Ian didn’t seem to hear him. “I avoided prison, partly because I made restitution to the bank for not only my share of the heist, but the other men’s. They still did time though, but reduced sentences.”
Simon wanted to yell, what the fuck does this have to do with my wife? But he didn’t have the voice.
That had gone too. The last part of him to shut down.
“And let’s guess, you didn’t get that money from collecting bottles and cans. Who did you sell your soul to, asshole? And why is Margo paying for it?”
Simon tipped back his head. For once, his best friend was saying exactly what he wished he could.
If he could even stand to talk to that bastard.
“My stepfather. And my mum. Our mum.”
Our mum was on repeat in Simon’s head.
“I don’t have a fucking mother.” Simon locked his jaw. “Just like I don’t have a brother.”
Ian didn’t flinch. Nor did he look away.
“She’s obsessed with you.” Ian let out a racking laugh. “I didn’t even realize how much.”
Simon took a step forward, his palms tingling. It would be so easy to finish this out. He didn’t want to hear this bullshit. He wanted Margo found. Would fucking find her himself.
But these pieces would help. Logically, he knew that, just as he understood Donovan and Lila would make sure the proper steps were being taken when he was incapable of doing so.
Sometimes it felt as if he’d joined a cult instead of signed on with a record company, but here and now, he was grateful for Lewis’s high-handedness.
He hadn’t been when Donovan’s security people had followed Simon to where he’d discovered Margo’s car off the side of the road on the way to the house—their house—and insisted he come with them, that Lewis would take care of all of it.
Simon had fought them. Raged and shoved and shouted at a sky that hadn’t given a shit about his feelings of futility.
He’d seen her blood in that car. Not much. Just a few drops. But it had been enough to send him to his knees and make him retch on the side of the road like the wino he’d once been.
Never had he craved alcohol since he’d quit like he had today.
Never had he given less of a shit if he fucking incinerated his vocal cords.
Without her, he didn’t have a voice left. She was his everything. He was amazed his heart continued to beat and blood continued to flow in his veins. Nothing should work without her.
Nothing could.
Ian was still talking. Something about a man named Jerry, who’d been the one in charge of collecting Ian’s debt. The man who’d hatched a plan to bilk Simon out of money to pay for the return of his mother, who was unfortunately being held against her poor little will.
Or so the story went.
Simon laughed, so hard that tears sprung to his eyes. He laughed until his throat was as raw as Ian’s, or damn close.
“If you believe for a second that I would pay one fucking dollar for her, you’re not only a lowlife, you’re a moron too.” Simon wiped his arm across his face. His eyes were damp, but he didn’t care. It was a goddamn miracle he was still on his feet.
“I figured that out today, but I was too late. I was so goddamn late.” Ian coughed and took a step toward the table where everyone was clustered, and then he thought better of it and stayed where he was.
First smart move he’d made.
“She called me today. Our mum. My mum,” he corrected when Simon turned away and braced his arm against the wall.
Even pressing his streaming eyes against his flexed forearm didn’t begin to stem the tears. It was as if once the manic bout of laughter had shaken them loose, there was no stopping them.
“All this time, I’d been pushing them off. Jerry especially, since my mum played the role of the broken woman who was under his control. She played it better than an actress. I was the fool who fell for it, again and again.” Ian exhaled raggedly. “I sent them the money I made. As much as I could spare. I didn’t have a lot yet, but I didn’t want to do this. God, I didn’t want to do it.”