by Moriah Jovan
“I wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill you here, Giselle.”
“There is that. You don’t have the stomach to do it yourself.”
He ignored that and rocked back on a heel to rake her with a glance and gesture at her clothes. “And—and this,” he sneered. “You couldn’t have dressed properly? You disrespect me in my own house?”
“Oh, do you mean the house that Uncle Oliver built?”
His jaw clenched. “Oliver built a shack. I razed it and plowed the fields and built a plantation.”
“Wasn’t the only field of his you plowed, was it?”
He slapped her then and she retaliated immediately with the back of her closed fist, striking him with double his strength. It forced him to stumble backward, and he held his nose as blood gushed from it. Though as big as Knox, he was weaker than she and she had made sure to remind him of that fact, in case he’d forgotten.
“Well,” she said, breathing heavily and watching him warily in case he decided to finally show a little courage, but the flow of blood from his nose kept him occupied. “Now that the niceties are out of the way, I’ll state my business.”
“Make it snappy. I don’t have time for your little-girl shenanigans.”
“That’s rich, coming from a guy who murdered his brother to fuck his wife—and killed an innocent woman who never did anything to him. And by the way, I’m still mad about that second hit you put out on me.”
“Yes, and you’ve been sulking about it for the last three years, so stop it. It annoys me when you sulk.” He stared at her stonily, waiting, holding a handkerchief to his nose.
“I want to go about my merry business without having to look over my shoulder. You leave me be. Today. Forever.”
Fen looked at her speculatively. “Kenard.”
She started. “How did you know that?”
“Please. After you pulled a Cinderella and he rearranged Sebastian’s face? Half of Kansas City’s moneyed thinks Bryce Kenard is fucking Sebastian Taight’s mistress, and isn’t that deliciously scandalous. I actually wasn’t sure you wouldn’t go down that road with him, since you don’t seem terribly invested in a temple marriage anymore and he is completely disillusioned with the church. So since you’re here, I’m going to assume you’re not sleeping with him. Yet.”
“No and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to, considering why I was at your party that night.”
He waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” he murmured, still dabbing at his nose. “Deceit’s not your style.”
“Huh. He doesn’t know me, so that’s not the way he’s going to see it.”
Suddenly, Fen laughed. “Believe me, he’ll forgive you for it. Seduction’s not your style, either, though you did display amazing potential. I knew the minute you led him around that corner you weren’t playing any game at all, much less the one Sebastian wanted you to play.”
Giselle huffed. “Look, Fen, I don’t want you wrapped up in any relationship I might have with him. You and I are not a package deal and I want your word.”
“If I honor your request and if he doesn’t work out the way you hope, then you end up with Knox again— All bets are off. I’ll go back to seeing if you can be killed. Color me curious.”
She looked at him for a bit, more than willing to let him think she’d marry Knox in a heartbeat when it came down to the wire. She nodded. “I’d agree to those terms. But. What I told you after you killed Leah still stands. Any more of Knox’s women die, you die. And oh, in case you are elected—not likely—and the ATF or whoever pulls a Waco on Knox and he dies ever so conveniently? Being a senator won’t protect you from me.”
He pursed his lips and held his nose and stared at her, not speaking for a long time. She waited for him to close the deal, but he didn’t.
“Why,” he finally said, slowly, “couldn’t you have been my daughter?”
Giselle’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened. “What?”
Fen gestured to one of the wing-back chairs in front of his desk. He sat in the other once she took the seat he offered.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why I took such an interest in your life?”
“I thought you just wanted to boss me around the way you bossed Knox around.”
Fen grunted. “No. I wanted to be the father of a girl who took life by the throat and throttled the hell out of it.”
“I had a father.”
“Who died too young. I will admit, though, that Sebastian did a very good job of raising you. If he ever has children, it’ll be interesting to watch him raise them as an adult and not as a child himself.”
“Sebastian was never a child. He was a man by the time he was ten.”
He nodded. “That’s true.”
“You wanted to send me to a girl’s school and turn me into a debutante. If you like me for who I am, if you like how Sebastian trained me, why would you want to change me?”
He thought about that for a moment, staring off into the distance. “Sebastian went on his mission when you were fifteen. You’d learned all you could from him and I thought you could use a little balance. I just assumed you’d hit your sweet spot on your own, which you did. I didn’t know Knox was already teaching you those things.”
Neither said anything for a moment, then Giselle asked, “Fen, I’m curious. How long have you and Trudy been lovers?”
“Since 1964. Oliver was gone to ’Nam. She was lonely. I was available and all too willing to climb in bed with a beautiful woman who wanted me there. Then I went in ’67 and that was about the time Oliver came home.”
“So, Knox . . . ?”
“Not my son. Wasn’t possible because I was in Vietnam then.”
She sat quiet a moment, trying to digest that. Then,
“Why’d you have to kill Oliver? That was dirty pool.”
He looked straight at her and said, very deliberately, “Giselle, there comes a time in a man’s life when he has to protect the people he loves. You of all people should know how that feels. And if you ever repeat what I’m about to tell you, I’ll put you in the ground myself.”
Giselle smirked. “I’m listening.”
“Oliver was a bastard. He had fists like hams and he used them.”
Giselle gaped at him, her mind suddenly whirling. She had never seen evidence that Knox’s father had been abusive and Knox’s only complaint had been Oliver’s distance and unavailability while he was busy building OKH.
“Did you see this for yourself?” she asked carefully.
“No, Giselle,” he drawled as if she were slow. “A man doesn’t beat his wife in front of witnesses if he can help it. Trudy was terrified.”
Giselle’s confusion cleared immediately. Trudy. That explained everything, but she didn’t dare cast aspersions on her aunt. Trudy was Fen’s line in the sand and Giselle didn’t want to give him a personal reason to kill her.
“I see,” she finally said. “I didn’t know.”
“I’m not sure anyone does; if they do, nobody’s talking. Killing Oliver wasn’t about my affair with Trudy and it wasn’t about OKH. It was about keeping Trudy safe and I didn’t feel Knox needed to know what his father was doing to his mother. When she kicked him out of the house, it was to protect him in case Oliver got it into his head that Knox was my son. There were no DNA tests at that time, remember.”
Oh, that was just too much.
“Fen, you know that’s bullshit. She’s always thought of Knox as a nuisance. You didn’t want Oliver to come down on you if he caught wind of your affair.”
He shrugged. “Okay, point taken. But,” he added, spearing her with a glance, “if you’d kept your mouth shut, it would’ve ended with just Oliver dead, no one the wiser, and no proviso to fight over.”
Giselle ground her jaw, but didn’t say anything, because that was absolutely true. She’d spent the last two decades carrying the guilt of a fourteen-year-old girl’s mistake.
Walking in on Aunt
Trudy making love with Uncle Oliver’s brother, “Uncle” Fen.
Throwing up on the carpet.
Covering her ears while Aunt Trudy yelled at “Uncle” Fen to get out.
Getting slapped halfway across the room by an enraged Aunt Trudy, cowering in front of her, crying, “I’m sorry, Aunt Trudy, I’m sorry” over and over again.
Telling Knox when he found her hiding, crying at the back of the estate because she was too shocked he’d tracked her down to think up a good lie.
Reluctantly stumbling along behind Knox as he stormed into the mansion to confront his mother.
Walking off of the Hilliards’ Ward Parkway estate with Knox, frightened by Aunt Trudy’s violence and ashamed that she had caused Knox to be cast out of his home and lose everything he owned and loved.
Riding the bus all the way home to the east side, silent, clinging to him and he her.
Lying to her mother about how she’d gotten a bruise over half her face, afraid her mother would say she got what she deserved, only to get wept over and hugged and rocked like a little baby when Knox made her tell the truth.
And then years later, finding out that Fen had killed Uncle Oliver because she had opened her mouth . . .
“Ah,” Fen murmured, suddenly smug, “I see you’ve been flagellating yourself for this entire fiasco. Good. Keep at it.”
She sighed. “Why didn’t you tell the bishop all this when you laid it out for him? Why didn’t you tell us this when we confronted you? It’s not like we wouldn’t have understood, all things considered.”
“By then it was irrelevant. I didn’t feel guilty for killing Oliver. I felt guilty for taking his company and liking it and resenting a fifteen-year-old kid for that damned proviso Oliver slipped in when I wasn’t looking. Why do you think I paid for Knox’s education? It wasn’t his fault and I daresay it’s as burdensome to him as it is to me.”
“But you didn’t feel guilty enough to give it up, and now you’ve sunk to the level of murder to keep it. There’s no honor in that.”
“True.” He rose then, which cued her to do the same. “It’s a deal, Giselle,” he said, offering his hand for her to shake and she did, firmly. “As long as you and Knox don’t get back together.”
“You understand this doesn’t nullify my warning.”
“Yes. And you understand you keep your mouth shut about Oliver. I think you’ve learned your lesson about speaking out of school.”
Her mouth tightened. “Done.” She turned to go.
“Giselle?” She looked over her shoulder at him and he had that hard gleam in his eye again. The wannabe father had vanished. “Don’t ever come back here armed. And next time? Wear a damned dress.”
She flashed him a wicked smile, winked, and walked out, unwilling to let him see how his chastisement had shaken her. Fen was right; she’d definitely learned her lesson about keeping her mouth shut.
* * * * *
21: MISFIT SO ALONE
Once Giselle told Bryce’s frigid assistant her name, she warmed instantly, eager to tell her where he could be found. Giselle found that encouraging and very . . . amusing.
Half of Kansas City’s moneyed thinks Bryce Kenard is fucking Sebastian Taight’s mistress.
She chuckled.
Giselle patiently subjected herself to the search at the courthouse, surrendered her weapon, and resentfully dug out her permit when demanded. Frisked, wanded, and all but tossed on the x-ray conveyor belt, she was finally allowed in the courthouse.
All the way through the building, up stairs, through doors, she garnered stares. Some of these people knew her from law school and gaped at her leathers, her intensity. Kevin Oakley saw her, tried to catch her attention, but she ignored him. Though she hadn’t spoken with him since the day he’d declined to charge her with homicide, he could wait. Politics could wait.
She got to the right division before she slowed at all. Her heart pounding and her mouth dry, she ducked into the restroom to calm herself a bit before getting on with her business here. Leaning back against the wall, she bent over and took some deep breaths, not thinking about what she intended to do. If she thought about it at all, she knew she’d change her mind and then she’d regret it for the rest of her life.
She looked in a mirror once her breathing had slowed and she felt more capable of acting like a civilized human being. Her face was red, as she had expected, thus hid any marks Fen’s hand might have made. She bent down to splash cold water on her face and gargle some of it to ease the dryness of her mouth.
The restroom door opened suddenly and though Giselle took no real notice, a flash of dull, frizzy, indeterminate red did catch in her periphery and she looked up into the mirror.
“I’ll be damned,” she breathed when she caught Justice McKinley staring at her, frightened determination written all over her face.
Giselle locked glances with her in the mirror, wondering if she knew or suspected what Giselle had done for her or if she knew about her connection with Knox. She couldn’t think of any other reason the girl would detain her, now of all times and here of all places.
Couldn’t she have done this at school, when she had unlimited access and time?
“Can I help you, Justice?” she asked gently.
Justice, looking very young and naïve, swallowed a bit. “I— I want—” She pursed her lips and looked away, shaking her head. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”
Giselle turned, leaned back against the sink, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Say whatever you have to say to me, Justice,” she demanded not-so-gently this time, impatient to get on with her goal. She wouldn’t suffer being waylaid too long, even by this girl, especially when she could talk to her any day of the week.
Justice started and opened her mouth. “I want to be like you,” she blurted finally.
Giselle blinked. “Why?”
“You— You’re powerful and—” She looked at the floor and whispered, “I want to learn that.”
Let Knox teach you; he’ll show you the power you don’t know you have yet.
Giselle watched her for several long seconds before Justice raised her eyes to find out why Giselle hadn’t answered.
“I can’t teach you how to be that,” she said once Justice had fully concentrated on her face. “You have to come to it on your own, through hardship and fear. You have to know who you are and what you believe and you have to take stock of that every day. You have to walk barefoot through fire on broken glass. You have to stand up to people who frighten you under conditions that terrify you. You have to be honest with yourself about what you really want. You have to be willing to fail.
“Power is acquired, earned. You’ll have many opportunities in your life to earn bits and pieces of it. You’ll make bad choices; learn from them and do the best you can with them. Do not, under any circumstances, dither over what the right choice might be every single time you’re presented with one. It won’t teach you anything and you’ll be a bore at cocktail parties.”
Justice’s hazel eyes had widened and Giselle smiled, reaching out to rub her shoulder, surprising both of them. Giselle almost never touched people she didn’t know, or allowed them to touch her. On the other hand, she’d touched this girl once and at that moment had become vested in keeping her safe, in smoothing her road for her, in helping her travel the path that led to Knox.
“You’ll do fine. Now,” she said briskly, turning away from Justice and back to the mirror to do some last-minute primping, “I need to go take some of my own advice.” She caught Justice’s look of confusion when she turned to walk toward the door. She opened it a crack and then looked back over her shoulder. “Acquiring power is a never-ending process, Justice. Every day you have to wake up and prove to the world all over again that you deserve it. There should never come a day when you wake up and say, ‘Okay, I’m powerful now; I’m done.’ Never.”
With that, she left the restroom and found the correct set of courtroom doors. She opened one quietly, t
iptoed in and stood silently against the back wall to watch Bryce Kenard do what he did that made him the god of the UMKC School of Law.
* * * * *
Bryce had used the architecture of this closing argument so often he could recite it in his sleep. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe it—no, he believed every word of what he said and because of that, he could sell it to the jury. Every time. Sadly, he had too many cases that required this closing argument; thus, he had to deliver his closing by rote. Otherwise, he could make himself insane with the grief of his own loss.
“This trial is not and never was an issue of suing a poor, hapless doctor who tried his best yet lost the struggle between life and death. It’s about a little girl who had a bad doctor and died as a direct result of his incompetence.” His client had bowed her head and her tears fell slowly and silently. That wasn’t an act on her part, and he felt her pain acutely for a moment before forcing himself to shake it off.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he placed his hands on the jury box and leaned into them, making sure they could all see his scars up close and personal. “The medical community saved my life; I’m grateful every day that I have my life because of a team of brilliant surgeons, specialists, nurses, and therapists. I’m immensely grateful that my caretakers are so competent and dedicated to their art and their patients.
“I’m not here to ask you for money for my client. I’m not asking you to pass judgment on the medical community. I’m not even asking you to send a message to it that it should police its own so that people like us, you and me, don’t have to. I’m just asking you to help me clean it up one bad doctor at a time, and maybe, just maybe, let Melissa Hawthorne’s mother sleep a little better at night.”
He nodded his thanks to the jury and walked to his chair. There weren’t that many people in the gallery, so the woman who stood against the back wall was hard to miss. His eyes widened as he stared at her for the split-second before he turned to sit. Soon, the jury left to begin deliberations and he rose, clutching his sobbing client to his chest.
He knew only too well how it felt to be suddenly childless.