Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Even more so because it wasn’t an injury that caused his death. The article stated he veered off course onto a secluded mountaintop, where he was mauled by forest animals. The death, the article suggested, was slow and painful and took three or four days. His body—or whatever was left of it—was found scattered a couple of months later.
Peculiar still was the fact that he was found holding a black thorn.
There were no plants or bushes on the snow-covered mountaintops.
I didn’t have to ask Daniel about it. I knew.
Because I remembered that three months after I was adopted, Daniel called his mother—Nana Nelly—to watch over me for the weekend as he conducted urgent business in Zurich.
No part of me found it immoral or distressing that Daniel dealt with my abuser.
He did what he had to do. What I’d do for someone else if I ever was stupid enough to allow myself to love.
He took a life so I could live mine peacefully.
“And that’s the last of it.” Cal waltzed into Mum’s hospice room carrying a box of her toiletries.
Dylan was standing next to me, fluffing fresh flowers in a vase. I was tucking Mum’s blanket under the mattress. We all pretended like what we did mattered in some way. But it didn’t.
My mother was brought back from her medically induced coma but remained unconscious.
The infections were finally gone, but her body was deteriorating. My time with what was left of her was limited.
“Cheers for everything.” I smiled at them.
“Nonsense, I wish we could do more.” Cal unloaded a box onto the shelves in the bathroom, leaving the door open.
“Yeah, like getting rid of these unfriendly men for you.” Dylan tossed a hand in Enzo and Filippo’s direction. They stood at the doorway, chatting in Italian. It was necessary I had protection now, since my husband blew up the negotiations with the Callaghans. “By the way, are you sure Tate found them at a security company and not the entrance of Abercrombie & Fitch?” Dylan did an appreciative double take.
“Dylan,” I reproached. “Don’t objectify them!”
“Oh, please. Women have been objectified for at least two millennia.” She waved me off. “I’m just trying to even the score.”
Enzo and Filippo didn’t even acknowledge my friends. Or me for that matter.
“What did Tate do to piss off the Irish so much anyway?” Cal stuck her head out from the bathroom, frowning.
“Oh, screwed them over financially,” I lied. It was easier than explaining my husband was a serial killer. “He’s working on a solution now, though.”
“Is he treating you well?” Dylan turned to look at me, searching my face.
“Yeah,” I admitted, biting down on my lip. “He showers me with gifts and orgasms. He leaves me to my own devices at home and at work. It’s pretty sweet.”
But he also refused to seek help for himself. Refused to stop a bloody war. Worst of all—he refused to truly let me in.
“Is he a freak in bed?” Dylan grinned.
“Dyl!” Cal threw a hand at Mum’s bed. “Her mother is right here.”
“Unconscious.” Dylan rolled her eyes. Dylan was going to med school and checked my mother’s vitals each time she was here. “Besides, if Telma could hear us, I bet she’d be happy to know her daughter is sexually satisfied.”
“Dylan is right,” I conceded. “Mum was a sex-positive feminist. She’d want to hear all the sordid details.”
“Is,” Cal corrected softly.
“Huh?” I patted my wrist, an old habit whenever I wanted to get strength from my bracelet.
“Your mother is still alive, Gia.”
This was true, but I knew that the woman who raised me—the woman who shaped me to be who I was today—was no longer there. The grief of family members of people with dementia started before they lost their loved one in body. Because we first lost their souls.
“Promise me one thing.” Dylan held my gaze. “Protect your heart.” She pressed her palm to my sternum, worry etched onto her features. “You’re going through so much right now. If something poses a threat to your mental health, get rid of it. Even if it’s your husband. You can’t afford more sorrow.”
Later that afternoon, one of the hospice’s doctors walked in.
Short, stocky, middle-aged, with glasses and an exaggerated wig. I squinted at his tag. I always memorized my mother’s carers’ names, brought them Starbucks gift cards and baked goods. But now I realized there was no point in doing that. Mum wouldn’t be here long enough to reach any milestones.
“Mrs. Blackthorn, there you are.” He flipped a page on the old-school clipboard in his hand. “My name is Dr. Fields. I’ll be your primary contact here. Do you have any questions?”
I was tired and irritable. In over my head. So I asked bluntly, “How long does she have?”
“She’s exhibiting signs associated with end of life. Drooping of her nasolabial fold, nonreactive pupils, and periodic breathing. Worst-case scenario will be the next twelve hours. Best-case? I’d say a week.”