by Carolina Mac
The massive Spanish-style edifice they called home appeared more dark and oppressive than usual in the midst of the afternoon downpour. Jesse had never felt that way about his home in the past. Maybe it was the aftermath of the funeral pushing him into a dark place—darker than usual.
What the hell was wrong with him lately?
“Maybe we should repaint the shutters, Ty. I’m tired of black.” Jesse stared up at the upstairs windows, secure behind their wrought iron grills. From this angle, it looked more like a prison than a home.
“Sure, whatever,” said Ty. “You take care of it and hire a painter if you like. The barn should be repainted too. It’s been a while.”
“Yep, I will.”
“Do you know whose car that is?” asked Tyler. He parked the blue Quantrall truck in line with the others against the fence next to the barn. “Who drives a big, black Lincoln?”
“Never saw it before,” said Jesse. “No clue.”
Ty pressed the lock button on his key fob as they strolled towards the house. “Guess we’ll soon find out.”
“Daddy used to have a lot more company when he was alive,” said Jesse. “We must be hermits, or something.”
“Must be,” said Ty.
In the great room, a woman with long dark hair pulled back and clipped at her neck, sat on the sofa talking to Brian, the oldest Quantrall brother, and a renowned surgeon.
Brian looked nothing like his brothers. Shorter, with a round moon face and close-cropped brown hair, he looked like neither of their parents. Bobby and Paul strongly resembled their mother, whom they had lost to cancer—blond and blue-eyed, while Jesse and Tyler were dark, swarthy skinned with dark hair and eyes—both the image of Lou.
Brian bounced to his feet as they entered the room. “Jesse, this is Alicia Shaw. She’s an attorney from Austin.”
Why’s a lawyer here, and why is Brian introducing her like it’s something to do with me?
The attorney was tall and dark, not pretty, but nicely dressed in an expensive black suit. She may have been forty or older. Jesse was no good on the ages of women.
“Sit down here, Jesse,” said Brian, steering his brother to one of the big overstuffed chairs near the fireplace. He took a step towards the chair and that’s when he saw her for the first time.
He smiled at the baby as he sat down thinking it belonged to the lawyer and she had no one to take care of her child.
Brian kept talking. “Jesse, Miss Shaw has some news she needs to share with you.”
“Why are you hovering, Brian?” Brian wore the expression he always wore when he thought Jesse might be heading for another heart attack. He turned to the lawyer. “Is it bad news?”
She nodded. “Some of it is, I’m afraid, Mr. Quantrall. But not all of it.”
“I can’t imagine why you’re here, ma’am. Just go ahead and tell me. Get it over with.”
Tyler leaned on the door frame, a curious look on his face.
Miss Shaw opened the leather briefcase on her knee and took out a document. She handed a copy to Jesse. “This is the last will and testament of Lacey Vincent.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when Jesse felt the breath leave his body. He gasped for air and Brian was right beside him with a shot of bourbon.
“Drink this, Jesse.”
Jesse tossed back the liquor and tried to focus. “How could Lacey be dead? She’s a young girl.”
“An accident, sir. I’m sorry.”
Jesse felt burning behind his eyes and emotion overwhelmed him. He and Lacey hadn’t dated for long, but she was a sweet girl and deserved a life. “I don’t know what to say.” He shook his head. “Of course, I’m shocked and saddened to learn about her passing, but how… why does it concern me? I haven’t seen her for almost a year.”
Miss Shaw pointed to the baby asleep in her carrier. “It concerns you greatly, Mr. Quantrall, because of your daughter.”
AFTER FABIANA’S FRIENDS and colleagues from the DEA field office offered condolences and left the house, Blaine helped Mrs. Flores clean up the dishes. The woman was only in her mid-fifties, but today she could have passed for eighty. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she appeared to be exhausted from the strain of the day. Blaine suggested, in Spanish, that she go upstairs to bed.
“Si.” She nodded, finished putting the good china into the old buffet and headed upstairs.
Blaine emptied the carafe, readied the coffee maker for the morning and pulled a Corona out of the shiny refrigerator. He glanced around at the new look thinking Fab would have been pleased. In the past, every dime of her paychecks had gone into trying to fix this old place. A money pit, but one she couldn’t part with.
Three bouquets perched on the small round table in the window alcove. The mixed aromas of roses, lilies and carnations filled his senses as he moved them to the sideboard in the dining room, so he could sit down. He’d purchased the pine table in Annie’s shop and he always felt closer to her when he sat there. He slouched into one of the wooden chairs and the sadness of the day overtook his body. Without an ounce of energy left, it was all he could do to lift the bottle to his mouth.
“As soon as I drink this, I’m going to bed.”
His cell jangled on his belt and he groaned, “Please, not tonight.” He checked the screen. Austin homicide.
“Detective Lopez, what can I do for you?”
“They want you on this one, Blacky.” He gave the address and Blaine jotted it down.
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