Page 232 of Remy

“Fuck,” Remy whispers a curse.

I turn to ice. “What’s wrong?” I snatch my clutch off the floor and start toward him, his eyes meeting mine over his shoulder, the starkness of his expression making me want to throw up.

“I’m with her now.” He holds my gaze. “We’ll be right there.”

My heart races as I approach.

Something happened to Dad.

Did he have another dizzy spell? Maybe a fall? Did he—I scrunch my nose, refusing to think the worst. We still have months.

“We need to go?” I ask.

He nods, every inch of him tense.

I focus on levelling my breathing, my heels clicking against the cement floor as I claim my cell from my clutch and open the group chat to Ivy and Allison.

Me

Sorry. I had to leave. Dad stuff. Will speak to you tomorrow.

I turn my phone to silent, too frazzled to handle any concern they might volley back at me, and follow Remy to the elevator.

I don’t ask questions while he drives us toward the suburbs in his Aston Martin, too scared my voice will break and trigger a meltdown. Instead, I pick at the quicks of my fingers and force myself to remain positive.

A million things could’ve happened to require our attention, and a lot of them don’t necessarily need to revolve around my father’s health. There might have been a blackout. Lucy could’ve fallen down the stairs.

I’m clutching at straws. I know I am, but Dad was in a great mood when I left. There’s no need to catastrophize.

Remy turns onto my father’s street, the lights of the lower level of the funeral home shining as we approach.

Hope sparks to life beneath my tightened ribs. Could Lucy’s call have been about the business? Was there a break-in? Maybe a retort gas leak.

Oh, fuck. Did someone find out about the illegal disposals?

I shoot Remy a glance, but there’s no panic in his features, only bottled concern.

He pulls into the parking lot, passing numerous cars I’m not familiar with. A white Chrysler. A grey pickup.

I undo the straps of my heels as he drives past Lucy’s hatchback and the hearse, my door in line with my father’s stairs.

“Stop the car.” I unclasp my belt as Remy continues toward the empty parking spaces. “Please stop.”

I open my door, needing to move, to run, to sprint.

He mutters a curse and hits the brakes.

I’m out of there in seconds.

I hop across the asphalt, kicking off one shoe before starting on the next. Once both feet are free I take the stairs two at a time, my breathing erratic.

I reach the landing, my chest aching from the exertion. Then the door opens and Lucy stands before me, no smile, no heartfelt greeting, no slither of positivity to cling to as tears dance in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Olivia.” Her words stab through me.

“No.” The denial slips free, the single syllable leaving a chemical burn down my throat.

I squeeze past her to scan the living room.

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