“Shannon, calm the fuck down.” He took the paper, wondering what bullshit the man was filling her head with from beyond the grave. His eyes skimmed down through the note. That son-of-a-bitch. Even in his goddamned last fucking words, he couldn’t own up and take responsibility for his own fuckups. No, he had to put the blame on someone else. This time apparently, him. Crash’s eyes lifted to Shannon. “This is a load of crap, babe.”
“You didn’t say those things to him?” She nodded toward the paper.
He looked down and read.
It’s been pointed out to me what a failure I’ve been to my family and especially my oldest daughter. How wanting the best for someone was construed as trading her away to save myself. It isn’t true, what he accused me of, Shannon. I didn’t turn you over to a monster with no regard for your happiness or even your safety. He accused me of doing that to keep myself out of prison. When I said I only wanted the best for my daughter, he told me the best I could do for you was to blow my own brains out.
I’m sorry if I waited too long.
“Jesus, Shannon. Even in his death, he’s gotta pass the blame and dole out a helping of guilt to go along
with it. This is a crock of shit.”
“Did you say those things to him? When you visited him at his office, is that what you did, is that what you said to him?”
“Baby….”
“Did you say those things?” she practically screeched at him.
Crash blew out a breath. “Yeah. I said them, and I meant every word.”
“You told my father to blow his brains out?”
“Baby, don’t do this. Don’t let him rip us apart.”
“Did you say that to him?”
“I said a lot of shit. I was angry. I was trying to get him to tell me where Ralston had Angel.”
“Are you going to stand there and tell me my father was a part of that now, too?”
“Baby…”
“Just get out.”
Crash looked at her stunned. His chest felt like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him. “Shannon-”
“Go! We’re done! I don’t want you here. Get out!”
Crash swallowed. He knew there wasn’t a damned thing he could say to her now that she would even listen to. He turned and strode out of the room and got the hell out of there. Fuck this shit. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need her. But even as the thought went through his brain, he knew it was a lie.
*****
Four days later…
Shannon walked tiredly into her old bedroom. She sat down at her dressing table and slipped out of the black heels that matched the black sleeveless sheath dress she’d worn to her father’s funeral. Reaching down she rubbed her feet. It had been a long day, between the church service, the procession to the cemetery and the graveside service. Then of course, closest family, friends and business associates had all been invited back to their home for coffee and cake.
It was past seven in the evening now, and all Shannon could think about was taking a long hot bath and crawling into bed. Her mother’s physician had prescribed Shannon something to help her through the stress, but Shannon hadn’t wanted to use them. She was afraid it would become all too easy to become dependent on them, and the last thing she wanted to do was fall into that trap.
In all the time she’d spent with Crash, he’d helped her to be able to sleep without resorting to the sleeping pills that she’d become all too dependent on or the anxiety medicine that she’d used like a crutch for so many years. With Crash, she’d learned to deal with her feelings without chemical help. He’d given her the faith to try with his quiet strength. He always calmed her, just by being near her. His arms around her, his mouth at her ear, just his touch could calm her like no pill ever could.
And now he was gone.
Shannon stared into the mirror above her dressing table. Her hand went to her throat, picking up the pendent that hung around her neck. She rubbed it with her thumb and forefinger like a talisman. It gave her strength. She closed her eyes and thought of him, remembering his hands on her. She tried to imagine him coming up behind her now and wrapping her in his arms, his mouth at her ear, whispering, telling her it was all going to be okay.
She opened her eyes. There was no use wishing things had gone differently. He was gone. She hadn’t heard from him since she’d ordered him out four days ago. She’d thought maybe he’d call, or come by the funeral home or the church to pay his respects. She’d even scanned the cemetery, hoping to see him standing on the peripheral at the gravesite. But he hadn’t come. She’d told him they were done, and he’d apparently taken her at her word.
Movement in the mirror caught her eye, and she looked up. And then she was spinning around on her dressing stool to see Crash standing there, moving out of the shadows by the French doors that led to the veranda. “Crash.”