Page 97 of Powerhouse: Boxed Set
And one man I didn’t recognize.
He stood outside the ring of mourners in a black trench coat with a red scarf tucked under his neck. At first, I thought he was Tiernan, but he was shorter and broader, his hands free of tattoos. I thought I felt his eyes on me, but whenever I looked over, he was focused somberly on something else.
Tiernan was absent.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, because he’d proven himself to be a jerk, but I was embarrassingly hurt by his lack of attendance.
Did he really not care about Aida even though he’d asked her to move to New York with him?
Did he really have no sympathy for her children left behind in a turbulent wake of grief?
When I’d called him from the floor of Aida’s room, he had asked me to tell him what went wrong and listened silently while I stuttered over the words. When I was done, he said in so many words that he would take care of it for an undisclosed price and then hung up the phone, leaving me bewildered, angry, and achingly alone.
But things had happened.
The police had come and the EMTs.
Of course, Brando woke up and I had to explain what had happened.
He surprised me, because he didn’t cry. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his voice scratchy when he spoke as if he were recovering from a long sob fest, but he didn’t shed a single tear. Instead, he held fast to my hand, his Iron Man clutched in the other, and followed me around the house as I talked with the officers and the paramedics.
Then Child Protective Services arrived and wanted to separate Brando and me for the night. I’m not ashamed to admit I’d thrown a fit, yelling at the man who tried to take us, screaming at the cop who tried to forcibly calm me down.
A man had arrived.
Maybe “man” was an understatement.
He was huge like a giant out of Greek mythology. One hand could have easily palmed my entire head. Even the cops had stilled, prey poised for flight before a superior predator.
But the man, I learned later his name was Ezra, only went to the CPS agent and handed him a stack of papers. He was deaf, communicating on a small tablet as they conversed quietly together.
Ten minutes later, the reluctant agent took the papers, shot us a worried glance, and got back into his car to drive off.
Suddenly, I wished we were going with CPS.
But Ezra had simply introduced himself using his tablet and ushered us back into the house to pack our bags before taking us to the only nice hotel in our backwater town.
Brando and I sat curled up in one of the double beds, my little brother dozing and sniffling fitfully.
There had been a knock at the door and my heart gave a staggered attempt at taking flight, wondering if it was finally Tiernan.
It wasn’t.
Instead, a woman dressed like a Vogue advertisement opened the door, her dark red hair gleaming like rubies in the yellow light from the hall. She was beautiful and clearly wealthy, her expression blank as her eyes swept the room while she signed something to Ezra.
And then she saw us.
And that striking face broke open with sympathy.
All my life I’d seen that expression on people’s faces and hated it, but there was something about the way she approached us and extended a hand for us to shake that was devoid of pity.
Elena Lombardi was Tiernan’s lawyer, and she was there to facilitate the funeral arrangements and our placement with an appropriate guardian.
She was calm, efficient, and kind without being smothering. Talking to her made some of the tension knotting up my insides loosen and smooth away.
I doubted they would be able to track down our degenerate uncle who had disappeared on us years ago so we would probably be placed with foster parents or, best-case scenario, a nice couple looking to adopt. When I swore I wouldn’t be parted from Brando, Elena had only smiled slightly and place a manicured hand on my shin beneath the blanket.
“I didn’t think for one moment you would,” she assured. “I’m here to look after your best interests. Don’t worry, Bianca.”
