“No more promises, Will!” In the distance, behind Juan, headlights appeared. She looked back to Juan. “You’ll get the money you wanted, but nothing more. It’s all I can get. But I won’t get it for you until you agree to leave it at that”
Juan stepped back and lowered the gun. He studied her, shifting his jaw, and for a hopeful moment, she actually thought he would accept her offer. But then, in an unfitting calmness, he said, “You didn’t come with the money, like you agreed. And now you think you can call the shots?” And before she even heard the last word, he lifted the gun and shot Willem in the chest. She jumped, feeling the vibration of the blast for what felt like hours.
She didn’t think it was real until Willem gasped and fell against the gazebo’s pillars. “Will!” she cried, catching him in her arms. The warp-warp of a police siren sounded somewhere in the distance, but she didn’t realize until later that it had come from the approaching vehicle she’d seen only seconds before, behind Juan. And if it wasn’t for that cop, she was sure Juan would have shot her next.
Instead he ran. Vaguely, she was aware of him cussing while leaping over the railing, just as the car flashing blue and red pulled sharply to the curb and two officers jumped out.
What happened in the background faded as Elizabeth fell to her knees and cradled Willem in her arms. He couldn’t inhale without choking and she laid his head in her lap. “Shh,” she hushed, holding one hand firmly on the hole in his chest and running her other over his moist, velvet-feeling head. “It’s all right. I’m here.” Her heart hammered at a rate she didn’t think was possible, making everything spin. Her stomach rose again, but she held it back. She had to be strong. Always strong.
“Beth,” he barely managed, that same panic in his eyes. Blood began pooling in the corners of his mouth and he coughed. The swelling in her chest began, telling her she was going to lose it—that she was going to explode from years of built-up tears. But a strange and almost maddening peace came over her instead, calming her. Calming her for Will. “Beth, I’m—”
“Shh.” Her voice cracked and she put more pressure on his chest, where blood appeared to drown them both. “I’m sorry, Will. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
“No one cou—” He choked on blood, coughing more into the air. “No one could save me.”
“Ma’am.” She twisted to find an officer.
“Get help!” she shouted at him.
“An RA unit’s already on its way.”
“Beth,” Willem started, bringing her eyes back to him. He blurred, but not from tears. Her head spun, viciously. “I know I never—” He couldn’t get anything out.
“Will, don’t talk, okay? Someone’s coming to help and you’ll be just fine. You need to save your breath. You need to be strong. For once, I need you to be strong for me. Can you do that?”
His eyes began losing focus and she shook him. “Willem, look at me.”
He barely shook his head.
“Willem Ashton, don’t you dare give up!” She pressed so hard on his chest he grunted.
“Move!” Two medics shoved her aside as they surrounded her brother. She tried inching her way back in, but the woman pushed her aside again, exchanging a look with the officer, and before she knew it his hands were on her, pulling her back.
“No!” she shouted, fighting him. She couldn’t see Willem’s face anymore, only a limp hand. “Willem! You fight, Willem!”
“We’re losing him,” one of the men said.
“Willem, no!”
“Ma’am,” the police officer said in a gentle hush, hands firmly on her arms.
Her chest collapsed as though a sob wracked her, but nothing came out. They lifted him onto a stretcher and wheeled him into the back of an ambulance with a great hurry, and that was when she found the strength to break free of the officer. She ran after them, just as they were closing the doors. “You have to save him!”
The woman, the other medic, nodded with hesitation and closed the door, and they sped off. In the ambulance’s wake, a handcuffed Juan was being led to the police cruiser. The officer leading him was out of breath and blood dripped from a gash on his forehead. Juan Paddock, who up until shooting Willem had been invincible—untouchable by the cops. Juan Paddock, who was caught by a mere case of bad luck. Or had it been?
She shot toward him. “I had the money!” she yelled, just as the officer grabbed her from behind again. “I had it!” She clawed at the officer’s arms, taut around her waist.
Juan half-smiled. “You know why I didn’t shoot him in the head?”
She grunted, still struggling.
“I wanted you to be able to say goodbye, sis.”
She screamed, the skin of the officer’s arms accumulating beneath her nails, and then Juan was safely in the car.
***
White Memorial Medical Center in Boyle Heights was a place of many memories for Elizabeth. She’d trained here, spent nights with Willem here after overdoses and even one stabbing, and now she’d lost her brother here.
She sat in a maroon vinyl chair in the hall just off the emergency room waiting area; she’d pulled the chair here, away from the rest. It wasn’t long after she’d arrived that Doctor Gates had come out to greet her. Back when she trained here, she’d been close to Doctor Robert Gates. He wasn’t much older than she, but had been divorced twice. He’d been one of her closest confidants in the beginning, even stayed late with her one night when Willem got stitched up. He’d asked her out soon after, and though she’d never had time to date, she’d agreed. He was charming and charismatic, and made her feel important. She liked him, more than she’d liked anyone as an adult.
But they hadn’t even made it halfway through dinner before Willem called, arrested on minor charges, and needing her to bail him out. She’d left the date on the spot. Anytime she’d run into Doctor Gates since then, with his short, blunt answers and avoiding eyes, she was reminded of the night she had tried to have a normal, happy life.
But not tonight. Tonight he had faced her with the look of bad news. She had expected as much. Willem was gone, she felt it. He’d been gone since before they’d arrived at the hospital. Emptiness lingered where his ties used to bind her. When Doctor Gates had opened his mouth to speak, Elizabeth had raised her hand. “Don’t,” she said. “I know.”
With her head down, he put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Beth,” he said. And he was gone. That was when she’d caught her reflection in the large blackened window. Willem’s blood bathed her sweater and pants, stained her hands, and even speckled her cheek.
With that, she had sunk to the chair. She’d sat there for countless, unmeasured minutes, her vision focused on the multi-toned linoleum. Then on her bloodied hands. Could she have saved him if she’d given the money to Juan from the start, instead of denying she had it with her? She wanted to think if she’d done it differently, he’d still be here. But the truth was, even if she had, Juan still would have asked for more, she would have refused, and the end scenario would still be the same. Only then, Juan would have Mr. Vanderzee’s money, too.
A figure entered through the swinging doors at her left, but her vision remained on the crusty, bloodstained tips of her shoes.
Then a chair scratched across the floor, jarring enough to grab her attention.
Mr. Vanderzee, in a sweater and slacks. She straightened as he sat in the chair he’d pulled beside her. What was he doing here at two a.m., and how did he know where she was in the first place? Her stomach turned and she folded her arms across it.
She looked back to the floor, keeping her eyes indifferent. “Mr. Vanderzee,” she said.
He cleared his throat, something he did a lot recently. “They told me he’s gone.”
She closed her eyes. At that moment, hate and love were smeared together inside her, indistinguishable from each other. “I’m done, Mr. Vanderzee.”
He sighed, a sound of expectance, not surprise. “I imagined you would say that.”
&
nbsp; Her heart pounded, but her soul remained numb as she reached behind her, under her shirt, and retrieved the envelope that had been safely tucked away beneath the band of her bra. Her eyes fixed on her knees as she handed it to him. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it. “It’s all there.”
“All $100,000?”
She looked at him. Blinking, she swallowed deeply. “How…?”
“I knew you were going to take it before you knew yourself.”
“But…?”
“You know I’m not a merciful man. You know what you did was vile and unforgivable, so I’ll spare you the lecture. But let’s get one thing straight, Elizabeth: I won’t be taken advantage of.”
The maroon, almost brown residue beneath her fingernails matched the color of the emergency-room chairs and accents. “I accept every consequence of my action.”
“Here’s the consequence.” His fierce tone demanded she meet his gray eyes. “I want you to run away, far from this place. You ever so much as step foot inside Southern California again, I’ll see to it that you’re put away for what you did.”
“But, Mr. Vanderzee, I want to be put—”
“Are we clear, Elizabeth?”
She stared, unblinking.
“I never want you near my money again, and this will be the last time we meet. As soon as your sorry excuse for a brother’s funeral is at its end, you are to pack up your things and leave California, do you understand?” He handed her the envelope of money, heavy and bulky.
“No, I don’t understand.”
He stood. “You spend it on you, Elizabeth, on starting a life. Not a life for anyone else—a life for you.”
“You’re not making sense, Mr. Vanderzee. You said you don’t want me near your money again.”
“It’s not my money.” He adjusted his pants and shifted his jaw as he looked at her with a hatred that seemed born of love. Perhaps the same hatred with which she’d looked upon Willem. “That account was yours. I was putting it aside for you so that one day you could make your own way.”
Her heart sank, deeper inside her than it ever had. Her eyes burned with such intensity she was sure they’d spill over. But her self-hatred kept them from doing so.
“I still intend for you to make your way, Elizabeth. More than ever now.”
“Why?” she barely managed.
“You were good to me. You were good to those who didn’t deserve your goodness. It’s your turn to be good to yourself.” He walked away, hunched over as usual, but before reaching the doors, he turned back, lifting a finger. “And don’t think this generosity leaves you off the hook, Elizabeth Ashton. Mark my words, I won’t hesitate to throw you in prison for what you’ve done if you ever come back here again.”
Desperate to get the money out of her hands, she shot to her feet. “But Mr. Vanderzee, please. Take it. I don’t want it.”
He glanced at it. He’d once said that when someone makes trouble it follows them the rest of their life. That’s what he was ensuring for hers. “I want you to live with it. Know the things you enjoy come from betrayal.” He paused. “You will use it, Elizabeth.”
“And if I don’t…”
“I’ll know.” A silent exchange passed between them and she believed him. Somehow, he would know the whereabouts of every last cent. “And if I find out you haven’t, I won’t just have you thrown in prison for stealing, I’ll make sure you’re a part of your brother’s scandals. You’ll go to prison for illegal drug possession, conspiracy to murder—”
“Conspiracy to murder?”
Silence, just briefly. “As you’re aware, I know people. I could have you tied to the murder of your brother with a single phone call.”
Pain wracked her chest. “Please,” she whispered. “Just let me pay for what I’ve done.”
“But isn’t that what I’m doing?”
Words escaped her.
“Use your reward.”
“This is no reward,” she said, holding up the envelope.
“No, not for you, is it? For you, spending that blood money—on yourself no less—would be your greatest punishment. So enjoy it—with all its dark reminders. If not, I’ll see to it that your life is far more miserable than a guilty conscience.”
He turned and left, and the life of punishment she’d imagined for herself was replaced with a $100,000.00 reward.
Chapter 13
Neither Henry nor Arne said a word during the entire hour drive from Portland to Hemlock Veils. Henry because every ounce of his will had been depleted, and Arne because he knew how to read Henry better than anyone ever had. The day had been long and counterproductive, abnormal for the triple life he lived, and gave him more time to dwell on what he’d actually done that morning. What had he done, giving in to Elizabeth Ashton? Regardless of the way no one better deserved the old cottage and his mother’s bakery, he felt like a fool. He was Henry Clayton and hadn’t given in to anyone in Hemlock Veils in years.
He had been fifteen the last time, and Astrid had been the one to change it all. She was one year younger than he: a tan-skinned blond with blue eyes like the sky, and just like him, she came to Hemlock Veils every summer. He to vacation with his mother and father, and she to stay with her grandmother. She was his first love, the girl who led him to believe it actually existed, and though it had lasted only a summer, it had been enough to change everything. He hadn’t understood then how the following summer she could look at him with such indifference. She had another boy, she’d said, the third since Henry, and that very boy came to Hemlock most days after that. Henry had to watch them, walking through the same trees they had carved their initials into the summer before.
I thought you loved me, he’d actually been foolish enough to say.
Henry, she tittered, as though his very name was ridiculous, it was just a fling. And she walked away, back to the diner with the boy named Bishop. It was the last time Henry had ever spoken to her, and that was the last summer she’d visited Hemlock Veils, since her grandmother had passed away that same year.
And that was the last time Henry had been irrational enough to fall in love.
It was when he’d decided all females were the same, especially the pretty ones. And the rest of his life he’d been proven right. If they were going to be shallow enough to love him for his father’s money, then he would love them for their looks, and do it in the form of one-night stands. There was a time he had loved that lifestyle, and when that lifestyle was over—stolen from him—he’d even longed for it at first.
But now it held nothing of the Henry Clayton he knew. They were simply memories of someone else’s life, left to taunt him: red lips of every shade, painted eyes from across a room, the way the delicate zipper of a dress could rip in the heat of passion, the sound of his name in a satisfied moan.
Though Nicole didn’t have the class of those women from the past that wasn’t his, she reminded him every time she flaunted her assets. She reminded him of what he could still have, and even more, that it was the last thing he wanted. It reminded him life was no longer about satisfying every appetite.
But Ms. Ashton reminded him of things he’d always dismissed, things he was never willing to believe women possessed. Things that perhaps made a woman worth caring about.
She reminded him he could never be the man to do the caring.
Now, driving down Clayton Road, the low sun to his right, he wondered what repercussions might come of his weak decision to allow her to stay. Ahead, the black awning’s rounded flaps fluttered in the wind, as if waving to an old friend. In that instant, every time he’d approached it as a child flashed in his mind. The same excitement settled in his chest as it had then, ever so subtly. He could almost taste his mother’s cookies, could almost see her smile when he ran through the door, could almost smell the bread. Maybe now, with someone here to change it, someone else to make it their own, he wouldn’t be so haunted by memories from another life that was innocent and joyous and detrimental all at the same ti
me. His mother, the one woman he knew who actually deserved to be put on a pedestal, and his father, the man least qualified for such a job; nothing had ever been more wrong.
But the closer to the bakery they came, the more that familiar awning didn’t look familiar at all. “Stop,” he said to Arne, the breath knocked from his chest. Arne did, and with the car at the bakery’s curb, his eyes narrowed. Ms. Ashton had already moved hastily to make it her own, which was annoying in itself, no matter how much he wanted to forget it. The awning flaunted its newly painted, white, cursive letters. Jean’s, it simply said, with a steaming, blithe cup of coffee above the name. If Ms. Ashton had been inside the bakery at that moment, he would have stormed inside and demanded she change it. But darkness blackened the windows.
“Henry…” Arne began in warning, as though he could hear Henry’s teeth grinding.
“What does she think she’s doing?”
“She’s making it her own. Maybe this is how she wants to do that. It’s hers now, to do what she wants with it.”
“Exactly. It’s hers. Not my mother’s.”
“You can’t make her change it.” Arne sighed, and with their eyes on the black-and-white awning, and Henry’s anxiety calming—out of mere exhaustion, probably—Arne pensively added, “It does look great revived like that, doesn’t it? She’s quite the artist, among other things.”
Henry sat back, too tired to stew. He only stared, his mind drifting to the way she may have looked standing atop a ladder and painting the letters so carefully they looked professional. The storm had passed just before lunch, and he would have bet as soon as it had, she was ready with the paint. In the beginning, he’d thought nothing good could come of her staying. Now all he could think was the opposite: good for the town, and bad for him. He felt something inside he hadn’t felt in a lifetime. And it was all so infuriating, how much he felt. It was infuriating how much she interfered with his plan. He wanted to shut her down and ban her from town, for simply being who she was.
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