Page 54 of Written with Regret (The Regret Duet 1)
She gave me a curt nod in understanding, and I headed for the front door, lifting the phone to my ear.
I hadn’t talked to Trent in weeks. I’d been trying to get in touch with him since Hadley had shown up at the birthday party, but admittedly, I hadn’t been trying hard. Trent and I didn’t have that kind of relationship. We talked twice a year whether we needed to or not, and he and his wife, Jennifer, would come down to visit two other times. The calls usually aligned with the visits for planning purposes. And since they’d left our place less than two months earlier, it wasn’t time for either.
“About damn time you called me back,” I grumbled as a greeting while walking outside to wait for Hadley—and get out of earshot.
“You rang,” he droned in his best Lurch impression.
“I rang twice in the last two weeks.”
“Does rich, neglected Caven need me to hang up and call back to make up for the second time?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re an asshole.”
“But you have to admit I’m really good at it.”
Jennifer shouted in the background, “Hey, Cav!”
I sank to the cold brick step. “Tell her I said hey.”
“He says fuck off. I think he’s mad at you for not calling him back last week,” Trent told her.
“That is not what I said.”
Jennifer knew better. Laughing, she replied, “He didn’t call my phone, smartass.”
“Ah, right,” Trent said. “So, what’s up, little brother. How’s Rosie?”
“Pretty good. She’s just cleaning up the glitter in the dining room with Hadley.”
“Did you fire Alejandra?”
“Nope,” I said, waiting for her name to click in his head.
“You got a new girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Then who is Hadl—Oh, shit!” Yep. There it was. “Are we talking about Hadley Hadley? Rosalee’s womb donor Hadley?”
“Hadley Banks. And yes.”
I heard his recliner snap as he no doubt jumped to his feet. “What the fuck, Cav? When the hell did she get back?”
I put my elbows to my knees. “About two weeks ago.”
“And I’m just hearing about it now?”
“I called.”
“Twice. In two fucking weeks. That says to me you stubbed your toe on a stack of cash, not that the mother of your child suddenly reappeared out of nowhere. Goddamn it. Did someone amputate your thumbs? You could have sent a fucking text letting me know it was urgent.”
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s been a fucking mess over here.”
If I knew Trent, he was pacing as he demanded, “Dammit. Start from the beginning. But give me the abridged version so we can get to the part to why she’s in your goddamn house and not the city’s jail.”
There was only one part of the long, sordid story he was going to care about, so I went there first. “She was at the mall. Her parents died there.”
“What. The. Fuck,” he breathed before his voice grew to a shout. “What the fucking fuck! How is that possible? You met this woman in New York, right? Does she know who you are? Does she know about Dad?”
“Yeah. She came looking for me after she saw Kaleidoscope on the news and wanted pictures of her dead parents.”
“Right, so obviously the way to get that is through the dick of the man responsible for her parents’ murder. Makes perfect sense.”
My back shot straight, the hairs on my arms standing on end. “I’m not fucking responsible for that shit.”
It was a lie. I was absolutely responsible, but he didn’t get to blame me. No one got to fucking blame me. God knew I blamed myself enough without owning someone else’s feelings as well.
He groaned. “That’s not what I meant. I know you’re not responsible. Dad did that shit. No, strike that. Malcom did that. But I’ve been a cop long enough to know that victims need someone to blame. It wouldn’t matter if you were Malcom Lowe’s mailman. Victims will still rationalize a way to hold you responsible for doing your damn job delivering the unmarked package of ammunition to his house. This is why we changed our last name. To avoid the stigma of being related to that piece of shit. So this makes no goddamn sense that she would come to you knowing you were related to that man. I bet she’s fucked up in the head. Probably has a shrine to Malcom at her house.”
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the door was still closed and kept my voice low. “She’s not fucked up in the head. Well, no worse than I am.”
“It’s been two weeks. You can’t possibly know that. Why the hell did you let her in your damn house? Does Rosie know she’s her mother?”
“No. Relax. Rosalee doesn’t know anything. Look, I’m not happy about this, either. But she showed up squeaky clean. She’s got money, a good lawyer, no record.”
“Do not give me that bullshit. She lifted over ten grand worth of property from your apartment.”
