Page 76 of Resurrection

I’ve never been sure I wanted kids—maybe once, for a moment, the notion crossed my mind with Carys. She was so focused on those things, it was hard not to consider the future. But I understand the deep gash a mother leaves behind once she’s gone. A gaping, jagged hole that never heals. My life, so full of danger, never felt secure for a kid, even if I found someonewho wanted to have them. While I might be sad Carys didn’t get what she wanted, I’m not sad we’ll be childless.

“Why are you telling her this now?” I lean forward.

She needs to be back on my lap so I can ease her hurt. This level of deception is like waking up from a vivid dream. Reality is altered, and it’s hard to figure out what to believe, who to trust. The truth is fragile. I should know—that’s how I felt when I found out my mother’s death hadn’t been an accident.

“My daughter—” Opal sniffs and takes another tissue from Jay’s outstretched hand. “Pearl. She thought I was dead, until recently.”

“So.” Jay turns his attention from his phone, a pensive expression on his face. I hope he’s already tracking this information. “She’s not happy about being abandoned?”

Opal’s eyes brim with tears. “It wasn’t just his wife my ex-husband enjoyed beating.”

Carys covers her mouth. “That’s awful. I—I can’t—I don’t know what to say,” she murmurs.

“She’s furious I left her behind. Rightfully angry. I never thought he’d hurt her. I was selfish and stupid to agree to leave. But I was drowning in misery. I didn’t think I could save us both.” Opal stands and paces on unsteady legs across the front of the couches. “This last time she came to see me, she said the only way she could think to make things right was to remind me of what it’s like to be afraid. She spent most of her life afraid.”

Tears stream down Carys’s face, and Opal is holding it together by a shoestring. They’re focused on the emotion of Carys’s sister, and I’m figuring out the angle.

“She needs to know your deepest fear,” I say. “Then she has to have the time and money to go after it.”

Opal stops pacing and examines me. “Which is why I’m glad you’re here.” She clenches her hands. “My ex-husband died two, almost three, years ago. Pearl found documents, and sherealized I might still be alive. My ex was wealthy. Very wealthy. Pearl has never worked a day in her life.”

“Sound cushy,” I say. “Where do I sign up for that?”

“Finn.” Carys reminds me of my personal vow not to be a dick during this conversation.

“She’s out for blood?” I ask. Jay better be over there on his phone searching for information, a paper trail, a way to cut off the head before it becomes a hydra.

“I don’t know,” Opal says. “It might not be a real threat. But I couldn’t let it go. I had to come tell Carys.” She hesitates. “And you.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Jay assures her.

Adding this on top of the stress with Eric and Charles isn’t helpful, but I’d rather see what’s coming than be surprised. “As long as there is breath in my body, I’ll do everything to keep her safe.”

Opal’s brown eyes soften. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”

“Are you staying tonight?” Carys asks when she acknowledges her mother again.

With a shake of her head, Opal crosses to the couch and gathers up her purse. “I don’t want to stay in case Pearl has people tailing me. I’m flying back tonight.”

Carys rises, and I mirror her.

Silence sits between us for a moment as Opal searches her daughter’s face. “I know how hard you tried to have a baby of your own, and abandoning a child must seem crass and unfeeling to you.” She presses her purse to her shoulder. “It wasn’t a choice.”

“But it was,” Carys whispers. “I could never abandon a child.”

My hand is on the small of her back, and she sinks into the contact, turning to hug me around the middle.

“I’ll show you out, Mrs. Van de Berg,” Jay says from beside us.

She wipes away a few more tears that trickle down her face and follows him toward the door.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Carys

When I slip into bed, Finn tugs me close, but for the first time since we’ve been together, he doesn’t run his hands along me in ways to make me think of sex. Instead, he wedges me in so tight my face is practically squished against his bare chest, and he smooths my hair before kissing the top of my head. Every bandage is gone, and sometimes I lie in bed tracing his scars, asking for their stories as my heart races at the danger and aches at the close calls. A world without him isn’t a world at all.

“You okay?” he says. “You’ve been too fucking quiet since your mom left.”

---