Page 41 of Requiem & Reverie

With Nola snoozing away, I slide back out of her bed, check to make sure the windows are locked, and head down to the lower level of the house. My head is still spinning from the little field trip to the Conservatory, and I need something to smooth out the edges. When I arrive in the kitchen, I open her cupboard and find it stocked with bottles of whiskey.

What the hell’d she plan to do? Drink herself into a coma?

Rifling through the cupboards produces a shot glass, and I down a couple sips of whiskey, before heading back through the living room and out to her art studio.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, taking in the surrounding damage.

I lift a broken bowl from the floor, unable to identify its other pieces in all the rubble scattered about, and toss it back with the others. Woman did a number on the room.

Eyes still wandering the destruction, I fix my attention on a phone lying off to the side. This one different from the one I answered earlier.

I open it up to find the CryptoMail app and click on it. About six messages remain unread, and I click one that sounds like Nola wrote it, begging for her son’s life. I get a sense the others are more of the same, so I click on an older message, the first in the inbox, with the sender enticing her to play a game of trust.

Next, I check the texts where an address was given, and her response, letting him know she’d be there.

I’m guessing shit didn’t go down the way Carl hoped. Or Nola, for that matter.

Unless it did.

After all, he managed to separate her from her cop brother. Separate her from me. He’s slowly isolating her, making her weaker.

Breaking her down bit by bit, so he can slide in with ease.

I slam the phone down on the floor and hammer the wooden broom handle into it, smashing it to pieces.

A force hits me from behind, knocking me out of the way, and Nola falls to the floor, picking up broken pieces of the phone. “What have you done? What are you doing?”

Eyes filled with tears, she twists around, holding up the shattered remains. “What have you done!” Scrambling to her feet, she comes at me with both fists, pummeling my chest, kicking me back a step.

Holding tight to her elbows, I allow her to take her aggression out on me. Punching and kicking, pushing and scratching.

“That’s all I had!” She sobs, pounding away at my chest. “I’ll never see him again!”

“Tell me, Nola. What was your plan, if he messaged back? Tell me what you would’ve done if he’d given you a new location?”

“You know damn well! That’s why you did it! That’s why you destroyed it! You destroyed everything!”

Tightening my grip, I give one abrupt shake to silence her. “Listen to me! This is what he wants. To isolate you. To get you alone. Damn near feeding you breadcrumbs, to lure you in.”

“I would gladly hand myself over to him, if it means having Oliver safe. Gladly!” Another sloppy heave at my chest fails to move me, at all, this time.

“And what? You think Jonah would stand by and watch that? You think I would let you fall into his hands like that? You’re fucking crazy!”

“I still don’t even know who you are, Voss! I might’ve already fallen into the killer’s hands.” Her gaze dips to my grip of her arms. “How do I know you aren’t working with him? How do I know you didn’t help him get to Oliver?”

“You don’t.”

Her eyes shift, still dull from the alcohol that clearly hasn’t fully exited her system. With hasty movements, she fumbles at my belt, unbuttoning my pants, and shoves a hand down inside. A tight grip of my cock, sends my spine snapping to attention, and my fingers tighten around her elbows.

“Take me to him. I’ll do anything, Voss. I’ll get you off. I’ll go down on you right here, right now. Whatever you want me to. Just take me to see my son. I know you know where he is.” Tears spilling from her eyes, she stares up at me. “I know you know something.”

Guiding her hand from my slacks, I shake my head. “I don’t know, yet. I’m close, though.” So fucking close!

She crumples like an old wooden, rubber-band toy, and if not for my grip, she’d be a pile of loose bones on the floor. “I’m a shitty mother. I never deserved him. Never. It’s better if I give myself over for him. Better for him.”

Jesus Christ, she reminds me of my own mother, who endured years of abuse, I later learned, to keep my grandfather from hurting Carl and me. This was particularly true when my grandmother died, and he began seeking comfort in my mother. Sick and perverted comfort.

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up, Nola.” I swipe her legs out from under her, lift her up into my arms, and carry her back into the house. Still cradling her like a child, I sit down on the couch and grip her jaw. I want to shake the shit out of her right now, for the way she punishes herself. “Quit with that self-loathing bullshit, hear me, Star Wars?” I crash my lips to hers, letting the furious defeat pummel me from the inside out. I can’t help the urges this woman incites in me, though. This irrational need to own everything about her—even her pain. “That kid needs you. He needs his sharp and witty mom right now. Not this poor me crap.”