The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense (19 page)

“There you go,” Clearwater says as eyes stare at me as I lay on the floor of our living room, needles from the Christmas tree making it smell like pine.

I take another breath . . . Another. They hurt.

He holds out his hands and I take one, Lacey takes the other.

They pull me up. I turn and scoop up the package again.

I steady myself, slightly dizzy. Feeling like the lamest of fools. “I need some air,” I say, head down.

Clearwater nods. His partner's rootbeer brown eyes follow me out to the patio that overlooks Puget Sound. I let the smell of the sea overwhelm me as I lean against the railing, Lacey at my back.

“Brooke . . .” she begins and I hold up my palm. She continues anyway. “They mean well.” Lacey looks at me as she always does: determined to fix my problems, or just determined.

I nod.
I know.

I look over the water. How everything around me appears so normal. People walking in the chilled rain. Leaves lingering in trees too stubborn to release them.

The waves churning in angry abandon.

None of it cares that time doesn't move forward for those who grieve.

My chin dips to my chest and I sit down on the patio furniture, the temperature too cold for my light outfit of a simple black wrap dress, heels, and thin nylons. It's what I can manage.

All I can manage. Oh yeah, I brushed my teeth. I give a little hiccupy laugh.

Slowly, Lacey lowers herself opposite me. I look at her, round eyes meet mine, dark blond hair frames a face I've known since infancy, through dolls, makeup, boyfriends and now—death. “You don't have to do this, y'know.”

I nod. I know.

“The police have handed it over to the Feds . . . and they don't have any questions for me. I've been cleared,” I say and laugh. “So . . . it’s time.” Time to escape the inescapable; my guilt will get packed along with the rest of my emotional baggage. I take it wherever I go.

It sounds kinda like a sob.

Lacey reaches out and takes my hand.

“I'll miss you.” Her eyes search mine. “And for what it's worth, I think it's too soon. And, Brookie . . .”

Her use of my nickname makes a fat tear brim and roll from my swollen eyes.

“Your music,” she whispers.

“Fuck my music. I don't ever want to see another piano again,” I say with conviction birthed from pain. My voice comes out like a raw wound and Lacey flinches.

I inhale deeply, the cold salt in the air soothing my lungs, invigorating me.

“A fresh start, Lacey. It's what I need. No more music, no more . . . expectations.” I fling my hand around at the house.

“You don't have to sell this place,” Lacey says in a low voice.

“Why would I keep it?” I ask with heavy sarcasm. “What do I have to come home to?” I hiss, embracing my anger.

Stages of grief, y'know. Of course, the experts don't say how long each stage is, do they?

I think the anger stage will be awhile.

“And school?” Lacey cocks a brow and I cringe inside a little. Even though everyone at the university understands, the tragedy of my family’s death has sensationalized the small community of pianists. I am no longer a fellow pianist but tabloid fodder . . . the poor little girl forever marked by a brutal tragedy. Once a top contender for Juilliard, my hard-earned respect is now overshadowed by the infamous killings that seem to define me now.

Juilliard could suck it, there would be another . . . golden girl. Or guy. I fold my arms and Lacey knows when she's lost. Juilliard can’t have me now . . . because—I can’t have them. Music and the memories of my family are inexplicably linked. It's what I deserve, anyway. Why did I get to live when none of them did? I should have been here. Should have been with them.

“Okay,” she says in a quiet voice. “But you promise me . . . Promise me that you'll come back.”

Tears of anger masking my sadness run down my face. “I can't, Lace. I can't.” How can I play piano when they can't listen? How can I live here again when every space I breathe in has their absence in it? There would never be enough oxygen for me.

“Miss Starr,” Marshal Clearwater interrupts us.

I clear my throat, swiping at my wet face, which heats with embarrassment. “Yes,” I say.

He pauses, those dark eyes probing my own. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

I nod, expecting more . . . then he says the first positive thing I've heard, surprising me. “And good luck in Alaska.”

My hands tighten around the small box from Aunt Milli and I give the first smile of this miserable day of memorial for my murdered family.

“Thank you,” I say, the damp sea breeze lifting the hair at my neck.

He stares at me a moment longer, looking as if he wants to say more. Then he walks away.

Like everyone else.

My hands slide into that box and wrap around the present inside.

My flesh heats the solid brass key.

I hang on to it like the anchor of comfort it is.

It's hold on or sink.

May

Homer, Alaska

I cover my nose then cough. A plume of dust rises and I drop my hand.

What a dump.

I hear a horn beep and turn around. The taxi driver who gave me the ride from ERA, the local aircarrier, waves.

I give him the thumbs-up and he drives off. My eyes shift back to the run-down log cabin.  I keep my eyes on the wide plank door as I climb the thick steps, the deep graining and knots in the wood, loved by age, mellowed to amber- greet me. I look down at the key in my hand, wrapping suddenly cold fingers around brass that's stolen my warmth. I slide the gift from Milli into the surface lock and the tumblers slide and click apart. I push the heavy door inward and it opens with a whisper of sound.

The interior is as dismal as I expect.

Everywhere my eyes land is caked in dirt. Years of dust entomb every surface.

It'd take an act of goddamned Congress to clean this place up.

I sigh, trudge out to the cabin’s porch and carry in my suitcases one by one, four in all. I swipe the screen of my smartphone and see that it receives Internet.

Amazing.

Back on the porch, I scan the forty-acre spread, as open as it is achingly cloistered. The spruce trees scattered on the edge of a huge cliff accentuate the lonely frontier feel. Wild lupine shows green against grass that isn't awake with the late spring of this northern latitude. Fireweed shoots emerge between patches of snow.

I exhale sadly and haul the rest of my gear inside and survey the interior again.

Yup, it's still shitty.

I set my phone on the kitchen table , disturbing the dust, and put my things on the floor. I move to a crooked cupboard and open it, then open the rest, one by one. I leave them standing open like gaping, toothless mouths.

My eye catches something and I stand up straighter. In the vast nothingness of the lower kitchen cupboards I see a spot of color. I move closer.

It's a quilt. Large circles intertwine with one another, the patchwork reminiscent of the post–WWII era.

I know what kind of quilt it is: wedding ring.

My great-aunt Milli has slept beneath this. When she was younger than I am now.

A tight burning sensation begins deep in my chest and I know better than to contain it. I let the silent, unstoppable tears come.

The wildlife of my property doesn't mind my grief. I stand in the middle of my new home, clutching a quilt my great-aunt made with her own hands, knowing that this cabin is mine through the default of her death.

I wonder if I'll ever be right again
.

I don't deserve happiness. Because they can never have it again.

After an indefinite time, I lay the quilt over a ratty couch and lie down.

I fall asleep before my head hits the cushioned armrest.

My nose twitches at the musty smell.

My crushed heart still beats.

Somehow.

I wake with birds chirping outside the window. The pale light showcases things that though neglected were once loved. My eyes scan the scarred surfaces of antique dressers forgotten, mirrors whose silvered surfaces toss the light around the space. Pale green paint, like untouched sherbet, is crazed on the moldings that hold doors that have faded to a light amber. So much potential . . . so much age. So much. I shiver and roll over.

Potential doesn't keep me warm. I'm freezing my ass off. I sit up on the couch, the sunlight gray as it filters through the grimy glass of the cabin. Divided light windows settle into the center of enormous old log walls that intersect at the cabin's corners, the glass rippled , ancient. It looks like water's running over the panes. It's not, they're just that old.

I look around the interior again and stretch, yawning. My gaze stumbles on an old Toyo heating stove, maybe updated as recently as the 1970s.

Wonderful.

I move to it, arms folded over my chest, hugging my elbows. I crank the knob to
on
then hit a switch at the back of the old-fashioned stove. My eyes follow the flue as it snakes its way from the main body of the stove and plunges through the tall ceiling. It creaks to miserable life, ticking as it wakes up.

I realize that I don't know how it's being fueled and look to a fireplace, open and dark. Rough-hewn logs flank its sides and a matching log, split in half, acts as a mantel. The spruce has aged to a polished soft gold.

Of course, I'm just guessing at the color because everything is vintage beautiful with a layer of gray. And epic dust.

I sneeze and stand by the stove until it's too hot for me to tolerate. I move away.

Well, I guess this answers the question of propane delivery,
I think. I move aside a moth-eaten lace curtain, and my eyes immediately peg a rusty old tank in the backyard, peeling paint completing the rustic yard ornament. I let the curtain drop and walk over to the kitchen, which is part of the living room. My eyes move to the pair of doors that line the back wall and I walk over there, my exploring not quite finished. I push open the door to the right, the hinges protest softly and I catch sight of a shower pan with a curtain hanging off of eye hook of nickel that's worn thin to reveal brass. A steady drip of water falls, the sound exploding in a dull pop as it lands in the old porcelain cast iron. The commode stands in forlorn silence in the corner, a small window set high above it. To the right, a wall mount sink hangs off the log with a long chrome chain from the center of the taps that holds a rubber stopper at its end. I sigh, stepping back and shutting the door at the lovely vista. I turn in the tiny open hall, with just a partial wall that divides the kitchen from the small rooms. I move through the door at the left of the bathroom and a small bedroom stands before me. A full-sized bed, without bed linen, a small nightstand and two tiny windows, one at the north side and one at the south, open casement style round out the spartan room. A lonely glass kerosene lamp sits in a layer of dust on the nightstand. I back out, closing the door I sigh again.

This place is nothing like my parents’ six-thousand-square-foot home that I've sold. Out in the nothingness of this property, I could be at the end of the earth.

I feel like I am.

I walk back into the kitchen.I swallow hard and turn on the faucet above an ancient porcelain farmhouse sink. Cold water pours out from solid nickel taps, the metal frosting.

I put my hand underneath the rush and snatch it back. It's so cold it burns.

I might as well be in a foreign country,
I think.

I shut off the water just as I hear an engine.

I open the door and quickly shut it behind me; don't want that precious heat to escape.

I watch a 1970s Bronco pull up the long winding drive and come to a stop. It’s hauling a trailer with the car I just bought, sight unseen. A burly and disheveled guy exits his red-and-white rig. At least, I think it’s red and white, but it’s hard to tell through the dirt, not to mention the rust that’s eating at the wheel wells and edges of it like cancer.

“Hi ya!” he says and gives a friendly wave. I give a little wave back and make my way down the broad split-log staircase to meet him in the center of the driveway, the gravel lost to the weeds long ago.

“I'm Tucker,” he says, sticking out a meaty hand, and I shake it as he vigorously pumps mine. I look at him, trying to reconcile his email correspondence with the face.

I've been raised to be socially gracious. In fact, I'm comfortable around most, but . . . the people of Alaska have proven to be an exception.

There's no pretense and I find I miss it. Or maybe it's what is familiar?

Tucker ignores my inspection of him as he takes in my great-aunt's homestead.

I use this opportunity to look him over, from his strange knee-height brown rubber boots to his camel-colored heavy denim pants that meet a beat-up T-shirt that says
Catch More But at Sea.

What?