Page 34 of Cry Madness
“I do appreciate it,” I snap. “My God, Mother. Of course I do, but I also got to know Rook. He’s a heinous little rat. A disgusting bully, who scurried the very second after I reported him to the cops because he knew he’d lost control of the situation.”
“I warned you to stay away from that man,” she murmurs.
“I tried to stay away from him, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I’m to blame for what he did. In fact, I clearly remember telling you that Rook creeped me out, and you were the one who told me not to be… What were your exact words? Oh, right, ‘don’t be hasty.’ It’s not my fault that he’s a deranged piece of shit who refused to take no for an answer.”
“There you go, always with the dramatics,” Katherine remarks, stoking the flames of my temper. “I never said you were to blame, and how was I to know how awful things had gotten?”
“Because I told you. I told you I was scared of him. I told you he was popping up like a goddamn whack-a-mole everywhere I went.”
“I don’t appreciate your tone, nor your accusations,” she states coldly.
“And I don’t appreciate—” But I stop myself, take a deep breath, and pull back on what I want to say to her. “It’s whatever. I’m done fighting with you about this.”
“Everything okay between you two?”
Harrison Wentworth, who has taken on the exhausting role of referee between Mom and me, walks up behind his wife, wraps his arms around her waist, and kisses her cheek. I’m still not used to this, seeing another man be affectionate with her. They met while I was at Krobes, visiting me only once, a year ago, to tell me they were getting married. The news hit me hard, but it could have been even more devastating if Harrison had been a jerk. Instead, Harrison is English, with an aristocratic aura that can be misconstrued as pompous. But that impression vanished the moment he smiled. I wanted to hate him, tried to hate him, but he’s kind and funny, and, for whatever reason, he adores my mother. He’s also good to me, showing extraordinary patience while I still work out the nature of our relationship. I suppose if he’d barreled into my life intending to take my dad’s place, things between us would have been fraught with tension. Instead, he understands I’m still uncomfortable calling him my stepfather. Will that eventually change? Possibly. But for now, we’ve settled into a relaxed friendship.
My dad would have liked him.
He’s even good at chess.
I haven’t played against him. I’m not quite there yet, the game having been a thing with me and my dad. Perhaps one day, I’ll sit across from him and give him a run for his money, but not today. He hasn’t pushed on it, and for that,I’m grateful.
“It’s all good,” I announce. “Mom was telling me about her conversation with Officer Monroe.”
“Oh?” Harrison leans away to look around my mother, frowning at her. “You didn’t tell me Monroe called.”
She half turns, her smile as fake as the rest of her. With a wave of her hand, she says, “Like I told Alice, it was a routine check-in, nothing more. They’re still running into dead ends trying to locate that awful man.”
Harrison’s shoulders slump. With atsk, he unwraps his arms from Katherine and rests his hand on top of the square, wrought iron newel post. “I’m sorry, Alice, truly.”
“It is what it is.” Shrugging, I add, “At least he’s staying away from me.”
“After what that bloody bastard did to you, I wish he’d show his cowardly face here.” When it comes to Harrison, looks are deceiving. Beneath the tidy tan trousers and sage-colored polo shirt is the muscular physique of a retired squadron leader for the Royal Air Force. He’s a crack shot and still works out five days a week. He’s also rich as fuck, which was the only reason why my mother married him.
“He won’t,” I say with a sigh, but I’m not at all confident about that.
“Joining us for dinner?” Harrison asks.
Nodding, I say, “Sure.” This is rare because sitting at a table across from my mother ruins my appetite. But Harrison, bless him, is trying his level best to glue Katherine’s and my tattered relationship back together. And I let him, because it’s easier to give an inch here and there than live in a constant state of war with her.
I don’t get three steps inside my room when I see it, on my dresser, bold as you please. What the actual fuck? I slap a hand over my heart, each wild beat slamming against mypalm.
No.
One hundred percent, no.
Absolutely not.
Icy fingers of dread skid down my spine, and when I glance at the French doors, I’m relieved to see they’re still locked. Nothing is displaced, disturbed. Only this iced coffee is resting on a bed of red rose petals to prove that anyone was here.
No, that’s not true. There’s also a folded piece of paper with my name scrawled across it in familiar handwriting.
Fucking Maddox.
Twice now, he’s ambushed me with a note. This time, though, he’s been inside my house, inside my room—in broad daylight.
That ballsy bastard.