Page 63 of Deny Me
The final word trailed off as he came up against the side of the desk. From here he could see a small, neat hole in his cousin’s temple. Red-rimmed. Black shadowing mottled the skin. He knew what he’d see if he rounded the chair, but he didn’t. This side was hard enough; he didn’t want his final memories of his cousin to be his shattered skull.
“Wes, wake up,” he whispered, but he knew it was futile.
Wes wouldn’t wake up again.
King’s legs gave out. His knees hitting the floor jostled the chair, and athunkbeneath the desk had King glancing down. A Ruger SR22 lay on the floor between Wes’s Italian leather shoes.
A gun. The gun Wes had used to kill himself.
Wes had killed himself.
The keening cry that escaped was beyond his control. So was the way he grasped Wes’s suit in one hand and cradled the back of his head with the other. The blood didn’t register, nor the way Wes’s body flopped toward him, all consciousness gone. All King knew was that he held his cousin securely in his arms. Safe. Close.
For the very last time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
King ended his call and turned to Dain and Saint, both of whom stood close, their broad shoulders cutting him off from the rest of the room, the emergency personnel running up and down the stairs, the local security speaking to the police in the opposite corner. All of it too much when he felt like he could shatter at any second.
“They’re on their way,” he said hoarsely.
“That’s good.” Dain’s tone was hushed, keeping their conversation private. “It’s good that they heard it from you, not a stranger.”
Warren hadn’t questioned why King was telling him his son was dead. He’d been in too much shock. Too much pain. Like a coward, King had been glad not to be the one to tell Christy. He couldn’t imagine a mother’s pain at the loss of a child. A family’s pain.
Or at least, he’d never been able to before. Now…
God, Wes. Why did you do this?
He wanted to be angry, wanted to scream and cry and fight with his cousin until Wes came to his senses. And every time the impulse hit him, it threw him back on his heels. Wes wasn’t here to scream at anymore. He couldn’t fight. Couldn’t explain. Because Wes was gone.
Dead.
He wasn’t certain how long he stood there, staring into space. Dain and Saint didn’t push, just shared the silence, giving him strength. They waited as his thoughts circled until he finally spoke.
“He didn’t leave a note.”
It wasn’t like Wes; at least, King didn’t think it was. Lawyers had an overwhelming drive to argue, didn’t they? To explain? But Wes had left them with nothing. Why?
“Some people don’t,” Saint said.
“But most people do,” Dain pointed out. “There was nothing on the desk?”
“I didn’t go through the files, but I didn’t see anything obvious,” King said. The desk had been cluttered with work, but nothing that had looked like a personal note. Not even a typewritten letter. Maybe there was something on his computer? “I’m not sure if he’d feel compelled to explain to his parents—they love each other, but tend to be less demonstrative. If he was depressed, angry…” Wes hadn’t seemed to be stuck in either of those emotions. “He might not have bothered for their sakes, but Hugh…Charlotte…” How the hell could he explain this to Charlotte? “I don’t see him doing this without leaving Charlotte an explanation.”
“Maybe he would have if she hadn’t dumped him on his ass.”
King jerked his head up to meet Hugh’s glaring eyes over Dain’s shoulder. “Hugh.”
Dain and Saint turned, opening their circle to Wes’s brother. Opening King to attack. Hugh took immediate advantage, rushing to get right in King’s face. “You did this to him!”
King backed up until his spine hit the wall, Hugh following with every step. “I didn’t do anything to Wes.”
“Not directly, but you did something to Charlotte, didn’t you?” Hugh’s leer made his meaning obvious. “He told me everything. How she said she’d always be his friend. How she cried when she apologized for not loving him like she loved you.” Hugh poked a finger hard into King’s sternum, the bruising pain barely breaking through King’s numbness. “You’re the reason he took out that gun, pointed it, and pulled the trigger. You!”
No. God, no.
Dain gripped Hugh’s shoulder and dragged him backward, giving King space to drag in nonexistent air. “You know King isn’t to blame for this,” he argued.
