Page 111 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
She had just skipped over assuring him they would never smother him while he was in a coma to… to rationalizing their motives. Their motives for… what? More murder?
“Your father was… well, you remember him.” She huffed in disbelief. “Irresponsiblewas a kind term. But you… when you were a boy and visited us, you impressed Albert and me with how clever you were, how quick to learn, how eager to serve. Even at seven you understood what the business meant to the family, and you looked at your father with such wonderment as if you couldn’t believe he could throw it all away.”
Benedict gripped the phone so hard, his fingertips grew cold. “I loved my father.”
“Of course you did, but it all came out for the best.”
“Whatcame out for the best?”
“All of it. Their deaths, you coming to us, Merry Byrd being hurt and you being hurt, too. Who could have imagined that would happen, or that you would have had such a difficult recovery?”
He breathed carefully, in and out, regulating his intake and his outflow. “It all came out for the best because it gave you time to get her away?”
“Oh, please. As soon as Nauplius Brassard went to her and offered to make her pretty, she leaped at the deal. Look where she is now—a beautiful, wealthy widow! If the two of you had stayed together, she would be nothing but a frumpy do-gooder and you would be frustrated with her lack of foresight.”
His door opened.
The beautiful, wealthy widow walked in, and quietly shut and locked the door behind her.
Rose continued harping in his ear. “You’d be always holding some snotty-nosed baby, or opening some women’s shelter or giving money to a homeless bum. No, dear, after the air had cleared, your uncle and I were satisfied we had made the right decision in regards to your little infatuation with Merry Byrd.”
She had not only admitted to attempted homicide, she justified it, and now she waited for him to agree. What kind of man was he that she thought such a thing? If he hadn’t seen Merida Falcon on that transatlantic crossing, recognized her on some primal level, pursued her and recovered the woman he loved… would he someday have become the man Albert and Rose wanted him to be? A man like them: merciless, amoral, loving profit above all things?
Merida looked at him, looked hard at him, then went to the electric tea kettle. Still watching him, she filled it with water, plugged it in and turned it on.
“Benedict? Are you there?” Rose asked.
“I’m here.” With Merry—but he wouldn’t tell Rose that.
“Did you discover what is going on with our business accounts?”
He laughed once, a guard dog’s bark of a laugh. “Aunt Rose, I think I did discover what’s wrong with our business accounts.”
Merida looked surprised, but not alarmed.
With complete assurance, he said, “In fact, I know I did. Let me do more fact-checking and you’ll have all the information you need.”
“That’s good, dear.” Rose sounded satisfied, as if she believed she’d talked sense into her nephew. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m old and tired, and Albert and I need our beauty sleep.”
“Yes, Aunt Rose. Of course. Sleep now.” He hung up, dropped the phone on the floor and sat down in the easy chair next to the bed. His hands dangled between his knees, and he flexed his fingers, trying to get the circulation flowing.
Merry came to him, knelt in front of him exactly as he had knelt in front of her. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything… has changed. I’ve been… a fool. I didn’t recognize you and I didn’t realize… all these years I didn’t know…” He looked down at Merida. “Aunt Rose. She said… they tried to kill you. And I think… I suspect they killed my parents.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Merry made Benedict a cup of herbal tea. She brought it to him, wrapped his hands around it and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.
He took one sip and flinched. “What is this?”
“It’s chamomile. It’s late and you’re upset. You can’t process caffeine efficiently, not so late at night. Just drink it.”
He laughed, stopped, laughed again. “How could I have not recognized you? You’re the same as you always were.”
“No, I’m not.” This scene wasn’t how she’d pictured this at all. She had thought she would be a supplicant, asking for the truth. Instead, he looked like ten miles of bad road.
“Organic. Homemade. Herbal. Meditation.” He imitated her voice. “‘Everyone can in their own way make a difference.’”
