a glass out of a cabinet and fill it from the pitcher in the fridge. Then I move to the sink and scan the backyard while I drink my water.
The yard is one of the few things my parents always did together. Weeding, planting, the general tending and cleanup of the flowerbeds was something that relaxed them both. Without the patio lights, it’s hard to see how much of the winter yard chores they got through before Turner died. I drain the glass and set it next to the sink before walking over to the patio door.
I hesitate with my hand hovering over the switch for the patio lights. What if they didn’t get very far, and the yard’s a mess of dead annuals and weeds no one got around to pulling? Or what if it’s the opposite, and it’s all neat and tidy, waiting for Mom and Turner to come along and plant new flowers in the spring? Either way, I’m not ready for the pain it’ll bring. I turn away as Nick enters the kitchen, the tips of his crutches squeaking on the linoleum.
“Bed’s made,” he says. He makes his way toward me. “Probably ought to eat something. You hungry?”
“Not really.” I lean on the glass door, frowning when Nick narrows his eyes as he looks past me. “What?”
“Looks like something’s moving.” He jerks his chin toward the yard, and I glance over my shoulder. Mom planted a large, ornamental shrub in a corner of the yard. Turner argued against it, saying it was out of place, though I secretly always thought he didn’t want the shrub there because it’d be a good place for someone to hide. Even with my compromised vision and the limited light, I see the branches shaking, moving in that way that has nothing to do with wind and everything to do with someone—human or animal—being someplace they’re not supposed to.
“Might just be one of the neighborhood cats.” My skin prickles with awareness, but I keep my casual stance.
“Too much of a coincidence for it to be a cat. Weapons?”
“In the gun safe. I can get them.” My brain shuts everything out, focused on the potential intruder in the backyard. Grieving will have to wait.
He removes the crutches from under his arms and braces himself on the wall. “Silencers?” he asks quietly.
“He probably has some.” Silencers are technically illegal, but that wouldn’t have stopped Turner from having a few on hand. In addition to knife work and poisons, he used guns when necessary, though he didn’t like them. Too inaccurate, he always said. A silencer would have been useful to him, though.
I wish I could take a moment to wash my face. I can’t even risk blowing my nose. I run back to the master bedroom and slide open Turner’s closet, shuddering at the sight of his clothes. I push them aside to get to the safe that is set into the rear wall. He reset the biometric system on my eighteenth birthday to allow me access to the safe if I ever needed it. After typing in the code, I press the ring finger on my right hand to the scanner and wait for the beep. The door releases, and I swing it wide. I grab the 9mm, check the magazine, and screw a silencer to the end of the barrel. Then I do the same with the .44.
Nick’s standing next to the patio door rather than in front of it, turned sideways so he can still see out, but he’s less noticeable to anyone looking in. I pass him the .44 without a word, and he flicks the safety off before undoing the lock on the patio door.
Turner always kept the sli
ding glass door well oiled, so when Nick slides it open a couple inches, the soft sush-ing sound is barely noticeable. Adjusting his stance to balance his weight on both feet, he lifts his arms, the silencer sticking out through the opening by an inch. “Go,” he whispers. “Only way we’ll find out what’s hiding is to flush it out.”
Aside from the patio door and the front door, the house has one other entrance—a door on the far side of the garage. I hurry through the house and let myself into the garage. The space is almost pitch black, and I stifle a curse when I bump into Turner’s car. I throw out a hand and run it along the wall, feeling for the doorknob to the outside door.
The light over the door comes on at dusk, and there’s no way to switch it off. It’ll make me an easy target for anyone on this side of the house. I ease the door open and dart through the pool of light to the fence edging the side of the property, adrenaline pouring through my blood and clearing my mind. I still can’t see very well, forcing me to compensate with my other senses. Back pressed against the fence, I stare blindly at the side of the house while I consider my options. Left, I’d approach the shrubbery straight on by cutting across the backyard and again making myself a target. Right, I have to go all the way around the front of the house, but I’ll have more cover and I’m approaching from the side.
The extra seconds it’ll take me to get around the front of the house are worth it.
I hurry to the end of the house and scan the street and front yard before running through the yard to the other side and around the corner. From here, I can hear the branches moving, a big fucking clue on a night with no breeze.
Nerves on high alert, I creep forward, fighting to remain focused on the task at hand. What are we going to do with a body? Will Nick call in a disposal team? Will we have to bury it in the backyard because he doesn’t trust anyone in his family anymore?
The patio lights flash on, and I stifle a yelp of surprise. I see a dark-colored blob, the shrub branches shaking violently, and there’s a muffled pfft pfft before a body hits the ground.
Great. Now there’s a dead man in my backyard.
* * * *
“Please. Cass. Go. Take a shower. You look like shit.”
I want to bang my head on the wall. “I know I look like shit. I feel like it. But there’s a body in the backyard, and it needs to be dealt with first.”
Nick’s glare is so fierce I actually take a step back.
“All right. I’ll let you handle this.” I leave him standing next to the patio door and head for the guest room.
I pause in the doorway. The pillows are plumped and the blankets turned down, inviting me to crawl inside, and for a long moment, I consider doing just that. I can’t deal with anything else today. The steam from the shower might help with my stuffy nose, though, and as growly as Nick is at the moment, I don’t have the energy to fight him over something as trivial as a shower. I locate my bag, pull some clothes from it, and walk across the hall to the bathroom.
The moment I step inside the tub I lose the will to remain upright. I sink to the floor, uncaring the porcelain’s still cold, and let the hot water pour over me. Tears well out of nowhere, and I don’t fight them. They mix with the water and stream down my face.
Turner would tell me to get up, to keep going, to see this through to the bitter end. Strangely, I don’t think he’d chastise me for letting Nick take control. Pushing my hair away from my face, I tip it up, the water rinsing it clean. Giving Nick the reins doesn’t mean I can’t help, though. I struggle to my feet and grab the soap.
Twenty minutes later I’m clean, dry, and dressed. While I won’t say I’m ready to deal with what comes next, I’m not crying any longer. I open the bathroom door and follow the sound of Nick’s voice.
He’s in the living room, seated on the couch with his phone to his ear. When he sees me hesitate, he motions me forward. “I don’t share your concerns, Dad. I’m not going to allow you to turn her over to the police.”
Oh, no. Not going anywhere near this argument. I turn on my heel.
“Cassidy. Come here.”
I glance over my shoulder. Nick has his phone tipped away from his mouth, his dark eyes furious. He waves his hand again, and this time I obey. His injured leg is stretched out parallel to the back of the couch, his other leg bent with his foot flat on the floor. Careful not to jostle him too much, I crawl between his legs and sprawl against his chest, shutting my eyes as his arm comes around me.
Andreas is saying something, but his words are too garbled and the volume’s too low on Nick’s phone for me to understand what he’s saying. I’m cold. Ill. Exhausted. Something gnaws at my belly, and I can’t tell if it’s hunger or grief or anger. Nick cuts his father off with a curt “Good-bye,” hangs up, and tosses the phone away. It lands somewhere at the other end of the couch.
“What’s going on?” I mumble. “Your dad sending more goons after me?”
“Not if I can help it.” He threads his fingers through my damp hair. “But talking to him did get me thinking.”
“Wass dat?” Curled up against him, I could sleep for a month.
“LAPD’s out for blood, and you turning up dead before they can get to you won’t make them happy. I can’t see him sending someone to kill you when so far he’s been all about appeasing the department.” He curls his hand around the back of my neck. “Crew will be here soon to take care of the body.”
I’m too tired for this. “I thought you didn’t want your family to know where we are?”
“The only other option is to get rid of the body ourselves. I’m not letting you do that.” He strokes his other hand down my arm. “When was the last time you ate?”
The muffin I picked at while Denise and I talked is a distant memory. I can’t believe that was just today. It feels like a week ago. “Been a while. I can order something. There’s a good Thai place that delivers that’s not too far from here.” Ordering food means moving. Moving is at the bottom of my list of things to do. “Are you comfortable? I’m not hurting you or anything?”
“Stop it,” he murmurs. “You’re fine. What’s the name of the place? I’ll call them.”
“Bamboo Palace. I want crab wontons and noodles.” They make their own noodles, thick, fat ones smothered in peanut sauce.
“Wontons and noodles. Anything you want on the noodles?”
“Sweet and sour chicken.” It’s a dish usually served over rice, but their noodles are too delicious to pass up. “Want me to get your phone?”
The hand on my arm stills. “Huh. Shit. I threw it away, didn’t I?”
“Yup.” I sit up reluctantly, snag Nick’s phone, and hand it to him before I cuddle up to his chest.
I don’t remember falling asleep. The dream is full of half-formed images, Nick’s face melting into Turner’s, blood everywhere. Someone screams, the sound becoming a high, keening wail, and it’s like it’s coming from everywhere and nowhere. A shot’s fired, followed by another, and then the house explodes in flames.
“Cassidy.”
I jerk awake. Nick. I’m with Nick. We’re lying on the couch in my childhood home. He shot someone, and now there’s a crew on the way to clean it up. Nick’s shirt is bunched in my hands. “Sorry,” I mutter. I smooth out the wrinkles I made in his shirt, and he covers my hand with his.
“You’re fine,” he repeats. “I think the food’s here. There’s a guy carrying a bunch of plastic bags coming up the front walk.” On cue, the doorbell rings, and I wince as it peals through the house.
“Can you take care of the delivery guy?”
I nod and slide off the couch. The floor’s cold under my feet, and a hiss escapes as I walk across the tile in the front entry. I check the peephole and open the door, working up a half-hearted smile for the delivery guy. “How much do I owe you?”
“Already taken care of. Paid for when the order was placed.” He hands me the plastic bags and walks back to his car, leaving me with more
food than we need. As he pulls away from the curb, a dark-colored SUV turns into the driveway and parks behind Nick’s car. Three men get out, each acknowledging me with a dip of his head before they start opening doors and grabbing tools and bags.
I leave the front door open and take the food into the kitchen. Nick’s waiting, crutches once again tucked under his arms. I set the bags on the counter and begin pulling the containers out. “Plates are in the cupboard to your right.”
He finds them and passes one to me. After piling food onto my plate, I retreat to the guest room, leaving Nick to handle the crew cutting up the dead man.
Chapter 15
The mattress shifts, and I reach out, half awake and wishing I wasn’t. My hand connects with warm skin, and I drag myself closer. What side am I on? Nick was shot in his right leg. I deliberately took the right side of the bed, so there was less chance I’d accidentally hurt him. “Time is it?” I mumble.
“Late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. Go back to sleep, Cass.”
Late or early. Disposal couldn’t have taken more than an hour or two, and it wasn’t that late when I closed myself in the guest room. “Work?” I lift my head, searching his face in the shadows.
“Crew’s gone. Need a quick nap.”
I lower my head to his shoulder and drape myself along his left side. “Won’t get a quick nap in this bed.” Especially considering he stripped to his boxers. Almost naked Nick is too tempting for me to ignore.
“Maybe more than a nap,” he concedes. “Made some progress. Peter’s reporting the app’s installing 90 percent of the time, though once it’s installed, it only works properly 50 percent of the time. May have to push the launch date back. Even if we manage to clear up all the issues and inconsistencies, it’d be smart to run it through testing again.”
“Mmm.” It’s cozy here, lying skin to skin. We’re not warily circling each other, questioning the other’s motives. We’re back to Cass and Nick, two black-hearted people who love each other. A perfect bubble, one that will pop all too soon, because that’s what always happens to us. Our relationship so far is made up of moments, some stolen, some manufactured, but I want more than moments. I want uninterrupted bliss, days at a time where the only things that happen are the mundane routine of life.
Game of Lies Page 11