“Go home. Not in the mood for another heart-to-heart.”
“You gotta have one first,” I said.
“Geez, Shrinky. You finally slip off the slope? Gone full crazy at last?”
“Look, you’re not the only one with problems. I’d much rather be home than in this bin with you. Imagine my disappointment when Nurse Judy called, frantic, ‘Preston’s on a tear again.’”
I’d just gotten comfy on my new velvet sofa to drink, come up with reasons to justify Rhonda’s firing, digest Harrison’s visit to Jonathan and the paper I’d found in his waiting room, when Judy’s phone call terminated my scheming.
“You and Nurse Judy can jump off a bridge singing ‘Kumbaya’ for all I give a donkey’s dong,” Preston said.
“Rosalie can bring assault charges against you, or her family can. Don’t you get that?”
“Rosalie’s family won’t do shit. Wanna know why?” Preston scooted to the edge of her bed, faced me full on, cheeks on fire, eyes wet.
“I’ll bite. Why?”
“Family pretends she doesn’t exist, especially Rosalie’s husband. Yeah, nut job’s got a husband, if you can believe that crime against nature. Hubs never drops in to visit. Never. Ever. Why? Loon-of-a-wife drove her car in the lake with their two-year-old kid strapped in his car seat. Jesus told her to do it. Rippin’ Rosie’s a fucking baby killer. She almost died herself but, of course, didn’t. Only deprived of oxygen long enough to make her an idiot and a total burden to her family.”
I’d known Rosalie was a pariah. I felt it the day Preston jumped her. Took one to know one.
“Who delivered this headline-making news?” I said.
“Rosie the Reaper told me herself. Kept asking her. Bitch finally purged.”
“Rosalie might not be the most reliable source.”
“Like you’d know. I could tell she spoke truth, Shrinky. Like it or not.”
“That’s why you punched her?”
“Somebody needed to kick her crazy ass.”
“Oh, I see. Somebody who slit her mother’s throat?”
“My mother isn’t a baby.”
“No, but—”
“What you know about me and Mommy Dearest would fit in a flea’s butthole.”
“So you keep saying. Well, I see Rosalie’s eccentricities got under your skin in a big way. Why the tears? What’s your deal with babies anyway?”
She didn’t answer, which didn’t surprise me. Cooper Blair wasn’t a topic I intended to take up tonight, particularly when I knew what Preston’s reaction would be. Why go there when I knew we’d never really go there? Besides, a bottle of Don Julio Real waited for me at home.
“You’re wasting your rage, you know,” I said.
“Oh, am I? Cause you know everything about my rage? This I gotta hear.”
“Well, if you’re using it against me or Rosalie, it’s sure as hell a waste.”
“That so? Gotta better idea?”
Harrison’s car and driver in the parking lot of my office and what I’d read scribbled on that one explosive page came to my mind.
“You think I don’t know squat about your mother. Well, I know a hell of a lot more than you.”
“Like?”
“Like, if anyone deserves a hard punch in the face girly, it’s your mother.”
“Preston,” Nurse Judy pushed Preston’s door open without so much as a by-your-leave. She looked back and forth at the both of us. “Much as I hate to interrupt your dressing down, Preston, your father’s here.”
“Tattle tale much?” Preston said to Judy.
“You can bet I will, but your father came of his own accord,” Nurse said.
“How many times do I have to remind you? Preston doesn’t want to see her father outside of therapy,” I said.
“Well, she let him in last time so—”
Preston’s wicked-nuts girl cackle cleaved Judy’s explanations.
“Tell Daddy-O to come on in,” Preston said. “Say g’night, Shrinky.”
****
She finally did it to me. I’d lost it for real.
Already rattled by everything that had already transpired, Preston’s spoiled, maniacal behavior finished me. The self-control I’d held a tenuous grasp over vaporized. I knew I’d crossed over to the other side again. No reining it in now. Who cared anyway? My address was about to change to 1234 Easy Street. Fuck ’em all. My forefinger throbbed where I’d bit the nail down to the bloody quick. My neckline burned where I’d torn out strands of hair.
I snickered to myself behind the wheel of my new car. The times they were a changing. Which is why I stopped taking my meds.
Well, that and the baby.
Three tests turned pink, so I’d probably need to give up my evening glass or two of calm-the-fuck-down. I snickered some more. Then I remembered.
Cashwise, I was almost back to zero. Fast too.
I’d paid off most of my debts with Sherman’s dough. Like an idiot, I’d gone too conservative when I gave him a number, not sure how much he’d agree to. I’d indulged in some retail therapy but couldn’t stop once I started. I got a few additions to my wardrobe, furniture for my apartment, some knickknacks. But a girl couldn’t live on shoes and tchotchkes alone. Of course I used a few bucks tempting fate at the casino here and there. Damned if Lady Luck didn’t turn on me almost every time. When I did win, I took it as a sign, double or nothing. Now there’s nothing. Casino sucked up all my remaining money. If finding myself in the poor house again wasn’t tragedy enough, Harrison Blair had shown up on my turf.
Then, like a Batista Bomb from a WWE fighter, it hit me. I’d wavered back and forth on what exactly to do with the damning missive I’d found in Jonathan’s waiting room. It all made sense. Now I knew the right course.
Mama wasn’t the only lottery winner.
Chapter Thirty-One
Preston
“Weren’t you just here?” I said somewhat distracted by Dad’s cobalt-colored contacts. “I think you’re frowning. Botox much? Jesus, Madame Tussaud could take lessons.”
“Enough, Preston,” Dad said in his most serious tone.
For a second there, I thought he actually bristled, or maybe gas?
“I’ve come to discuss a serious matter. Your—”
“What’s going on with my house?” I said. I was ready for him this time. No way he’d get out of here without answering some of my questions for a change.
“What? What about your house?”
He sat in the chair next to my bed. The one Shrinky had vacated several minutes before. His beautifully tailored worsted wool, heather gray suit looked in stark contrast to my dreary, oatmeal-colored scrubs. He’d no more than set his briefcase down when I said, “Who’s living in it?”
“Living? Oh, right. Your mother certainly didn’t tell you anything about that, did she?”
That stung. He knew my mother didn’t tell me anything.
“She knows someone’s living in my house?”
“Of course she knows. She’s the one who offered it up.”
“To?”
He shifted in the chair, blew out a huffy sigh. “Oh, what’s her name? You know, um, uh, Alicia’s daughter. You remember her. The one who—”
“Marcella?” My shriek surprised the shit outta my father, who jerked backward like I’d slapped him. Why did everyone think I knew her?
“Preston, calm down. It was only temporary. But yes, Marcella, Maria, whatever.”
I’d jumped to my feet. “How dare Mother give my house to that—”
“First of all, no one gave your house to anyone. Second, I think she’s gone already.” Dad gripped my hand in both of his. “Now please, sit. Your house is yours, no one’s taking it away from you, which is why the upkeep needs to get paid, which leads me to why I’ve come here again—”
I snatched my hand back, dropped back down on the bed, fuming.
“Why was that slut living in my house?”
“Slut? Christ, P
reston. Who cares?” He threw his head back, covered his eyes with both hands. “Look, I don’t know the whole story. God knows your mother and I, we, suffice it to say, we’re not exactly exchanging chitchat at the dinner table these days. Your mother is not at all well.”
“Well enough to fuck me over,” I said, even though I knew she teetered on the brink these days.
I started to demand more answers, but Dad leaned forward again, pressed a finger to his lips. The universal sign for shut the fuck up. So I did.
“All I know is Maria—”
“Marcella,” I said through clenched molars.
“She got into some trouble and needed a place to stay until it could get sorted out. Apparently, it’s sorted out, and she’s moved on. Months ago, I think. Your mother and Alicia worked it out without my input.” He sighed a weight-of-the-world kind of huff. “I’m usually the last one to know what the women in my house do.”
“Mother’s in no shape to do anything for anyone. You said yourself. Which is it?”
“This was before,” Dad’s eyes welled up, “before she took a turn for the worse.”
I looked away. Hoped he’d get himself together.
“Why didn’t Marcella stay with Alicia? Her own mother for Jesus’ sake,” I said after a few seconds.
“Maybe they don’t get along. Can you imagine?”
I’d let that go. Brendan said he’d seen Marcella at Alicia’s swank new condo. They got along well enough for that tête-à-tête. I’d already said too much by even asking about the goings on at my place. I wouldn’t ask about Alicia’s retirement either, even though I really wanted to.
“What kind of trouble?” I said, because I wanted to know. Drugs?
“No idea. I don’t care. Who’s giving you all these updates? You’re supposed to be protected from the outside world in here until you get better. James’s estate sale, now this? Is Brendan your town crier?”
Call me puckered. Shit. Me and my big mouth. Why couldn’t I just let Brendan find out this crap? He would’ve. Wait. He probably already knew, that lying, rutting pig.
“I never want to see Brendan again,” I said.
“That makes all of us then,” Dad pulled some papers out of his briefcase, handed me that stupid power of attorney. “Back to why I came—from now on your household expenses, this cushy hospital, everything’s going to get paid out of your trust fund.”
I flung the papers at him.
“Good luck finding it, Daddy-O.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Preston
“You won’t believe what happened,” Brendan said.
I twirled around in slow circles behind the desk chair in the phone closet. “Don’t tell me. Marcella gave you the clap.”
“I’m fucking sick of snide remarks, Preston. Ever since I told you about me and Marcella—”
“That puta? She can suck your dick until the stub turns to frijoles.”
“Why should I keep risking my ass to help you? You’re an ungrateful, spoiled baby. You treat me like an enemy. Especially now your father thinks I’m telling you shit. Shit he doesn’t want you to know.”
“Get off the cross.”
“Get off the bitch bus.”
“Since when do you whine about my defects?”
“Since someone’s ransacked my apartment, killed Jesse Pinkman, and left him there for me to find. Like some fucking mafia hit.”
“Your apartment? What? Who’s Jesse Pinkman?”
“My dog.”
“Shit. Oh no, that’s terrible,” I said. “You owned a dog?” The idea of Brendan brokenhearted over a dog made me feel like crying. Then Marcella, the Mexican mantrap, came to mind again. “Well, my dad wouldn’t resort to animal killing.”
“No, it doesn’t seem like his style. But he’d hire someone quick enough.”
“My father? No. My mother? Yes.”
“That’s true. She’s in no shape to do that, is she?”
“Don’t underestimate my mother.” I thought about the possibility. “Not her style either though. She’d want you to see her coming. Maybe Marcella’s peeps don’t like you. They’re all druggies like she is, aren’t they?”
“Marcella?” Brendan said.” What are you talking about?”
“Maybe she’s cheating on someone too and he got pissed.”
“Too? I’m not cheating. Fuck that. I’m done making stupid explanations. I’ll be dead as Jesse Pinkman before you know it.”
“No one’s gonna kill you. Stop hyperventilating.” He might be right, but I didn’t want to admit it to him or myself. The worse I felt for Brendan, the worse I treated him.
“You really are a piece of work. You’re not out here. I am,” he said.
“My life is in the shithole right now, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Step off, Preston. My life’s not exactly a day at Coachella either.”
That got me. I dialed it down.
“Well, what about our house?”
“Fingers crossed,” Brendan said. “I’m going tomorrow.”
I wondered what he’d say if all traces of Marcella’s occupation had really disappeared. Maybe I could glean the truth after I heard whatever he had to say about his observations.
“I’m gonna check it out after I meet up with Marcella,” he said.
“Still Marcella?”
Hearing her name hurt my ears. Why did she keep coming up? Felt like Groundhog Day. Did he not hear a word I said? So much for dialing it back.
“Look, I’m gonna pretend we didn’t even have most of this conversation. Marcella knows something. I know it.” He paused. For a second I thought he’d hung up. “After that, well, we’ll see.”
“We’ll see what?”
Panic shot through me.
“Getting to the bottom of whatever shit sinkhole you’re neck deep in isn’t worth my life. You don’t appreciate anything anyway. I’ll pass on whatever she knows, and then I should bow out. I’m a moron to keep this up.”
I let his slur on my character pass. I knew I’d gone too far.
“You dealt drugs, Brendan, armed to your capped teeth. Now you’re scared of some chickenshit who kills innocent dogs? Come on.”
I meant that as a kind of pep talk.
“Drug dealers I can deal with. You know exactly what you’re getting. Not like you and yours. Shifty rich hoodlums shielded under their shit-don’t-stink, blue blood.”
“Speaking of drug dealers. Not everything’s always my parents’ fault.”
If Brendan was in bed with Marcella, odds were he was still in the business. The business might be hunting him down. I could tell by the quiet he hadn’t thought his own lifestyle choices might be responsible for his plight.
“Maybe. At any rate, I don’t know why I can’t let go of you.”
“I don’t either,” I said before I could stop. Truth pained me. “I couldn’t blame you. I don’t know why you married me in the first place.”
“I thought you were the world’s greatest adventure,” he said. “A wild thing, the two of us breaking bad. Brendan Finney—stupid, gringo fake.”
“To think for these past few weeks I thought it might’ve been love.”
“You’re immune to love.”
That hurt.
“Brendan?”
“Now what?”
“I’m sorry about your dog.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Isabel
“When were you gonna tell me, Jonathan?”
“Tell you what? I’m a mind reader now?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” I dropped into a chair in front of his desk, sat in it. This might take a while.
Jonathan tossed his bifocals aside. “Harrison specifically told me not to tell you. You know how that works. Or should.”
“Now you’re hiding behind patient confidentiality.”
“Harrison insisted. No choice, you know that.”
“Doesn’t stop you from butting into Preston’s thera
py.”
“You didn’t tell me Preston’s identity, I figured it out.”
“Nitpicking,” I said.
“Case-by-case basis.”
“Harrison knows we’re partners?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t see a conflict?”
“Nope. Look, she came in once. Twice, but the second time to get something she’d dropped here. So one session.”
“What’d she drop?”
“Can’t say,” he said.
“Won’t say.”
“Nothing to do with her session. Honestly, wish I hadn’t seen it.”
“Must’ve been bad,” I said.
“Well, I’d bet the farm she won’t come back, because I’m sure she figured I read whatever it was.”
“Intriguing.”
“Put the whole business out of your mind, Isabel, like I’ve done.”
“Throw me a bone, Jonathan. Whatever issues Harrison brought to therapy with you might help with Preston.”
“Good try.” He settled his glasses back on his nose. “I’ll say this: I don’t know why she bothered. Didn’t talk much. Perplexing. Got the feeling she didn’t come for therapy.”
“What’d she come for then?”
“Never figured that out. Kept wandering around the office, preoccupied. I wondered if she hoped to run into you.”
“Doubt it. She could run into me whenever she wanted. They’re paying me. Preoccupied or drugged?”
“Now that you mention it, I’m not sure.”
“Did she look just-rolled-out-of-bed?”
“Heavens, no. Why?”
“Last couple of sessions at Haven House she looked trashed.”
“Hmm. Nope. She looked beautiful, perfect. First time I’d seen her in person, not on the tube or newspaper. Intelligent, well-kept, stylish.”
The Invisible Heiress Page 9
