Beautifully Damaged (Beautifully Damaged series) by L.A. Fiore (29)

Vivian Michaels was a hard woman to track down, being that she was part of so many charitable organizations and committees, but we did eventually lock her in for a luncheon. I couldn’t argue that she had come a long way from Teresa Nolan when she arrived dressed to the nines in Armani.

Trace stood and pulled out Vivian’s chair. She smiled in thanks as she took her seat.

“I was so happy to get your call, Ember.” Her eyes moved to Trace before she added, “And for Trace to be joining us, how delightful.”

I leaned over and whispered, “You knew my mother, and you knew Trace’s parents; we know this already. You’re the only person still alive that can possibly lend some insight into what happened.”

She looked positively ill when her blue eyes lifted to meet mine and her reply became nearly lost as she hissed, “Why are you still pursuing this?”

“Because my mother is dead and so is Trace’s and we want to know why.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but the woman paled even more before she managed to ask, “You don’t think I had anything to do with their deaths, do you?”

“The thought has crossed our minds.”

Vivian lifted her martini, downed the entire contents, and signaled for another before she turned and met our unwavering stares.

“What do you want to know?”

“Were you getting scripts from Dr. Grant to drug Victoria?”

Guilt and shame covered her expression before she answered, “Yes. It was Doug’s idea, but yes.”

“You and Doug grew up together.”

“Yeah. We were dirt poor and then along came the Michaelses and we saw a taste of how the other half lived and we wanted it.”

Trace’s arms came to rest on the table as he leaned closer to Vivian. “So you planned, from the beginning, to ingratiate yourselves into Charles and Victoria’s lives.”

“Yes.”

His voice grew hard when he asked, “And the drugging of my mother?”

“Doug told me Victoria was having trouble sleeping, but she was too embarrassed to go to the doctor. She didn’t want rumors to circulate that a Michaels was a pill popper. I didn’t realize what he was doing, I honestly didn’t, and then I met Charles and really fell for him. I left Fishtown not long after that and went to New York with Charles.”

She leaned over the table and looked almost desperate when she said, “I didn’t know what was going on in that house. I swear to you I didn’t know. I wanted a different life and that is what I’ve done. On the few occasions that I reached out to my past to touch base, Darlene never made mention of anything going on, so I just assumed all was well.”

“Wait, what’s this about Darlene?” I asked.

“Darlene, Doug, and I were like the Three Musketeers ever since the fourth grade.”

Trace’s reaction to that matched my own.

“Are you saying that Darlene and Doug hung out even after he married my mom?” Trace asked.

“Yeah, she loved him and was really pissed when he married Victoria. She even took issue with Doug and me and we were only ever friends. He told me once that Darlene was getting too possessive and that he was going to tell her to stop coming around, but after I moved to New York they started spending more time together, not less.”

“She failed to mention that,” Trace hissed.

Genuine surprise flashed over Vivian’s face. “You found Darlene?”

“Yes, why?” I asked.

“She just dropped off the face of the planet after Doug and Victoria died. I always wondered what happened to her.”

“Did you know about my mother?” I asked.

“I knew your mom had suspicions, particularly after Darlene mentioned that Mandy knew about the scripts. I also knew that Darlene was nervous, scared even, of what Mandy might uncover. I should have paid better attention.”

“Did you know my mom was trying to get Child Protective Services involved and that she was trying to get Trace and Chelsea out of that house?”

“No, I didn’t. Your mom suspected what was happening?”

“We think Victoria told my mom that she feared for her children’s safety, but before my mom could make anything happen, she was killed in a hit-and-run by a car that matched the description of Douglas’s car.”

Vivian looked downright sick. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Trace barked.

“Douglas rode around on a motorcycle. Darlene had been using his car.”

“Shit. That explains why his car was in Philly and why your dad had that newspaper article and the receipt to the garage. He really was trying to get proof. How much do you want to bet Darlene was blackmailing him? Take out the person who could potentially take away the man she loved and use that crime to bind the man to her,” I said to Trace.

Trace slammed his hands down on the table before he hissed, “Goddamn, there’s no end to his shit. It’s like a fucking house of cards.” He turned his attention on me and some of the anger gave way to pain. “I’m sorry for what that bastard did to you.”

What could I say to that? So I said nothing.

Uncle Josh called a few days later with news on Mrs. Fletcher.

“She’s dead. She died in 1995 in a car crash when someone ran a light.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth I needed to sit, since my legs were refusing to hold my weight.

“That seems suspect,” I said.

“I agree. Who was she?”

“Their cook. Trace really bonded with her and it was she who taught him everything he knows about cooking. She discovered Douglas’s secret and then she just stopped coming to work.”

“Jesus,” my uncle hissed through his teeth. “He has had more than his share of shit.”

My gut told me that Darlene was responsible: another way for her to protect Douglas while at the same time binding him more tightly to her.

Trace and I had not yet shared what we learned from Vivian because once my dad and uncle learned of it, Darlene would be in some serious shit.

It seemed probable that it was Darlene who killed Douglas and Victoria in a jealous fit of rage, but the only thing that kept me from completely getting behind that theory was the police report or, more to the point, the lack of victim identification. We were missing something, and until we knew why Detective Vincent Gowan had withheld certain information from his report, I couldn’t take that final step.

That night, while Trace and I got ready for bed, I told him about Mrs. Fletcher.

“Trace? I asked my uncle if he could find out what happened to Mrs. Fletcher.”

I saw the tension that entered his body in reaction to my words, but a part of healing was closure and he needed to know that Mrs. Fletcher wasn’t one of the angels who saw, heard, and spoke no evil. I wasn’t sure how to break it to him, so I decided to just come right out and say it.

“She died in 1995 when her car veered into a median to avoid a car that had run a light.”

It took him a minute to comprehend my words, but when he finally did, understanding dawned. “Silenced?”

I reached for his hands. “If Mrs. Fletcher learned Douglas’s secret, and Darlene was the one to kill my mom, then it would follow that Darlene would want to silence Mrs. Fletcher to protect Douglas,” I said.

“She was a good woman; she had a family.”

“I know where she’s buried if you want to visit her.”

I watched as fury quickly replaced sadness. Trace pulled from my hands and, in one swipe, knocked everything from the bathroom counter. The sound of shattering glass filled the silence.

“How many goddamn lives had to be ruined?”

Every muscle in his body was flexed as his anger rolled through him. There wasn’t anything I could say and I knew he just needed time to process it, so I slipped from the room and headed down the hall for the dustpan and brush.

He was still standing there with his palms flat on the counter when I returned. His head was hung low and the scrollwork of his tattoo was rigid and flexed. I knew what he wanted: he wanted to walk because he needed to cool off. He needed a fight, but he wasn’t going because he vowed that he would never walk out again, but this was different. He wasn’t walking out on me.

“Go, Trace.” He lifted his head as his eyes found mine in the mirror.

“I’ll clean this up. Go.”

I could see his confusion so I added, “I understand the draw of the fight for you, it helps you cope, so go. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He turned, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.”

He said nothing, only kissed me again before walking out of the bathroom. I heard him moving around for a few minutes before I heard the sound of the front door closing. I cleaned up the mess and then settled into bed with a cup of tea and a book. An hour later, the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“I was asked to check in on you.”

“Hi, Rafe. Tell him I’m fine. How is he?”

“When he first called me, not good, but he’s better now. He’s always better when he gets to work out his issues on someone else’s face.”

“Tell him I love him.”

“I will. Good night, Ember.”

“Night, Rafe.”

I was dreaming about pie pops, more specifically wondering if it was actually feasible to make a pie pop or if the juice would drip out of the hole where the stick was inserted into the crust? I grew rather warm in my dream, so warm that I was seriously thinking about jumping into the lake of cold milk that existed in the cake pop forest. I felt desire stirring in my belly and little shots of electricity shooting down my arms and forced myself to wake up, because I realized why I was growing so warm.

Trace’s naked body was covering mine as his mouth glided over the skin of my neck and shoulder. I was still half asleep and hadn’t realized that he had already divested me of my clothes until I felt him slide into me. My hips lifted as the heels of my feet dug into the mattress. I wrapped my arms around him as I trailed my fingertips up and down his back. He moved so slowly and each roll of his hips ignited a fire in me. His mouth found mine as he very deliberately brought my body to bliss and, as I floated back down, I slipped back into sleep.

I awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and peeled my eyes open to see Trace standing before me with a breakfast tray.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

“Good morning.” I sat up and settled against the headboard.

“Hungry?”

“Yes.”

Trace settled down next to me and handed me an egg sandwich that was loaded with bacon and cheese. I took a hearty bite and watched as he did the same before I asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Thank you for understanding.”

I leaned over and brushed my lips over his before I took another bite and chewed.

“This is delicious.”

“I would like to visit Mrs. Fletcher’s grave.”

“Okay.”

He held my gaze before he whispered, “Thank you.” I knew the thank-you wasn’t just for going with him to the gravesite, but also for looking into what happened to her.

“You’re welcome.”

“How was your evening?”

He asked this with a knowing smile so I answered, “Uneventful.”

He looked almost hurt before he asked, “Are you certain?”

“Yes. I had an excellent dream, though.”

He leaned up and looked at me with a grin. “Really, and what was this dream about?”

“Pie pops.”

“What?!” He moved the tray—luckily for me I had already finished my sandwich—before his body covered mine.

“Is this sparking your memory?”

I purposely looked clueless before I said, “No.”

He looked positively put out so I decided to cut him some slack.

“Any time, Trace.”

“Any time what?”

“You want to wake me like that, any time.”

He grinned before his mouth found mine.