“Your mother is dead. My father is dead. Parents die. It’s sad and heartbreaking, but it’s normal. What happened to Phillipe wasnotnormal. Having your best friend murdered and his good name dragged through the mud in the news, on social media, and around the goddamn coffee machine in the office isnotnormal!”
Rosemary’s blue eyes sparked like fireworks. “Fine. Let’s play it your way, Mr. So-wrapped-up-in-yourself-you-don’t-think-anyone-else-can-suffer. My mother was murdered. Did you know that? Murdered by my best friend. My best friend is sitting in prison for killing my mother. So don’t tell me I have no idea what it’s like. I know all about headlines and betrayal.”
Jesus Christ.
Her mother had been murdered? Kemper’s report noted Carolyn Cashman as deceased, but the detail was limited to her age and date of death. Most of the information about herparents in the report focused on her stepfather. Kemper had included Davis’s criminal record, employment history, financial information, and speculation about his involvement with Moresco, but nothing about how Carolyn had died.
An image flashed through his mind of Rosemary telling him during their impromptu dinner that Sage had accused their stepfather of murdering their mother. Why hadn’t he focused on that? During that dinner, his concentration had bounced between his attraction to Rosemary and his determination to avenge Phillipe. Her comment wasn’t relevant to either, so he’d let it fly right by. He was a better agent than that.
Or he used to be.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt meager, but he wouldn’t insult her further by offering excuses.
“You should be!” she said, poking his thigh with enough force to sting. “You’re mad at the world and taking it out on me.”
She poked his thigh again, but more softly this time. “Iunderstand. Your best friend died a horrific death, and instead of celebrating his life, the people around you gawked and gossiped. It’s terrible, but you should give them some grace. People fixate on the details because they’re scared the same thing will happen to them. Death is terrifying to most people, and it’s human nature to focus on what we fear most. Some people just do it in a horrible way. Some because they’re shitty people. Others because they’re scared and they don’t understand the impact their words can have. They can’t understand. They haven’t lived it.”
Her words were ice water, cooling the fire within him.
“How can you be so reasonable?”
She shifted closer so her knees pressed against the side of his thigh, took a swig of her beer, and set it on her lap, fiddling with the pop top as if searching for words.
“It’s terrible listening to people spread rumors about someone you love. Listening to them speculate about what happened, how they died, whether they were having an affair.” She waved a hand in the air. “It goes on and on. But my mom and Phillipe, at least they didn’t have to hear it and see it. They aren’t here to read what people are posting on social media. To feel the weight of eyes when they walk into a room. To overhear people speculating about their life and death as if they don’t have feelings, as if they didn’t exist.”
Rosemary’s pain emanated from her in waves. His chest ached with empathy, but he didn’t agree with her logic.
“I’d rather have Phillipe alive, even if it meant public embarrassment.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean that. What I meant was...” She hesitated, the sound of her flicking the pop top loud in the quiet room. “Imagine being the one dying but not being dead. Imagine having a terminal illness and people you barely know thinking it’s perfectly acceptable to grill you about your doctors, your treatments, and your prognosis. Asking you if cancer runs in your family. Asking you what your symptoms are. Asking how you realized you were sick. Having the nerve to ask you,to your face, how long you have to live.”
She released a long, slow breath and lifted her gaze. Her eyes had grown dim and somber.
“They looked at me as if I was already dead. As if I wasn’t a person anymore. I was a curiosity. An interesting, gruesome topic of conversation that, somehow, they couldn’t let go. Most people, even my friends, stopped seeingme. They only saw the cancer that was killing me. How I can be so reasonable? I had to be. I had to find a way to understand the obsession with death or hate was going to destroy me. I think that’s where you are now. If you don’t find a way to process your grief and anger, it’s going to consume you. I know. I’ve lived it.”
Her strength and compassion tugged on the knot of torment and outrage that was tangled tightly in his chest. She was right. His grief and anger were slowly burning him alive, but after talking to her tonight, the jagged edges of his pain had softened a bit. For the first time in two years, he’d spoken about Phillipe and felt better, not worse. Maybe Rosemary could be the key to helping him heal.
But for her to help him heal, he was going to have to tell her the whole truth of his pain. The cold facts he’d provided his superiors, the one-word answers he’d offered the psychologists, the icy stares he’d given his colleagues—they weren’t going to cut it.
Phillipe’s memory deserved more.
Rosemary deserved more.
* * *
Rosemary took another drink of her fruity, bitter beer while she waited. Aleksei’s face was impassive, but his eyes churned. What had begun as a predictable evening of theater had morphed into laughter, rain, anger, sadness, and souls laid bare.
The night was as crooked as her stepfather, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
She wanted to know Aleksei. Really know him. In her opinion, a relationship wasn’t real if it wasn’t completely honest. The question was, now that he’d gotten a handle on his emotions, would he still be open with her?
He reached out, resting his long, lean fingers on her bent knee. She could feel the warmth of his hand through her jeans and the blanket.
“You’re right. I’ve been completely wrapped up in myself. My mom told me the same thing, but I didn’t listen.”
“I guess she’s not one for gentle parenting?” she asked, trying to lighten the moment.
A chuckle rumbled in Aleksei’s chest, erasing some of the pain in his expression. “My mom is a determined woman. She doesn’t mince words or hold her tongue. She told me I was wallowing in self-pity, and it was time to get over myself. I think her exact words were, ‘Get your head out of your ass and see a therapist. The wounded, distant, tough guy thing is getting old fast.’”