Don't Say a Word. Rita Herron
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“Do you need stitches?” his father asked.
Damon shook his head. “No, I’ll just clean it up. Please continue the celebration.”
His mother trailed him to the kitchen, removed the first-aid kit and played nursemaid as if he were five years old again and had just had a bicycle accident.
“What’s troubling you, son?” Daniella asked.
He rinsed the droplets of blood down the drain, wishing he could rid his mind of the tormenting memories that dogged him daily. “Nothing, Maman, it was just a stupid accident.”
She pierced him with a disbelieving frown. “There’s more, Damon. I’m your maman, you cannot lie to me.”
A family portrait in oils that hung on the opposite kitchen wall mocked him. God, he had to lie to her. If she knew the truth about the things he’d done, who he had been in the service, she wouldn’t look at him with love in her eyes. No, she’d be sickened and appalled.
Guilt clouded his vision, making the veins in his head pulse with tension. “This is Jean-Paul and Britta’s night, Maman. I want them to enjoy it.” He brushed a kiss on her chubby cheek. “And you, too. You’re about to be a grand-mère again.”
His mother’s face beamed with excitement. “I know, is it not wonderful? I can not wait to have another bébé in the house.” She tweaked his cheek. “Maybe we’ll have a little boy this time, another man to carry on the Dubois name.”
Damon’s throat thickened as he imagined the scene. His formidable older brother with an infant in his arms. Jean-Paul was a hero. He deserved a family. A son.
But marriage and kids were not in the picture for him.
A man who had destroyed a family, the way he had, had no right to one of his own.
DESPAIR AND FEAR TINGED the frail sound of an infant’s cry as it reverberated through the air like the strings of a harp that needed careful tuning.
Crystal jerked awake, her head swimming with confusion. A child…where? Had she dreamed the baby’s cry or had it been real? Or had it been a memory?
Disoriented momentarily, she searched the dim light of her room for the doctor or the nurse. No. Maybe Lex had come to visit again.
But all was silent. She was alone.
The low sob echoed through the thin walls again as if the wind had captured the ghostly cry, beckoning her to listen. Reminding her that she wasn’t alone in her pain and suffering.
Stiff from sleep, she stretched her limbs to force the circulation back around, an exercise she did routinely after her long hours in bed, then pushed her feet to the floor and into her slippers. She grabbed her thin cotton robe with one hand and shrugged it on, the other hand self-consciously touching the bandages on her face. At first she hadn’t ventured outside the room, but lately, as she’d begun to heal and regain her strength, she’d taken daily walks.
The rehab facility was situated on acres of private property by the river, surrounded by the backwoods, offering privacy and seclusion for its inhabitants. During the day, other patients strolled the gardens or rested in their wheelchairs in the shade of gigantic live oaks. Some gathered to play cards in the solarium or watch television together in the common game room, but she had yet to join the social scene. Although others suffered injuries, scars, some disfigurements, hers had been one of the most severe cases the hospital had seen, or so she’d heard, and she hated the gossip and stares that accompanied her outings.
Padding slowly, she opened the door and peered into the hallway. Shadows flickered across the corridor. The dim light from the nurses’ desk down the hall was just enough to allow her to see without being so stark it hurt her eyes or highlighted her own morbid appearance should another patient pass by. Blessedly, though, she was alone.
The cry jarred the air again, a low sob, then another. Realizing the sound originated from the room next to hers, she tiptoed toward the closed doorway.
Inhaling a deep breath and hoping her mummified face wouldn’t frighten the neighboring patient, she gently pushed on the door. She would just check and see if the person was all right.
Inside, a small night-light in the shape of a duck sent sparkles of faint yellow light across the white sheets and shadow-filled room. The bed seemed to swallow the tiny figure who lay curled into a ball, facing the window. Dark brown curls cascaded down the child’s back, her little body jerking up and down with her cries.
Tears sprang to Crystal’s eyes, but she blinked them away and slowly tiptoed into the room. The little girl turned toward her and lifted her face slightly, her arms in a death grip around a big brown teddy bear. She looked so lost and alone that Crystal’s heart clenched.
“Hi, honey,” she said softly. “My name is…Crystal.”
The child’s eyes widened momentarily, and Crystal wondered if she’d made a mistake in visiting, if her bandaged face terrified the toddler even more. Then she realized the little girl was Hispanic, and wondered if she spoke English, so she introduced herself in Spanish.
A second later, she realized she’d just learned something about herself. She was fluent in the language.
“Are you a ghost?” the little girl asked.
Crystal laughed softly, then they chatted for several minutes. The child’s name was Maria, and she’d lost her mother in a car accident the day before. Maria’s nana was supposed to come and get her the next day.
The self-pity Crystal had wallowed in for the last few months dissipated as compassion for the toddler mushroomed inside her. She sat down beside the girl, then read and sang to her until Maria finally fell asleep.
As Crystal made her way back to her own room, questions taunted her. Where had she learned to speak Spanish? Maybe she’d worked with children. Could she possibly have a child of her own?
IN THE DEN, Mr. Dubois sipped his coffee. “Damon, you will be at the upcoming Memorial Day celebration, won’t you?”
Damon poured himself a cup of his parents’ choice rich chicory blend. “I don’t know.”
The last thing he wanted was a commendation for honor and bravery now.
Laughter erupted in the background, drawing him back to the moment just as the doorbell rang. His sisters and mother were discussing baby names, debating over French versus American. Jean-Paul argued that they had to focus on boys’ names since the firstborn would certainly be a son.
The doorbell dinged again, and Damon frowned into his coffee, then gestured to his father that he would answer it.
Who the hell was stopping by on a Friday night unannounced? Not that he should be surprised that his parents would have company. They’d made a wealth of contacts and friends through their restaurant. And they had donated both time and money to so many charities following the hurricane that they were practically local celebrities.
Leaving his coffee cup on the table, he rammed a hand through his hair, then answered the door, hoping it was some salesman he could vent his anger on.
Instead, Lieutenant Phelps of the NOPD stood on the stoop.
A pair of silver-gray eyes wrought with turmoil met Damon’s.
Not a good sign.
Lieutenant Phelps nodded. “Special Agent Dubois.”
A formal greeting. Also not good.
“Lieutenant? What’s going on?”
The man’s eyes shifted over Damon’s shoulder where Antwaun stood in the shadows of the entryway’s arched doorway that led to the hall.
“We’re here on official business,” Lieutenant Phelps stated. “I need to speak to Antwaun.”
Antwaun