Justice (18 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Harlow

BOOK: Justice
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This is where I would make a kinky comment if the last twenty-four hours had never happened. I can’t even think of one, let alone fight him on this.

Fine. I’ll do whatever you say.


And as of right now, you’re off the case.


I figured.

He sighs and hangs his head. We don’t speak for a few seconds, and for the first time I’m uncomfortable in his presence. Part of me wants him to leave me alone, but the bigger part wants to fall into his arms and cling to him until it’s all over. I can’t even look at him, let alone touch him. I don’t deserve to, and I think he finally realizes it.

Do you need anything? I can call Dr. Newman.


I don’t need a shrink. I’m fine.


Of course you are. You’re always fine.

He pauses, trying to pull up the correct words.

This isn’t your fault, Jo.

I can’t be in this house a moment longer. I stand and walk over to him, though I don’t meet his gaze.

Of course it is. It’s all my fault. All of it. Always. It’s all on me. You of all people should realize that. Bye, Harry.

With my head hung I walk out of the kitchen, past the glancing techs, the shouting reporters with their cameras, to my car. Their swarming doesn’t stop me from pulling out and driving as fast as I can out of there, as most guilty do when they leave the scene of their crime. I’m no different.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Broken

A police cruiser follows me to Justin’s but waits outside the gate as I enter. I’m sure Harry’s ordered them to stay within ten feet of me at all times, but I shut the gate before they can get in. I need them to keep their distance for today. Justin and Lucy have more important things to worry about than me.

Dobbs, the butler/chauffer, opens the door for me. His grief is written all over his wrinkled face. He’s been the Pendergast butler for forty-four years, running this house like a tight ship, thirty of those years with the help of his wife Leigh, who was the maid before she passed away. He’s always been kind to me, having the cook make my favorite meals and dropping or picking me up when I’d come over. He’s even the one who taught Justin and me how to drive and sail. Justin practices that last one a lot more than I do, but I’m a great first mate when I’m there.

Dobbs shuts the door and we stand in the large entranceway, the crystal chandelier glittering like fairy dust above our heads. At least that’s how Daisy described it. Bowing his head, Dobbs says,

Terrible day.


The worst.


You found them?


Yes.

He squeezes my arm.

I am so sorry.


Me, too. I know how fond you are—
were
of them.


Yes. I was looking forward to the sound of children once more. Now, I fear these walls will never hear them again.

I have no idea what to say to that, so I hang my head and say nothing. He swallows down his emotions and is his professional self again.

Miss Lucy is in the parlor.


Thank you, Dobbs.

I start toward the parlor until Dobbs says,

Miss Joanna?

I turn around.

Yeah?


When it comes time to meet Master Justin, would it be possible for me to drive you two? I just want to…be there for him.


Of course. It’ll mean a lot to him, you being there.


Thank you, Miss Joanna.

I nod before going to find Lucy. On the way, I pass the paintings on the walls.

The Hall of Pendergast,

I call it. It’s a family tradition dating back nine generations to commission a family portrait and hang it here. They’re always the same with the husband on the left, children on the right, and mother sitting in a chair between them. The first dates back to the seventeen hundreds when the city was founded. Jeremiah Pendergast was one of the first to settle here, quickly building his milling and then shipping empire while his wife Ellen started the Daughters of the Falls, a charity organization still around today that every socialite is in or trying to be in. The last portrait is of Justin when he was nine with his father and mother. She had to be painted in using a photo as she died of breast cancer when Justin was six. He got her lips and chin, but the rest belongs to the Pendergast’s. All are blonde, blue-eyed Gods and Goddesses right down the line.

One night, when I was about twenty, I accompanied Justin to his cousin Jeanne’s wedding in St. Croix. While we were walking along the beach, he asked me if I ever thought I’d get married. Of course I wanted to blurt out,

Yes, to you,

but instead said,

I don’t know.

Good thing I did, because he said with utter confidence,

I never will.
Never
. And I won’t bring children into this world either. I wouldn’t do that to any of them.

Then she came and it all changed. She melted his heart, brought it to life. She gave him hope. Now, I doubt this wall will ever get a new edition.

Lucy sits behind the desk at the bay window overlooking the ocean, the telephone pressed against her ear. There’s a glass on the desk of what I think is Bourbon, her drink of choice, which she plays with nervously.

No, I don’t think they’ll release the names until the family has been notified. If anyone else calls, just tell them no comment. I’ve already called Gene and he’s drafting a statement. He’ll release it when he deems it necessary.

She listens.

Shannon, Joanna, and I can handle the funeral preparations.

She listens again.

Thank you. Good-bye.

She hangs up the phone, taking a moment before acknowledging me.

You arrived quickly.

I sit on the couch, crossing my ankles like she’s told me to do for years.

Ladies do not sit like cowboys, Joanna.

Now I only sit like a cowboy in her presence just to tick her off. No desire to do that today.

I just had to give a statement.


Oh.

She sips her drink with a slightly shaky hand. Mine stopped shaking on the drive over through sheer force of will.

A few members of the press, it seems, have already contacted Pendergast Industries in search of Justin.


One of the neighbors probably told them who lived at the crime scene. I’d give it another half hour or so before the entire mess is leaked out. You should probably call a security firm and get them to guard the gate. This place is going to be a madhouse.


For how long, do you think?


Week, maybe two. Definitely at the funeral.


Yes.

She takes another sip.

I don’t know where they would want to be buried. I doubt Marnie would want to spend eternity in Galilee. She didn’t like it here at all. Too dirty and loud. Though Rebecca and Daisy…should we separate them all? Maybe we should just have the funeral in Lake City.

She sips her drink.

And would they want to be buried or cremated? I just don’t know.


Maybe they had wills. Might be in there?


Perhaps.

She takes a final sip and stands up, going to the bar to fill up.

When will they release the bodies? They’ll have to autopsy them, I suppose.


Yeah,

I say quietly.

She nods a little, no doubt to shake out the image of them lying on the autopsy table missing organs.

I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like something to drink?


No, thank you.

I’m never touching that shit again if I can help it.


The last time I had a drink in the afternoon was twenty years ago,

she says, pouring.

I had just been informed that I had inherited control of a seven billion dollar legacy and a thirteen-year-old boy I had only met five times before. If there was ever a time, right?

She sips.

As you may have figured out, I don’t like most people. I have no real use for them. I remember now why that is.

She walks back over to the window to watch the waves crash below.

Even after twenty years, I miss my old life. I was the head of the board at the Independence Museum of Art, you know. I made or broke exhibits. I went on archaeological digs all over the world. I even negotiated with the Louvre for a Monet. I had my cats, the occasional girlfriend, my committees, and I flew around the world on a whim. I never wanted to get married or, God forbid, have children. Freedom trumped all. It’s hard to get close to someone as fiercely independent as us. You know how that is.

I nod. I’d say something, but my input doesn’t matter. I just have to listen.


Then J.T. dies, and I’m responsible for a grieving child. Two total strangers stuck in a mausoleum. I had no idea what to say or do, and neither did he for that matter. He barely spoke the first few weeks beyond the polite pleasantries. I did the best I could. We soldiered on.


He loves you,

I say.

And he knows you were the one who was there for him when he really needed it. Even though you didn’t want to do it, you came. You raised him. Who knows where he’d be without you?

She turns from the window with a small smile.

You’re good at this. It must make you an effective law enforcement officer. It’s a rare gift, knowing the exact right thing to say or do in a given situation.

I scoff.

That is
so
not the case.


Don’t sell yourself short, Joanna. I know it may seem that I never liked you. At first, I didn’t. He had enough on his plate without a suicidal teenager following him around like a lost puppy.

A sip.

Then, as time went on, I saw how good you were for him. You gave him what I couldn’t. A purpose. Affection. Someone who made him laugh. I never did thank you for that.


You didn’t need to.


I’ve treated you badly. I’m a snob, and I know it. You’re uncouth, vulgar, and stubborn to a fault.

She scoffs.

And I see a lot of myself in you, if you can believe that. You have so much potential, and I hate to see it squandered. Though considering your upbringing, I’m amazed you’re as well adjusted as you are. A lesser person would be some type of addict, criminal, or emotional cripple. You should be proud of yourself.

One out of three isn’t bad.

I am,

I lie.


I do have a point to this ramble,

she says, stepping toward me. She sits in the chair next to me, back straight.

I know how you felt about Rebecca, because I know how you feel about Justin. You’re in love with him.

I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up her hand to stop me.

Don’t bother denying it. I could tell the moment you stepped into our limo that first night. You were all but drooling.

She sips her drink.

Do you know the reason he’s never reciprocated your feelings?


I’m uncouth, vulgar, and stubborn?


Oddly, he likes those traits in you,

she says with a smile.

No. You lost him before you ever had him, my dear. The moment you stepped onto the edge of that bridge, any chance of romantic love was over. If you two had just met, say at a function or on the street, he would have fallen madly in love with you, without a doubt.


Then why not then?


Because you’re a symbol to him, Joanna. You are the first person he ever saved, and that saved him. You’re an extension of himself, and everything he stands for. You represent his whole world. All his pain and sacrifice for the greater good. He’d never let such a base thing as sex sully that. You have to go out in the world, live a good life apart from him, contribute, otherwise what is all this sacrifice for? And that’s what makes you the most important person in his life.


What sacrifice? He talked me off a bridge. Nothing else.

She chugs her drink.

Then he met Rebecca,

she says, ignoring me.

She meant something different. A blending of both worlds. She needed him at first exactly as you did, but could provide him with normalcy free of the darkness, or so he thought. Sometimes there’s not enough light in this godforsaken world to keep the darkness at bay.


I suppose,

I say for lack of something better. I’m confused as to half of what she’s said.

She closes her eyes for a moment, probably to focus her thoughts.

My point is you saved him once. You gave him a sense of purpose, and now you need to give him a reason to continue. This is going to destroy him. Mind, soul, and maybe body. I know that’s a lot to put on you, but I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you were up to the task. I’m asking you to put your own feelings, especially the misplaced guilt you are no doubt feeling, aside. I’m asking you to be strong for him, no matter what.

She purses her lips.

I know you must have resented Rebecca for usurping your place at his side. I would have. But wishing a person dead does not make it so. Any guilt rests solely on the monster who killed her. This is not your fault, Joanna. Please believe me.

For a moment, mind you just a moment, if feels as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I can actually believe those words. Then that image of the photo on the door crashes me back to earth. Not that I’ll let her see any of this.

I will do whatever I can to get you both through this. I know you were fond of her. You lost her too. All of them.

Lucy looks away.

That little girl. She was…precious. Did she suffer?


No. She was unconscious when it happened.

Lucy collects herself, and then turns back to me with an awkward smile.

That’s good,

she says quietly. She takes a final swig of her drink and sighs.

I believe I will go upstairs and have a lie down.

She stands and as manners dictate, so do I.

I’m sure you can handle any telephone calls that come.

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