Page 86 of Whiskey Kisses

She snorts, stroking my tangled hair. “Nah, girl, you know he sent the goon squad. They picked me right up from the parking lot on campus.”

We lie quietly for a long time, sharing space instead of words. I stare at the window, watching the sun’s buttercup yellow rays turn gold as the sun completes its arc, the clear blue sky deepening into a purple-indigo speckled with stars.

Eventually I lean over to turn on the lamp on my side of the bed. “I don’t know what to do, Opal.”

“There’s nothingtodo,” she says. “Except put one foot in front of the other. You’ll get through this.”

“Someone killed him. He died afraid,” I whisper, shuddering. The thought is almost too awful to bear, imagining his fear in those lastmoments. Who would do this? Someone he owes, someone like the Deschamps? Are they that evil? I clench my eyes shut, trying not to spiral any further.

“I know,” she says gently, rubbing her hand in circles over my back. “I’m so sorry, Evie. He didn’t deserve that.”

“I feel like … like I don’t even know my own town anymore. If something like this can happen, then anything can happen. To any of us.”

Opal hums, her hand never faltering from its comforting rhythm.

“Everything feels so dark.”What an understatement. I’ve never looked into a darkness this deep, this terrifying. Knowing that my father was murdered stains every thought I have. I let out a tremulous sigh, fresh tears wetting my cheeks. “I feel lost.”

“It's okay to feel that way,” she says softly. “You’ve never been this way before. Give it time.”

I nod gratefully, keeping my eyes shut.

“Don't worry about tomorrow or the next day,” she says. “Just focus on now.”

When I wake up,Opal’s gone and Tristan’s sleeping beside me.

Climbing out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom in the dark. My neck is sore, thanks to the funky way I fell asleep, so I take a long, steamy shower, letting the hot water pound the achiness from my body. Afterward, I pull on an old t-shirt and sweatpants and head downstairs to find food. I don’t think I’ve eaten since breakfast yesterday, and now I’m starving.

I’m nearly done with my bowl of stew and Tristan’s famous garlic bread when he appears in the dimly lit kitchen. “Hey,” he rasps, yawning. “You find everything okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” I nod, swallowing. “This is really good, by the way. Seems you’re quite the cook.”

“I am, aren’t I? Who’d have thought.” He smiles a little, joining me at the table. “How you feelin’?”

I push the last of the bread into my mouth, chewing slowly. “Not great, but not hungry anymore so that’s a start.”

He rests his face in his palm as he looks at me, and we’re quiet for acouple of moments. Just like with Opal. Sometimes someone’s presence is all you need. I’d hate to be alone throughout all of this. As if he senses the tenor of my thoughts, Tristan touches his finger to mine. “You know I’m here for you, right? You need a good cry, a fat joint, or just a warm meal—I got you. I mean it, Evie.”

His sincerity makes my heart ache, and I feel the familiar prick of tears in the corners of my eyes as I look at him. “What would I do without you?”

“You’ll never have to find out, because I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Family, remember?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking away. “For earlier.”

“Don’t be,” he says, caressing my hand. “You just had your world blown up. Again.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me like that,” I say, a question as well as a statement.

“I wouldn’t, but I get why you wondered if it was me,” he says knowingly, his face hard to see in the glow of the stove light. “You think I’m ruthless, and I am. I don’t like people who fuck around with me and mine, and I’d hurt anybody that tried to hurt you. Even if that meant hurting them. You understand?”

A tear rolls down my cheek. “Yes.”

“I think he hurt you more than you’ve let on, and maybe one day you’ll tell me about it, but none of this had anything to do with that,” he says. “I had no beef with him in the end. He did what he was supposed to do.”

“For you,” I say. “Obviously, someone else felt differently.”

“Listen, it’s too early to know for sure,” he begins, letting go of my hand to thumb away the tear. “But I think this might’ve been the Deschamps.”

The vise grip that’s been clamped around my heart all day tightens, and I rub my chest. “I thought about that,” I admit. “What are we gonna do?”

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