Page 17 of Scorned Beauty

“Aren’t you going to check your message?”

“I have no pressing matters to attend to, so it can’t be important. If it’s Billy, he’s on his own.”

“You shouldn’t judge your brother that harshly.”

Billy was a sore subject between us. I felt resentful for how Harriet had such compassion for my brother when he screwed up over and over. He was the reason why I nearly missed a payment for Harriet’s stay at Delphine, because Billy somehow overspent his cut of the deal he made between the Russians and the Albanians. If it weren’t for Sandro and Bianca and the jobs they threw my way with a generous tip that was more than what the job cost, I wouldn’t have been able to resume nursing schooland keep up with the Delphine payments. “He’s the reason why I’m still at nursing school, eight years later.”

“The cleaning job pays, though.”

I caught myself from lashing out. Harriet never asked for my help. I offered it. I loved helping people who had no expectations. That was probably why every scrape that Billy found himself in was like nails on a chalkboard because he expected me to bail him out.

“So going back to that young man,” Harriet said while carefully sitting in the armchair. Ginger immediately hopped on her lap and started kneading her thighs.

“Not talking about him. Nothing there.” I started putting the groceries away.

“How about the one who took over my apartment?”

“Phil Harding? I hardly see him. He travels.”

“You said he asked you out.”

“And I said no.” Although I didn’t want to explain that I had a grueling series of awful clinical rotations where I’d seen enough penises, balls, slits, boobs, and asses that seeing someone in clothes was a novelty. The desire to get naked with someone was nil until Dom propositioned me.

Ginger, thankfully, had commanded Harriet’s attention, and it gave me an opportunity to check my phone. Dom sent me a message.

Dom

Just text me when you’re done.

Me

Leave me. Do boss things. I’ll find my way home.

I didn’t wait for him to reply and gave my full attention to Harriet. She was a true crime aficionado and took part in severalmessage boards. A hot topic right now because it was local to the tristate area was the reemergence of the Mistress Strangler. I kept asking her questions about the case so she wouldn’t remember to press me about Dom. And I succeeded. Ninety minutes later, I was on my way out with Ginger when I spotted the facility administrator.

“Hi, Miss Sheila!” I called out.

She was a tall Black woman with locs and spectacles. She smiled when she saw me, but there was a trace of sadness in her eyes.

Oh no.

“Sloane, I’ve been meaning to call you about your Capstone proposal.”

As part of a nursing student’s last semester, I had to present a case study with a practical application. My project was assisted living facility improvement. Capstone wasn’t merely a thesis. It was based on real-world issues more than theory.

I braced myself.

“The board is not keen on a nursing student studying our operations. There is no money to spend on improvement.”

“It’s a proposal. They can take it or leave it,” I said.

“They’re also concerned you’re going to take too much of the staff’s time, and I can’t push your agenda right now if I want to hire more people.”

What she wasn’t telling me was they didn’t want anyone poking in their business. It was the wrong time for me to be invested in something like this because nursing homes had come under scrutiny for neglect, staffing issues, and lack of training in senior care.

I blew out a breath, deflated. “Thanks for trying.”

“I’m sorry, Sloane.”