A Justified Bitch. H.G. McKinnis
Читать онлайн книгу.
mean, ‘hard to say?’ Are the boys okay?” His voice took on a concerned edge. “You okay?”
“It’s a lot more complicated than I thought. Helen’s much worse than we imagined.”
A moment of silence as he digested the information. “How did she react to Marc?”
“Oh my God!” She struggled to keep her emotions under control. “She didn’t recognize him.”
“Pat, honey, it’s been years, of course she wouldn’t—”
“Not like that,” she interrupted. “She wouldn’t even admit to having a son.”
“She what?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘We don’t have a son.’”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“She’s still hauling Bobby around.”
“After ten years! How did Marc handle that?”
“He’s angry and hurt, typical teenager, but in a weird way he seemed relieved. I think he feels as long as she doesn’t recognize him, he won’t have to go back.”
“Of course he won’t have to go back.” His voice took on the familiar protective-father tone. “We’re his legal guardians. You can assure him of that. We certainly spent enough time and money slogging through the paperwork.”
“Wyatt, we were able to get custody because she was too traumatized about Bobby to contest it. I deserted her.” She hated the words, but knew they were true. “When she needed me most, I let her down.”
“You did no such thing. You wrote every month. You sent checks she never cashed. You made every effort.” He paused, obviously considering his words. “It’s been years since you’ve seen her, maybe she’s not as bad as you think.”
“I went to her house. You wouldn’t believe how she lives. The place should be condemned. Mail and garbage everywhere. And those letters I wrote—she never opened them, and I never followed up. I told myself she’d contact me when she was ready. What a cop-out . . . I was happy to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Stop beating yourself up, honey. We did what we thought was best. Helen’s an adult. Marc was the one at risk.”
“But now he’s doing well and Helen’s at risk.” She could barely contain a sigh. “I hardly know her.”
“How is Jordan handling it?”
“Oh, that’s different. They’re like a couple of long-lost buddies. He chats with her. He chats with Bobby. Acts like everything is perfectly normal. Anything to improve his chances for UNLV.”
Wyatt laughed, a mirthless bark. “Is that what he thinks now? You know Jordan, once he gets an idea in his head, he works it. Probably thinks if he can help with Helen, we’ll let him stay there and go to college.”
“No way that’s going to happen. She’s almost incoherent, and the police are desperate to get her statement. The murder was really gruesome, and there’s a lot of pressure on the cops to catch the guy.”
“It’s not that call girl who got chopped up?”
“That’s the one. How did you know?”
“Saw it online. Do they have any suspects?”
“No, but the lead detective, a guy by the name of Madison, thinks it might be someone in the neighborhood . . . that Helen might have seen him. I’m supposed to keep her away from the house.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Does he think she’s in danger? Is it safe for you to be there?”
“We’ll be fine.” She knew if she didn’t ease his mind, he would commandeer the company jet, fly to Vegas, and sweep them into the sunset, leaving Helen to disappear down the rabbit hole. “We’re registered under my name at Caesars Palace.”
“How long is this going to take? I thought you were only staying the weekend.”
She was torn, wanting to do exactly that but knowing she couldn’t. “Two weeks or so. I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t leave her. Not again.”
“She’s a grown woman. You can’t simply charge in and change her.”
“Madison gave me a card for a psychiatrist he thinks could help. I’m going to call her . . . see if she can get Helen into a program.”
“Oh.” A short hesitation. “I guess it’s worth a try. Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“What else can I do?” She hated the whiny sound in her voice. “I can’t let her go back to that trash can of a house. It’s full of bugs and cats, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were rats as well. I have to get it cleaned up before she can go back.”
“You sound a little overwhelmed.”
Mr. Tactful. “I am.”
“You’ve been up since oh dark thirty. Why don’t you take a nap and call me back later?”
Sleep. At the moment she couldn’t think of anything more appealing. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day. I’ll call you tonight. Love you.” She clicked off, then leaned back into the soft pillows of the bed. Fifteen minutes, then she’d be good to go.
Chapter Nine
Though it seemed like only moments, when Pat opened her eyes the neon lights of the Strip were flashing in all their audacious brilliance. “Helen?” Silence. The main room was empty and the door to the boys’ room was closed, but she could hear the sound of muted voices. She rapped lightly, then pushed it open. Sitting cross-legged on one of the queen-size beds, Marc toggled a video controller while action figures cavorted across the wide-screen television. “Where’s your brother and Helen?”
He shrugged, not taking his eyes from the frenzy of cartoon violence. “Out.”
“When did they leave?” The thought of Jordan squiring his crazy aunt up and down the Strip only intensified the daylong nightmare.
He shrugged.
“Did they say when they’d be back?” she asked, thinking this might be a good time to reassure Marc about his future.
He paused the game, giving her a look of exasperation. “They went to get her truck.” He toggled the game back into Play mode.
“What?” She glanced over her shoulder, making sure the car keys were still on the table. “How?”
“They took the bus.”
She realized her Technicolor nightmare wasn’t about to end anytime soon. “To where?”
“Her house.”
Damn, some guard dog she turned out to be. She grabbed her phone and quickly tried Jordan’s cell, but wasn’t surprised to get his familiar: User is unavailable.—Please leave a message. Mr. Ideal Adolescent had once again let his battery run down. “Come on, we’re going over there.”
“No way, no how.” Marc sat there stiff as a statue, like the Roman replicas that dotted the hotel’s courtyard. “That place sucks.”
“You don’t have to go inside. The drive will give us a chance to talk.”
“We don’t need to talk. We need to go home.” His game played on without input, a computer-generated ogre doing a victory dance on top of a muscle-bound warrior. “She’s forgotten all about us.”
The drive turned out to be an exercise in frustration: Pat trying to get the conversation going, Marc deflecting her efforts with an offhand, “I don’t want to talk about it.” By the time Pat pulled to the curb she was ready to scream.
Near the garage, illuminated beneath a single bare bulb, Helen and