Page 240 of Remy

It’s selfish to want her.

It always has been.

“You know what, Lesley?” I push from the car and swing around to open the driver’s door. “I think you’re right.”

40

REMY

I do as the old bat instructs and stay away for days despite how the retreat from Ollie makes my veins itch.

No physical contact is one thing. But no texts or phone calls is a cruel form of withdrawal I struggle to endure.

I’ve instructed everyone I know, numerous times, to keep me updated on Ollie’s movements and temperament as often as possible—Wesley, Lucy, Russo, and Valenti as well as Carlo’s temporary appointed staff.

I even bribed her grocery delivery driver to inform me if any concerning changes are made to her eating habits because even the slightest insight into her suffering is a balm to my guilt.

My only solace is that her two best friends barely leave her alone. They’re always at her house for hours on end. They bring food and coffee. I’m pretty sure they carried in a box of liquor, too.

And when they’re not there, Lesley takes their place.

I wake on my sofa the morning of Carlo’s funeral, in old gym shorts and not much else. Three empty bottles of Jack sit on my coffee table, along with a stack of take-out food containers.

Sobriety had been the plan at the start of the week. But as the days passed, intoxicated oblivion became the goal, and there’s no getting through today without backing up on the inebriation train.

I shove from the sofa and drag my ass to the kitchen in search of a fresh bottle of whiskey.

I rummage through the alcohol cabinet above the fridge when the whir of my private elevator alerts me to an unwanted visitor, the slide of the opening doors followed by the clap of heels.

I close my eyes and bow my head as a weary female sigh carries from behind me.

I’d recognize that judgmental tone anywhere.

“What are you doing here, Abri?” I turn to face my sister.

Her eyes widen as she takes me in.

Okay, so maybe I haven’t shaved in a while, and personal grooming hasn’t really been a priority, but that expression is overly dramatic.

“Actually, don’t answer that.” I pivot back to the liquor cupboard and reach into the far corner to claim the last bottle of Jack. “Whatever your reason, I’m not interested.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her heels continue to tap across the tile as she approaches the island counter. “But I didn’t endure drunken late-night phone calls and early morning D.C. traffic to take no for an answer. So hurry up and get dressed. We have a funeral to attend.”

I ignore her and crack the lid of the whiskey.

“Put the bottle down, Rem. You’re better than this.”

I turn to her with a derisive laugh. “I assure you I’m not.”

“Well, for today you’re going to pretend to be.” She shrugs. “By free will or force, I don’t care.”

I scowl, not only at the statement but her outfit. “Why are you wearing that?”

She’s dressed for a funeral. In all black. Conventional heels. Conservative dress.

“I guess you missed the first time I said it, so I’ll repeat it slowly—we have a funeral to attend.” She enunciates the words as if I’ve got a learning disability.

With the way her presence and appearance doesn’t make sense, I’m beginning to think I do.

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