Page 66 of Souls and Sorrows

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ronnie. What the hell are you doing here this late?” Cash exhales long and slow, lowering his arm.

“I apologize, sir.” A light in the bedroom flickers on, and Ronnie takes a step toward us, an uncertain look marring his features. He glances at me, worry evident in his gaze, and my stomach drops in anticipation. “But it’s, uh… Mrs. Primrose’s father.”

My brows arch, and I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. It suddenly feels like I’ve been swallowed up by a vacuum, and the words sound garbled and distant.

Cash casts a sidelong look at me, then refocuses on Ronnie. “What about him?”

Again, Ronnie’s eyes find mine, and for the first time, I find myself despising the kindness within them. I wish I could scoop them out. Keep them from ever staring at me like this in the future.

“I’m afraid he’s dead.”

20

My wife becomesa robot approximately thirty seconds after she learns of Rafael’s death.

She doesn’t change out of her pajamas, braving the cool temperatures in a pair of sherpa slippers and the little pink shorts I was ready to tear off her minutes ago. I follow her in silence as she heads down the stairs behind Ronnie, staring straight ahead with an unfocused glint in her eyes.

Grabbing her purse from the living room, I tell Ronnie to take her down to the car and that I’ll catch up with them. When the elevator doors close, I head into my home office, dialing Zephyr’s number and getting her on the second ring.

“You’re up early,” she says, and I glance at the clock on my computer, noting that it’s just past two. She probably hasn’t even gone to sleep yet.

“Rafael Ricci is dead,” I reply, bypassing any sort of greeting. “At least, according to the call Ronnie just got from the prison.”

Silence.

Then, “Why would they call your driver and not his daughter?”

“My thoughts exactly.” I don’t know what’s going on, but something feels off with all of this. Inmates die and are assaulted all the time, and correctional facilities are notorious for fucking up protocol, but still. They were supposed to contact Ariana. “Look into it for me.”

“On it.”

She hangs up, and I slip back into the bedroom to pull on a suit, grabbing one of my coats from the closet and the pistol from my dresser before heading downstairs. Ariana stands at the back door of a limousine, holding her arms against her chest, as if waiting for me to join her.

When I approach, I drape the coat over her shoulders, not really sure what else to do at this point. Something tells me any sort of comfort I attempt will only be rejected, and that’s never really been my strong suit anyway.

She gives me a little lopsided grin, clutching the lapels against her collarbone. “People will know we’re together.”

“Good.”

If the general public isn’t aware by now, then whoever finds out this way deserves to. There are far more important things on my mind than what they’ll think, and even more, I want the entire fucking world to know who Ariana Ricci belongs to.

We get to the police department in record time, and Ronnie explains that there was some sort of mix-up in the communications office, which is why he was contacted instead of either of us. He says he had to give his information when he took me to visit Rafael earlier this week, and somehow, the phone numbers got switched.

I’m not entirely sure I buy it, but upon entering the building, we’re led to a cold waiting room off the holding cell block, and I don’t have time to think about it too much. Ariana keeps her gaze straight ahead at all times, scarcely blinking, even when an officer comes in to ask if she’d like to claim the body.

“He’s been taken to the medical examiner’s office to undergo an autopsy, but if you’d like for him to be taken to a specific funeral home, we can take care of that here.”

“An autopsy?” Ariana finally checks in, her spine straightening. “Don’t you usually only do those for, like, criminal investigations?”

Discomfort flashes behind the black-haired officer’s eyes. “It’s standard procedure to send bodies for report, especially when we suspect unnatural causes might have contributed to their deaths.” He looks at me, then back at Ariana. “Since we just did our annual physicals, we have no real reason to believe your father was sick or in failing health.”

“Was he—” She cuts herself off, crossing her ankles. “Did you see something that makes you think foul play was involved?”

“Ms. Ricci, we really can’t—”

“Primrose.”

The officer blinks. “Sorry?”

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