Hush (Black Lotus #3) (16 page)

I don’t go after him right away. I allow him time to cool off as I sit by the window and look down over Millennium Park.

“Are you okay?”

I look up to Pike who stands next to me as he leans against the window, and I nod, because I’m scared if I talk, Declan might hear.

“It’s only natural for him to feel this way, you know?”

“I know,” I faintly whisper.

“Deep down he’s hurting. You have to help him carry the weight of that pain.”
Pike leans down and kisses the top of my head.
“Go talk to him.”

I stand and give my brother a hug, thankful that he’s always here with me.

“I love you,” I murmur in his ear.

“I love you too.”

Picking up the box, I walk over to the door and open it gently. I step out of the room and see Declan sitting on the couch in the living room. His elbows are propped on his knees and he’s resting his forehead on his fisted hands, staring at the floor. I set the box down on the coffee table and sit next to it, facing him.

My hands close around his fists, and he looks up at me with shame in his eyes, saying, “I’m sorry I lost it on you.”

“No.” I refuse his apology with a shake of my head. “You have every right to get your anger out. I’m the one who owes all the apologies, not you.”

“I thought those feelings were fading because we’ve grown so much closer these past couple weeks, but seeing that photo . . .”

“You could hate me forever, and it would be okay. I’ll love you regardless.”

He unclenches his hands and places them along my jaw while I still hold on to his wrists. I can see his emotions tormenting him when he confesses, “I don’t want to hate you.”

“It’s okay. I’m inherently yours.”

I jump when the phone rings loudly, putting an end to our conversation. I rush over to answer it and tell Manuel to send up the agent from Sotheby’s.

When I hang up, Declan walks to me and wraps himself around me. I hug him and listen to his heart, hoping I’ve reassured him enough to take the guilt of his feelings away from him. By the time the knock on the door comes, we’re both calm and in a better place since the outburst.

“Good morning,” the agent greets, shaking both mine and Declan’s hands. “I’m Ray; it’s nice to meet you.”

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Declan says. “We’re just pressed for time and need to get the ball rolling on this property.”

“Of course. If you don’t mind, can I take a look around?”

“Please.”

Declan waits in the living room while I show Ray around the penthouse as he takes notes and asks a few questions here and there. We then regroup as we sit down at the dining table.

“How many units was this originally?” Ray asks.

“It was four units before it was renovated into one.”

After a few more questions, he pulls the amenities sheet out and begins punching numbers on his calculator.

“First, can I ask you what number you had in mind?”

“I didn’t have one in mind. I don’t even know what my husband bought it for,” I respond, nearly wincing at the word
husband
, and it must be gnawing at Declan as well.

“When I combine everything together,” Ray begins, “I think a good starting point is looking close to ten point nine million for this unit.”

I don’t care what this place sells for; I just want to dump it. We won’t be keeping the money anyway. “Sounds good. When can we have it listed?”

“That honestly depends on you. As soon as you’re ready, I can send the photographer over to take pictures. Once that’s taken care of, we can have this property live on our site within twenty-four hours.”

“Great.”

“We need to make a few arrangements first,” Declan adds.

“Of course. Take care of what you need and call me when you’re ready to move forward.”

We stand, shake hands, and I walk Ray to the door, thanking him for his time.

“What arrangements?” I question after I close the door.

“We need to hire a packing service to clear everything out of here.”

“What are we going to do with all of it?”

“What about his parents? Can you give them a call and let them know you’re selling the apartment and see if they’d like us to have everything moved to a storage unit?”

“I suppose,” I respond, dread sinking in.

“It has to be done.”

“I know,” I sigh. “What about you?

“What do you mean?”

“They’re going to insist on seeing me. I mean, for all intents and purposes, I’m the daughter-in-law, and God only knows what they’re thinking about me after I high-tailed it out of the country immediately after Bennett’s funeral. If I meet them, you can’t come with me.”

“You’re not going to see them.” His edict isn’t one I want to argue with. “Go ahead and call them.”

I go to the kitchen and power up Bennett’s old phone so I can get his mother’s number. Before making the call, I take a deep breath.

“Put it on speakerphone,” Declan instructs.

After a few rings, the call’s connected.

“Hello?”

“Carol, it’s me, Nina.”

“Nina!” she exclaims. “My goodness, we’ve all been so worried about you. Are you okay, dear?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Where on Earth have you been?”

“Just traveling,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I ran off so quickly without saying anything, I just had to get away.”

“Where are you now?”

“Back in Chicago, actually, but only for a short while.”

“Can I come see you?”

I look to Declan, and he’s shaking his head.

“Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Carol.”

“Nina, you’re still a part of our family,” she says, her voice teetering on tears.

“I know, but it’s just easier this way. But listen, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Yes. What is it?”

“I’m putting the penthouse on the market.”

“You’re selling it?” The quiver of her voice turns to shock.

“It’s too much, and I’m not even here to use the space anyways. I can’t live here anymore, it’s too painful. Everything here reminds me of
him
,” I tell her feigning my sadness as a widow.

“I understand, it’s just hard to see something of his go.”

“I’ve packed up a few things to remember him by,” I lie. “But everything else, the furniture, his clothes . . . I was wondering if you could help me out.”

“Whatever you need,” she says. “How can I help?”

“Would it be okay if I had everything boxed up and sent to a storage unit?”

“Are you sure you don’t want any of it?”

“I’m sure. I can’t look at any of it anymore, it hurts too much,” I say with a voice overflowing in sadness. “I have to force myself to move on.”

“Move on?” she weeps.

“I’m sorry, but I have to . . . for me.”

“Please let me come see you, dear. Let me say goodbye to you properly and not over the phone.”

“I’m sorry, Carol. I just can’t. I’ll text you with the details of the storage unit once I can get everything arranged,” I say quickly and then hang up before anything else can be said.

I’m scared to look at Declan, scared to see his reaction to all my deceit. I keep my eyes down when I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room. I pick up my box and head over to the door where he meets me.

“Look at me,” he says, and when I do, I respond thickly, “I hate all of them.”

“I know you do, but you can breathe now. It’s over with and you don’t ever have to be a part of those people again.”

“I’m ready to go,” I tell him as he takes the box from my arms and we leave, locking the door on all the haunting memories that remain in that apartment.

I ONCE SAW
a poster that read
Art is an Attempt to Bring Order Out of Chaos
. I don’t remember where I saw it, but for some reason, I’ve always remembered it. Maybe that’s why my brother turned to sketching. Our lives were beyond chaotic. He didn’t start drawing until he was in his early twenties.

We used to ride the buses. It wasn’t because we needed to go somewhere; we rode them to
feel
like we were going somewhere. I’d sit next to him and watch as he sketched random passengers. He was talented. We both knew his talents would never get us out of the slums, but he didn’t do it because he had expectations; he did it to escape.

While Declan is with the columnist from
Forbes
, I flip through Pike’s sketchpad. I ghost my fingers over his lines, over his shadows, over every inch of paper that his hand would’ve touched. He drew me more beautiful than what reflects in the mirror. Every picture is amazing, and I wish people could’ve seen him the way I did. He was so much more than a drug dealer covered in tattoos that parents would shield their children from when they’d see him walking down the sidewalk.

He was a savior.

My savior.

The sound of the door unlocking catches my attention, and I’m happy to see Declan.

“Sorry that took so long,” he announces when he walks in and shrugs off his suit jacket.

He loosens his tie that’s tucked into the navy vest of the tailored three-piece suit he wore for the photos. Walking over to me, he leans over the couch I’m curled up on and kisses me.

“What’s that?”

“Pike’s sketchpad.”

He takes a seat next to me, asking, “May I?” as he holds his hand out.

I pass him the pad and watch as he looks through a couple of drawings.

“These aren’t bad,” he notes before turning to the next page that happens to be a sketch of me sleeping on a ratty couch we found at the Goodwill.

He stops and scans the image for a while before saying, “He loved you, didn’t he?” When I don’t respond, he looks at me and adds, “He’s drawn every detail perfectly down to the faint scar you have right under your left eyebrow.” He then traces the scar on my skin with his finger. “How did you get it?”

“I was thrown down a flight of stairs and busted my face up.”

“Your foster dad?”

“He was mad at me for . . .” I stop as shame builds.

“For what?” he presses, and when I still don’t respond, he says, “I don’t want you to hold anything back from me.”

I’ve already told him all the filth from my past, so I don’t know why this wave of embarrassment has come over me, but I push through it and answer him. “I’d been tied up and locked in the closet for a few days. I had been sick earlier that day and wound up not only defecating on myself but also throwing up. When he let me out, he was furious. He started kicking me in my ribs and then threw me down the basement stairs.”

He tosses the sketchpad onto the coffee table and pulls me into his arms quickly. I don’t cry, but that doesn’t mean the memories don’t inflict pain. Declan coddles me like one would a child, and I let him, because it feels good to be nurtured by him. His embrace is hard under his flexed muscles, but I find a way to melt into him anyway. I know he’s upset with what I just told him because I can feel the tension in his body, so I keep quiet to allow him to calm himself down, and he eventually does.

“I never got to see where Pike was buried,” I say after a good amount of time has passed.

“Why not?”

“I was scared. I was afraid to link myself to him and get busted for my con,” I explain. “When Bennett and Pike died, and when I thought you were dead too, I laid low. But since we’ve been back, I can’t stop thinking about where he is.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. He didn’t deserve to die like he did and to be left all alone,” I tell him through the heavy knot of sadness in my throat. “Do you think you can find out where he was buried?”

He reaches into his vest to pull out his cell, and without wasting a minute, asks, “Where did this happen?”

“He was living in Justice. It’s the same county as here.”

“What’s his full name?”

“Pike Donley,” I tell him.

He looks up the number to Cook County and is redirected to the coroner’s office. He stands to walk over to grab a piece of paper and a pen as I hear him ask, “Who claimed the body?” He continues to take notes and ask questions as my gut twists and tangles while I listen to one side of this conversation.

Patience escapes me, and I walk over to where he’s standing so I can read the notes he’s taken. Matt’s name is written on the paper. Declan ends the call and tucks his phone away.

“Why did you write down Matt’s name?”

“He’s the one that claimed the body. Who is he?”

“Um . . . just one of Pike’s friends.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah, he was Pike’s buddy since we were kids,” I tell him while still concealing the fact that it wasn’t too long ago he was calling me to bail him out of debt.

“Well, since no next of kin claimed the body within the allotted time, Matt was able to do so before cremation. He paid the state fee for an indigent burial.”

“What?” I blurt out, upset. “So what does that mean?”

“Nothing. Just that the state was in charge of the burial, that’s all.”

“Where is he?” My words increase in anxiety as the need to see his gravesite amplifies.

“Mount Olivet here in Chicago.”

“I have to go.”

“Elizabeth, you’re upset. Why don’t we take a little time and—”