Page 8 of Deadly Secrets

“Before I say anything, I need you to know that I’m here for you, that you can count on me like your father always did.” He was tense. I could see how shaken he was, and at that moment, when he said those words, I knew something terrible had happened.

“Did? What is it, Jerry? Has something happened? Are my parents okay?” Something stuck in my throat, like I was trying to swallow words that hadn’t been said yet.

“Sienna, there was an accident. Your parents’ private jet…” He paused. “They’re gone. I’m so sorry, kid.”

I knew Jerry said something else, but the ringing in my ears blocked everything out, and I felt sick, just like now. Still, before I could make a scene in the middle of St. Mary’s Church and throw up like I did on my mother’s favorite Persian rug, I excused myself from Father Wakefield with a forced smile and ran to the closest restroom. After I emptied my stomach—not that it was full whatsoever, as I hadn’t been able to keep anything down the past few days—I sat on the floor for what felt like an eternity until I heard a knock on the door.

“Miss Moore, it’s Mrs. Bishop. I saw you come in here a while ago. Are you feeling alright, darling? Can I do anything for you? Would you like me to fetch some water?”

I rose to my feet, attempting to force down the overwhelming lump that had formed in my throat. Still, as I braced myself for the flood of tears, they remained stubbornly absent, which only added to the weight of despair I carried, making me feel even more broken and empty inside.

I had to face the music again. The church was full of people, and everyone expected to see me, shake my hand, and give me their condolences.

“I’m coming out, Mrs. Bishop. Just give me two minutes.”

“Okay, darling,” she responded.

I walked to the closest sink, washed my mouth and hands, and checked myself in the mirror. My eyes didn’t look like mine anymore. When I was a kid, my father always told me I had the prettiest eyes; “Like honey,” he would say. “That’s why you’re so sweet.” Now, they looked empty, clouded, and a bit swollen. Honestly, I looked like shit. I hadn’t been able to sleep for the past six days, mainly surviving on lattes with extra espresso shots. Someone could think by the look on my face that I’d cried myself to sleep every night since the accident, but the truth was that I hadn’t been able to shed a single tear.

Not once.

I googled it because I was getting worried that I wasn’t grieving as one would expect after the sudden death of both parents. Apparently, it happened frequently, and it was said online that it could be linked with a type of grief called “inhibited grief” due to suppressed emotions. I guessed everyone dealt with loss in their own way. I wondered when the gates would open, and this overwhelming feeling came crashing down, hitting me.

During the service, Mrs. Bishop held my hand the whole time. I felt utterly isolated, surrounded either by strangers or by staff employed by my parents. Sarah kept checking on me every day, but yesterday evening, she called me to say her flight got canceled, and she wouldn’t make it on time. Despite trying to find an alternative one, everything was fully booked, so I suggested she stay in London.

I took a deep breath.

Here we go, Sienna. You can do this.

Chapter 5. SEX AND THE CITY

(Sienna)

It’d been three weeks.

I still hadn’t cried.

The only things that seemed to help with the numbness were my friends gin and tonic. I’d been drinking myself to sleep because it was the only way I managed to get some rest. Otherwise, the nights were full of nightmares.

But today, the house felt too heavy. I couldn’t bear to exist between these walls.

Tomorrow, I would meet with the family’s lawyer—my lawyer, I guessed—and with the executor of my parents’ will. The whole thing made me nauseous.

I needed to leave this house and have a drink, maybe several.

I hopped into the shower quickly, threw on the first summer dress I found in my closet, and slipped into my beloved Hermès Oran sandals. After that, I booked an Uber that dropped me off at some bar on Murray Street. I didn’t usually hang out on this side of town, but the online reviews were good enough that I figured it would be worth a try. Nobody really knew me in this area, and I sure didn’t want anyone pitying me right now.

As I entered the bar, I realized I had chosen a great place to drown my thoughts. The bar was beautiful: dark walls and wooden floors, teal velvet curtains, dimmed yellow lights, dark leather stools, and, most importantly, barely crowded. “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall” by Ella Fitzgerald and The Ink Spots played in the background.

How appropriate.

I took it as a sign and walked toward the barman. He kindly asked for my ID, so I showed him the fake one Caroline gifted me last Christmas.

I was on my third drink when someone sat next to me. I looked at him from the corner of my eye and noticed that he was staring at me. When I turned my head to face my new drinking buddy, I thought he was probably one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen. He had short dark hair, a bit curly at the ends and the front partially covering his eyebrows, black eyes, and a sharp jawline. He wore a black shirt and trousers, and his jacket rested on another stool.

“I’ve observed you for the past twenty minutes, and it looks like your day was shittier than mine.”

My body stiffened in response to his voice. It was deep, alluring, and full of warmth.

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