Page 235 of Remy

“No.” I yank my arm away.

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He idolizes my father.

Idolized.

“Tell me you didn’t do this.” My voice trembles. “Please, Remy.”

His eyes implore me, wordlessly asking forgiveness.

“Please,” I beg.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to end.” His tone is roughened.

I shake my head. “Then tell me what was supposed to happen. What did you give him?”

“Pento.”

“Pentobarbital?” I gape. The euthanasia drug? “That’s what you delivered earlier?” When he’d smiled his gorgeous smile as he arrived while the cause of my father’s premature death rested in his pocket.

“It was part of the agreement, Ollie. Right from the start. He wanted to end his life on a high. On his own terms. He didn’t want to slowly deteriorate while you watched him suffer. But he promised he’d tell me first.” He reaches for me again, the gentle scrape of his rings over my forearm a sickeningly torturous form of comfort. “I fucking swear to you he promised he’d let me know when the time came.”

I retreat a step, my lower lip trembling, and the bile, oh God, it threatens to rocket from my throat.

He killed my father.

The man I adore—the one I trusted—stole my only surviving parent without cause or warning.

“Wow.” I choke on a sob. “I guess you got what you wanted.”

“What?” His face blanches. “How?”

“You said I couldn’t see you for who you are.” I slide a hand over my stomach, begging the nausea to remain at bay. “I do now. I finally understand what you’ve been trying to tell me all along.”

“Ollie, please.” The agony in his voice destroys me. The utter devastation of it all.

I back away, fighting against my body’s senseless urge to remain close to him. “I need you to leave.”

He straightens. Stiffens. “I can give you space, Pyro, but I won’t?—”

“You’ll go or I’ll call the cops.” I cross my arms over my middle, fighting to remain composed. “The agreement is over. Your work here is done. I never want to see you again.”

39

REMY

I stare at her, drinking in her pain, punishing myself with her despair. “I can?—”

“Leave.” Her arms tighten around her middle, like they’ve done so many times before. It’s different now. The sight of it destroys me.

I wish I could touch her. Comfort her.

But if I get the chance to do that again it won’t be anytime soon.

I bridge the space between me and the bedside table where two envelopes are propped against the stack of paperback memoirs Carlo had been reading.

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