Page 100 of One Last Rainy Day
“So, try not to worry too much.” I nudge her shoulder, and she gives me a rare, full smile.
After a silent but peaceful drive home, I lead her into the house to get her settled, my chest aching a little at her admissions and the isolation she’s endured for so long. We dwelledin the same state of desperation, both recluses for fucking years, never mending the bridge even as we both suffered the same type of existence. She wasted half her life as an alcoholic recluse to heartbreak because every single man in her life had failed her—robbed her of security at every turn. It started with her father and ended with her husband and every man between those two. Despite her admirable resilience up until her husband left her, that final blow had her withdrawing, drinking her secrets silent with her daily bottle until her existence was nothing but background to others who were living.
The idea that we are a lot alike in some of those respects starts to instill a sort of fear in me.
The minute we step into the house, the scent of lemon and other household chemicals hits hard, jarring me. Clicking on the light, I spot a notice on top of an empty plant stand for a recent extermination. Glancing around, I see that the house is spotless—the shelves are dusted. Walking into the kitchen, I open the cupboard and see the dishes have been washed and neatly stacked. Glancing over at Delphine as she settles in her recliner, she answers my unspoken question without so much as looking at me. “She didn’t want you to know, but now you do.”
Cecelia.
Instantly, the liquid passing through the beat in my chest solidifies her name inside before passing through to the other.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
I can’t even imagine the reception she was met by when she showed up.
Chest aching with the need to get to her, panic briefly seizes me. “Fuck, did she—”
“No,” she squelches that fear, reading my thought. “His room is still locked.”
When she finally looks at me, I see that same guilt I saw the night Cecelia knelt at her feet begin to seep into her expression.
“What?” I ask, walking over to where she sits and crossing my arms. “We’ve been sharing bluntly all night, Tatie. Why stop now?”
“I’ve wronged her,” she whispers low, gaze distant, “in the past.”
“Wronged Cecelia?”
She nods, her eyes watering.
Fuck.
“It’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever done.” Her eyes gloss with memory. “When I—” she shakes her head as a sharp pang of protectiveness thrums through me.
“Tell me,” I demand.
“It was a long time ago,” she assures.
“I’m listening.”
“When I worked at the plant. I told you...I was close to her mother, Diane, for a short time.”
I nod.
“After they died, I knew she knew what happened and that Roman had something to do with it. I was angry.”
“Delphine, what did you do?”
“Cecelia was an infant,” she whispers as if her timbre will have any bearing on the delivery. “I got really drunk and broke into her mother’s house.”
“And?”
“I put a loaded gun in Cecelia’s crib,” she grimaces, “while she was sleeping in it.”
“Jesus Christ, Tatie.”
“I wanted to send a message to Roman that we knew that fire wasn’t an accident.”
