Page 215 of Bossy Hero

Bitter tea

Big Al

The inside of the Holt residence is far less inviting than the outside. It’s not the decor or design, per se. It’s the vibe—cold and unfeeling.

For the life of me, I can’t imagine Lettie growing up in a home this devoid of spirit and coming out as radiant as she did.

Then again, maybe she was the warmth and light that used to be here. And her departure from this house left a chill behind.

Which is essentially what the woman in front of me deserves.

Charlene Holt passes me a glass of sweet tea and then sits on the other side of the table. We’re in the formal dining room, just a few steps away from the family room.

The memory of sitting across from her at a similar table decades ago slices through my mind. Back then, Abby was on my right. And Lionel Holt was at the head of the table, which now sits empty. That night, Charlene looked down at me with disdain similar to what she does now.

Some things never change.

However, I’ll be the one demanding answers this time around.

Her manicured fingernails tap against the table with outward impatience. And I let her stew.

Rather than jumping in with a heated speech or nasty accusations, I take a few moments to study her. Sticking with an appraisal of her exterior at first. I’ll probe deeper later. I’m not ready to look inside.

It also gives her a chance to sweat it out.

Easily in her mid-seventies, she’s far more frail than she was the last time we met. Her silky gray hair is tied at her nape, and she wears a thin layer of eye makeup.

She moves her glass of iced tea an inch to the right, then spins it so the little flower on the side of the glass is centered. Glancing at the spot beside her, she straightens the placemat and swoops her gaze around the table with a fierce scrutiny, as if daring something to be out of place.

Interesting.

I’m gonna assume she has some OCD tendencies. Dealing with a free spirit like Lettie must have made her batshit crazy. That thought gives me far more pleasure than it should.

Under the weight of my stare, she eventually folds. “Well, what did you come to say?”

I shake my head. “First, I came to listen. Based on what I hear, I’ll adjust my responses accordingly.”

She flashes a fake smile. “And what is it you expect to hear?” Her Southern manners quickly fade, but the twang in her tone lingers.

“The truth. That should come naturally to a God-fearing woman like yourself.”

“How predictable. Throwing my religion in my face.” Her nostrils flare, and her smile turns into a sneer. “We’re all sinners, Mr. Lancaster.”

I force my face to remain impassive. “That we are. Some more than others. Perhaps we should confess our sins while we still have the chance.”

She cocks her head to the side, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “Are you threatening me?”

I bring my palm to my chest, responding with sincerity. “No. I didn’t mean to imply a threat. That was accidental. I apologize for how it sounded.”

She clasps her hands in front of her, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. No other response.

After a few seconds pass, I goad her a little. “See how easy that was, Charlene? Apologizing? Why don’t you try it?”

Her gaze shifts to the corner of the room, and she clamps her lower lip between her teeth. Three long seconds pass.

In a voice as flat and thin as paper, she says, “I apologize for what transpired regarding Violet. I understand why it must be very upsetting for you.”

Wow. She can’t even fucking look at me while offering a half-assednon-apology.

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