Page 52 of Forbidden Desires

“In the meantime, what are you going to do with the information James gave you?” Dominique asked, interrupting my thoughts. “About your parents?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? “I honestly don’t know if I should take this to the police, or burn it or…” I couldn’t say the last part, though, because I knew confronting the person who’d killed my parents could have so many repercussions I wasn’t equipped to handle. But I desperately wanted to.

“Or?” she prompted.

I paused, then decided to confide in Dominique. “The information, the reports that James gave, came with an address of where the person is living right now.”

Dominique was silent for a moment. It was rare that she could be rendered speechless. “That’s a dangerous bit of information, Jasmine.”

“I know,” I agreed, feeling so torn. “It’s just…it’s there as an option. Maybe I can get answers that will give me the closure I’ve always wanted. I could learn why my parents had to die but this person, whoever they are, was able to go on with their life without any consequences. I want them to know that they irrevocably changed my entire life, while they’ve been enjoying theirs.”

“I’m not one to tell you what to do. You know that,” Dominique said, compassion in her tone. “But I also realize how important something like this would be for you. Just know if you choose to go down this route, you should be careful. You’ve done a lot of healing over the years and I would hate to see you end up reopening old wounds only to let them fester all over again, just because James handed you the knife to do it.”

There was so much wisdom and truth in that statement. But what I did know is that I wanted this closure. I needed it to move forward and not have those loose ends hanging over me for the rest my life.

Dominique’s warningwas always in the back of my mind as I planned my trip over the next four weeks, but mostly it had taken that amount of time to gather the courage I needed to actually do it. And those days in between were filled with me painting, pouring out my grief on canvas with dark, depressing images. Not just for the loss of my parents, but mourning Eric, too, who I missed unbearably and hadn’t heard a word from.

Not that I expected to. The gossip surrounding the article might have died down—and James had conveniently taken a trip abroad to London right after handing me the information on my parents—but I wasn’t under any illusions that Eric wasany closer to finding out, or believing, that I had nothing to do with the leak. I’d heard through Dominique that he’d gone to New York and was still there, probably to make sure none of the slanderous gossip touched his parents in any way, which is all he ever cared about. Protecting his mother and father from something exactly like this.

His lack of faith in me hurt the most, that he would ever believe I’d betray him so completely. That everything we’d shared, that allowing him to see the most vulnerable parts of me and my life weren’t enough to convince him that I didn’t have the ability to be so cold and cruel.

But eventually my paintings turned a corner. They lightened, became images of hope and peace and possibilities. And that’s when I knew I was ready. The sorrow wasn’t gone, nor would it probably ever be. But just as I’d come to terms with living my life without my mother and father in it, I had to do the same when it came to Eric. I had to move on, and heal, and I believed closing this chapter in my life with my parents’ death would at least allow me to truly focus on what was important to me. Whattheywould have wanted for me, and my future.

I hadn’t returned to work since Eric ended our contract, and I had no intention of going back to escorting, not when I was still so in love with Eric. I had enough money saved that I could afford to take off the next year and figure out what I truly wanted to do with my future. Right now, I wanted to create art, because that had always been my passion and I’d lost sight of those aspirations after losing my parents. My greatest desire was to share my work with like-minded people, and feel joy again.

I loved that Dominique was my biggest supporter. Urging me to follow my dreams and I planned to, whole-heartedly. She’d even set me up with my first showing at a gallery that showcased up and coming artists, but first, I needed to put the past to rest, and that meant facing the person who’d killed my parents.

So, after a three-hour drive, and a stop at a Starbucks for comfort food, I found myself at the address listed as the last known residence of Henry P. Smith. The seventeen-year-old who’d run my parents into a ravine and fled the scene. Whose own parents, who had money and connections, made the whole thing disappear before it could actually come to light.

The thing was, though, is that the address didn’t bring me to a residence. It brought me to a funeral home with a cemetery adjacent to the building.

Confused, I double checked the address, only to find it was correct.

Frowning, I parked off to the side, not sure what to do. I’d never been to a cemetery before. My parents had been cremated because it’d been cheaper than buying them two plots. Even then, it felt oddly uncomfortable being here.

Why was I here? I figured there were two possible options. One, this was James’ morbid way of getting the last laugh by giving me the address of a graveyard. Or two, since this was Henry’s last known address, maybe he now worked at the funeral home or cemetery as a caretaker and James thought it safer to confront him at his place of work rather than his own home. Not that I really thought that James would be that concerned, but I had no other explanation.

So, exhaling a deep breath, I stepped out of my car. I had the file of information with me and what I hoped was courage stirring in my chest and not fear as I walked into the building just before the gated entrance to the cemetery. It was eerily silent, and smelled of roses inside, though I couldn’t see any in sight. To say it was as quiet as the dead would be an understatement.

“Can I help you, dear?”

An older woman approached me. She wore a green skirt suit combo, and comfortable short-heeled shoes. She looked friendly, and warm. Like I would imagine a grandmother to be.

“Oh, uhm. Maybe?” I stumbled over my words, my face taking on an embarrassed heat. “I’m actually looking for a Henry Smith. I was told I would find him here?”

She looked at me quizzically. “Are you a friend of the family?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

Now, I was confused. Again. “Oh, no, I assumed he, uhm…worked here?”

The woman blinked at me one more time, and then shook her head. “I’m sure there must be some confusion, dear. Henry has been dead for quite some time. His mother recently passed; her plot is near his.”

I stood there, shell-shocked for a moment, trying to process what she’d just told me. That someone as young as Henry—close to the same age as me going by the investigative report—was dead. “I, uhm…I’m so sorry, I must have been mistaken.”

Before the woman could say another word, I rushed out of the building, furious that James would play on my emotions so cruelly. His investigator had to have known that Henry was no longer alive, yet James had given me this address as his last known place of residence. It was such a spiteful thing for James to do, but I shouldn’t have been surprised considering what a prick he was.

I should have gone to my car and hightailed it out of there. Instead, I went through the gated archway in search of Henry’s plot, just to confirm for myself what the other woman said was true. Headstones upon headstones were everywhere. And unlike a library, with everything filed in neat, alphabetical rows, the cemetery was unalphabetized chaos, no rhyme or reason to where a person was buried.

I kept looking, reading every single headstone. And then I found it. A large, elaborate memorial made of marble, the grassy area around it kept clean with a small bundle of sunflowers set right in front of it, as if someone had recently visited.

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