Page 65 of Worse Than Wicked
Inside, the room is spacious like all the rooms in the manor house, a suite with its own bathroom, a king bed, and a cozy living area with a coffee table and comfortable seating near the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over his expansive estate. My grandfather sits in one of those chairs, surveying his domain. He rises when he sees us. He’s aged more than the three years since I’ve seen him can account for.
“Mabel,” he says, stepping toward me and holding out his arms like he thinks I’ll run into them. “It’s good to see you!”
“Grandpa,” I say, nodding. “I’m not much of a hugger.”
“And you brought a friend,” he says, striding over and extending a hand to Baron. Even though he’s in his seventies, he’s still stout and solid and straight, without a tremor in his big hand when he holds it out to Baron or a curve in his spine. He looks like he has a good twenty years left in him. Darlings do tend to age well and live long—at least the men.
“If I take that hand, it won’t be attached when you get it back,” Baron says. “So I suggest you keep it far away from me. And Mabel.”
“Oh—of course,” Grandpa says, laughing like it’s a joke. “Mabel, you sure I can’t interest you in that hug? One for your papa, for old time’s sake?”
Baron’s hand drifts my way like he’ll put it around my waist, but he must think better of it, knowing I can’t handle the contact right now. So he just puffs up and stares down the older man. “Preston’s outside, and if he hears any sounds of distress, he’ll come in guns blazing,” he says. “Otherwise, I’d gut you alive right now. The only thing stopping me is that Mabel wants to talk to you. The second she says the word, though, this meeting is over. And for you, that could be a permanent situation. So I’d tread carefully, old man.”
Grandpa looks from me to Baron and back, and then he laughs. Not like he’s mocking us, but like this is all fun and games, like Baron’s teasing him the way his buddies would when they came by to shoot the shit with him on the dock of the catfish pond. More deals were made out there than anyone probably knows—he was the most powerful judge in the county, and alliances were made and lost out there by the water, with no witnesses and no one to overhear.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asks heartily, like everything is under his control, like it always was. He’ll never admit otherwise, even when he’s locked away in his bedroom and can only come and go at Preston’s discretion.
“I wanted to talk to you about some things,” I say.
“Of course,” he says. “Come right in and make yourself at home. It’s been so long. Not that I get many visitors anymore, you know.” He makes a half-hearted laugh. “I keep to myself these days.”
“Is that because you’re locked up where you belong?” Baron asks.
“He’s not where he belongs,” I say. “He belongs six feet under.”
“Mabel,” Grandpa scolds, but his tone is wheedling too, like he thinks I’m being too hard on him.
“Am I wrong?” I ask.
“Why don’t you sit down and we can have a nice talk,” he says. “I’ll get the maid to bring up some iced tea. Unless you’d like something a little stronger.”
He winks at us, smiling his big jovial smile that shows too many teeth, the one he gave while he shook hands with politicians and prosecutors that made them think he was friendly and clever—you scratch my back, I scratch yours, and we can all go home for dinner.
To me, it was always the smile of the big bad wolf in a fairytale, prowling and hungry for a little girl to gobble up. Too bad the girl he swallowed was more hemlock than honey.
“I think tea will be just fine,” I say.
“You want to have a tea party?” Baron asks, raising a brow.
“Yes,” I say. “I think we have some things to discuss. Don’t you, Grandpa?”
“Certainly,” he says, taking his seat in the easy chair again. He gestures for us to join him. “You’ve been gone what is it? Three years? Tell me about your schooling. How’s university life treating you?”
“I’m not here to talk about school,” I say, watching him put in the order on his tablet. He may not get to do all the terrible things he used to, but he’s still living like a king up here.
“What is it you’d like to discuss, snowflake?” he asks, setting down the tablet.
I wince at the nickname. “Do you remember that time when I was little, and you took me to that burger place after it was closed, and there was a girl there with her baby?”
“No, I can’t say that I do,” he says, watching me expectantly, as if this is the first he’s ever heard of the night in question.
“Who was she?” I ask.
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he says. “Are you sure it wasn’t your dad or one of your uncles that took you? I can’t say I made a habit of going out for fast food, and I wouldn’t have even known how to get into a place like that once it was closed.”
“Baron already knows,” I say. “And you got away with it. I never went to the police, and no one would believe me anyway. It’s my word against yours, and just like you’re doing now, they’d say I misunderstood because I was a kid. But I remember.”
I remember the way I remember everything then, the facts laid out like a dusty card catalogue or a series of bones bleached by the sun, each one faded but still in its place. Back then, each thing that happened was simply catalogued, one event as meaningful and meaningless as the next. That night, I was a big girl. I helped by getting a bottle of water when he asked. I sat in my car seat on the way home, licking my ice cream cone.
