Page 78 of Corrupted Queen

I rush to my feet and peek my head into the nursery, where Jessica is sitting with Harry on her lap, reading to him.

“Are you heading out?” she asks.

I nod and cross the room, leaning down to press a kiss to Harry’s soft forehead. “Be good for Jessica until Mommy comes back.”

Harry blows me a kiss, smiling. His left cheek dimples.

I go back into my room and grab my bag from the desk, then head out to meet Angelo in the hall. As we walk to the car, I note his slight limp. He suffered a superficial leg wound at the yacht shootout—straight in, straight out—but insisted on escorting me today anyway. He claims he barely feels it, but I doubt he would be able to run very far. Works for me.

Angelo introduces me to the other three guards who make up my security detail—Giovanni, Paul, and John. The four of us squeeze into the back seat and I cast a longing look at the mansion as it disappears into the distance.

* * *

I arrive at the halfway house with my host of guards, drawing suspicious looks from the two lean, glassy-eyed men smoking on the bench outside. Admittedly, having an entourage of beefy men in suits makes me feel powerful and important, and I enjoy the speculation in their stares.

Clara comes to the door, smiling wide when she sees me. It is the only wide thing about her. When I last saw her when she was still in the rehab center, she had started to gain a little weight in her face, but her cheeks have hollowed out again and her arms come around me like sticks. I hug her back carefully, worried that one smack on her back would be enough to splinter her brittle frame.

“It’s good to see you,” Clara says.

When she pulls back, I inspect her eyes. Sure enough, the purple bags and distant look have returned. My mouth flattens, and she tracks the change in my expression nervously.

“It’s good to see you too,” I say. “Where’s the kitchen?”

She leads me and my complement of guards through the house, which smells of smoke and stale food, though there is a gasp of air freshener on top of it all that adds the barest scent ofsummer’s day. The kitchen smells worst of all but is fairly clean besides the dirty dishes in the sink and crumbs and bits of dried food on the countertops.

“What are you doing?” Clara asks as I locate her cupboard. Her name is written on the front in her familiar flowery script.

“Making you something to eat,” I say, poking her skeletal rib. “You were looking so good when you were in rehab. What happened?”

Her eyes shift away. “I guess I’ve been busy.”

“Busy doing what?” I ask. “Have you started teaching classes again?”

I know she hasn’t, and she knows that, too, so doesn’t answer. When Clara is in control, she’s in control—she is militant about the food that goes into her body, guzzles down two liters of water a day as a rule, and would never let me storm into her kitchen to start making food. I know I’m being a little mean, but Clara needs tough love if she’s ever going to get out of this hole.

The only things in her cupboard are a couple of mushroom cup-o-noodles and some oatmeal. I look back and she winces.

“I haven’t had a chance to go shopping,” she says weakly.

“John,” I say, snapping around to where my shadows wait in the doorway. “Go get some groceries for Clara. Lots of fruit and vegetables, some nuts, whole grains. No meat.”

He looks uncertainly to Angelo, who is pulling point on this outing. Angelo gives him a nod and John disappears.

I fill the kettle and set it to boiling, just as the two lean, tired-looking men from outside stagger in past the guards.

“Clara, these aren’t cops, are they?” the taller one asks.

She shakes her head. I can’t help but smile.

“Good,” he says, and the pair of them start rifling through the cupboard marked “Lance” for some bread and peanut butter, muttering to each other. I catch a few words over the hiss of the kettle, and the two appear to be discussing which dealer they will go to if Thomas is knocked out again when they call. Apparently he has been getting high from his own supply, and the higher strength of the new drug has kicked him on his ass a couple times.

Some guys just can’t handle their purple heroin.

The kettle clicks just as the men shuffle from the room, peanut butter sandwiches in hand. They have left a dirty knife on the countertop, as well as a new collection of crumbs. I look up to find Clara staring at me.

I clear my throat and pour the boiling water into the little plastic noodle cup, but inside I am raging. This is supposed to be a safe place for Clara, but the purple heroin has breached here too. Her addiction may have begun with alcohol, but she has moved onto deadlier vices now, and if I don’t get her clean soon —properly clean—I could lose her for good.

This solidifies it for me. I am going to the meet. And I am going to tear this whole stinking, fetid enterprise down if it is the last thing I do.

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