“Oh.” Jack Bolton looks me up and down and nods slowly. “Well, that’s quite a combination. Care to elaborate?”
I hesitate and he takes the hint.
“Never mind,” he says. “Come on, let’s go inside. Have you eaten?” he asks us as he leads Kristi inside, his protective arm still around her.
“No,” Kristi answers.
I follow them, trailing behind like a lost puppy. I haven’t felt this pathetic in years. A decade, in fact.
They stare at me with suspicion and questions… and blame. Aunt Rachel, who was always my favorite, narrows her eyes at me as I walk past and take a seat in the small living room. I fold my hands in my lap, pressing them together so hard they ache, and stare at them. Not daring to lift my head.
“What happened, Daisy?” they all ask. It’s like, simultaneous. That demand comes out of their mouths in various forms and tones. But it all leads back to the same thing everyone has been hinting at since I came back.
What did you do to bring this tragedy upon our family?
Kristi, Jack, and I travel through the main lobby of the resort, which is decorated Santa Fe-style to match the desert exterior. My eyes are all over Jack Bolton and I am insanely jealous. I haven’t thought about him in a long time, but I had a big brother once. I had a home, too. And parents.
I’m not talking. I decided that back in the hospital. I’m not talking. I’m not saying one word to these people. The nurses were nice but they started asking me questions that I not only didn’t understand, but scared me to death. Sex, I knew they were asking me about sex. Did he touch me? What does that mean? Of course he touched me. Did I fight him? I don’t understand that one either. Of course I fought him. Did he hurt me? That one I get, but that was after the other two. Maybe if they had started with did he hurt me, I’d have talked…
I want my mom and dad and brother so badly right now. I should call Bebe and my other parents, but I can’t. I feel like it would be a monumental step backwards to run to them with this grief. After all they did for me—after all the time and effort and, yes, love, they poured into me to make me better—admitting I’m not OK, that I’ve been hiding behind a name, would be a slap in the face.
Kristi, Jack, and I arrive at the cafe before all those memories begin to surface and then I force myself to come out of the past—out of my nightmare—and try my best to live in my prefabricated fantasy.
I desperately need that fantasy life. Reality is really not my thing. Because my reality is… my entire family is dead. And now that I think about it, I remember something else Vaughn Asher asked me something last night. Isn’t it better to live?
But when you are the reason your whole family is dead… then no. No, it’s not better to live. How do I live with the guilt of knowing I’m the reason they were murdered?
Chapter Two
#ThingsYouCantUnknow
“TALK TO me, Ray. How is no one tracking that car? How is the paparazzi not tracking that car?”
“They gave them the slip on the Strip, V. That crazy football wife bossed her way through traffic and made a turn. Then they just lost them.”
“Is that a rental car? Did someone get plates?”
“I don’t think it’s a rental car, it’s got a temporary plate taped to the back window. But the tint is so dark, no one could read them. I put a call into Johnny Blazen, but he hasn’t gotten back to me.”
Fuck. I scrub a hand down my face and just stand in the middle of my hotel bedroom. “We need to find Grace, Ray. Before the media does. I don’t think they know any more than they are reporting at this point, but Conner said that there’s more to her story and whatever that more is¸ I don’t want Grace to see it on TV before we find her.”
“I understand, boss.” Ray says that in his I’m-here-to-fix-things voice. “No matter who that car belongs to, it has to have GPS and is probably linked to a private security system that can access the location of the vehicle. So I’ll keep trying Blazen and see if we can’t figure out which room is his from hotel sources.”
“OK, thanks.” I end the call and walk over to the bed and sit down.
My bare feet can’t help but appreciate the soft sheepskin rug and that makes me smile. Grace brought it in here last night so that the first thing she would feel when she got up to start her day was the soft fur. I lean over and pick up the empty champagne bottle. We did drink a lot of champagne last night.
Does she really not remember?
God, that kills me. I mean, I knew we were both pretty drunk by that point, but hell, I had no idea she was that drunk. I’d never do that against her will. That’s just wrong.
And if she really doesn’t remember, there’s a chance she could remember at any moment. What if something jogs her memory and we’re not together to discuss it?
Ah, fuck. I grab my hair with both fists. “Fuck! Why does this have to happen now? Of all times?”
I turn on the TV and flip on the cable news. Midday news is mostly gossip and right now the Bellagio, Grace Kinsella, Vaughn Asher, Johnny Blazen, and Kristi the Fiancée are the only things people are talking about.
And then the picture of Daisy Bryndle goes up. Grace, age thirteen. The murder scene at her home, a farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere. The missing child reports that went out all over the country as they searched for her. Both as a suspect in the murder of her family and as an abducted child.
So confused were authorities on how to process the scene in a way that made sense, Grace was even on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. It was removed less than forty-eight hours after issue, but that’s not the point. A thirteen-year-old girl was on the FBI Most Wanted List. But they had to put someone on the list, I guess. They had no suspects other than Grace, even though it was highly unlikely that she would’ve been able to commit these murders alone.