Page 59 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Eighteen

Emily

When my eyes jerk open, I can’t remember the dream, but there was a loud bang at the end of it. My pulse is racing, my hands are sweaty and shaking. What happened? Did I get shot? I have no idea.

I sit up, still groggy, shielding my eyes against the sunlight filtering in through my blinds. I can see just a hint of movement in the back yard, though, and when I peek outside I see Frank launching himself into the pool.

Banging sound. Brother outside.

It was just the back door. Again. Dammit, Frank. I’ve asked you to be careful with that a thousand times. I swear, sometimes talking to you is like talking to a wall.

A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand and my anger fades away: I slept far later than normal. Frank must have thought I was long since gone to work.

No. No, no,no. Here I go again, making excuses for him, again. In some ways I enable him just as much as Margaret does, and that’s not healthy for anyone, either. I let him get away with things, because usually it’s quicker and easier to do something myself than to fight with him to get what I want.

I stayed up too late last night. Way too late. Even the hot shower isn’t fully waking me up. I was out way too late last night working, and I stayed awake far too late overanalyzing every word, every look, every non-verbal cue that Gabriel Cooper showed me last night, and my responses.

Finally, dressed and ready, I dash down the stairs but I can’t avoid Margaret.

“I saw your car outside, sweetie.” Her purr is saccharin: far too sweet, and possibly carcinogenic as well. “I made you some breakfast.”

“I don’t really have time for breakfast,” I say, stopped in my tracks on the third step. Hopefully the constant glances at the front door and jingling sounds of my juggled keys will let me escape.

“I made pancakes,” she insists. “You don’t want to go to work with an empty stomach, do you?”

“I go to work on an empty stomach just about every day, Margaret.” My eyes narrow with suspicion.

I can’t figure out what her facial expression is. Doctor Young is good enough to target the injections very carefully, leaving smooth skin but not entirely taking away facial mobility. I don’t know who’s shooting her up now, or what money she’s using to pay for it.

I finally decide that her eyes are pleading with me to stay, even if her face doesn’t show it.

“Okay. Fine,” I relent, and follow her into the kitchen.

It’s a disaster area. The dishwasher door is open and half-empty from the last time I did dishes. Every plate we own that’s not still in the dishwasher is piled up in the sink, and most of the cups and silverware, too. Crusted food and grease fills my mother’s treasured cast iron skillets, still sitting on the stove, and I want to be angry about it but I just can’t seem to summon up the energy anymore.

There’s a place set for me at the kitchen island. One of the only clean plates left in the house holds two pancakes, with a plastic fork and knife alongside. I guess there weren’t any left clean. A half-stick of butter, still in the wax paper and littered with crumbs, rests on the counter nearby.

I sit down in front of the breakfast while scanning the kitchen for evidence of a clean pan in which it was made, hesitating to take a bite.

Still, it’s a peace offering. A crappy one, snarls my inside voice: if shereallywanted to make peace with me she’d open up about the damn estate dealings, and give me access to everything! So far what little Lisa’s been able to recover has not been encouraging. If we have to go to court over this… ouch.

“So, how do you like following in your father’s footsteps?” my stepmother asks.

“It’s nice enough,” I say, biting back my impulse to lash out at her. Every scrap of willpower goes into the effort, and I may not have been able to stop my eyes rolling a little. “It’s not quite the same thing that Dad did at the State Attorney’s office, though.”

“Oh, whatever.” Margaret waves dismissively. “He had to start somewhere. You’ll work your way up, too. I just know you’ll shine, and before you know it you’ll be in charge of everyone.”

Now that she’s got me seated, Margaret’s eyes have changed. They were pleading, before. Begging me to stay. Now that she’s got me in front of food, though, she thinks she’s got an advantage. The oozing-honey voice is completely at odds with the predatory gleam in her eyes, and I would probably not even have noticed without the blank-canvas effect of the overdone Botox.

Looking carefully, I can see the red marks from recent injections, and the small irritated spots have me mesmerized. Doctor Young was never this clumsy.

“I’m sorry, Margaret,” I say. “I just- Who’s doing your Botox now? And how are you affording it?”

“One of the girls from my club had a party,” she says. “I don’t know that I like her doctor, though. Doctor Young always made me look like a million bucks. This was cheap, though. It only cost about forty dollars.”

“Yeah, well, you get what you pay for, I suppose.” With other people’s inheritances, I carefully don’t add.

The jab hits home, and hard. Margaret’s eyes flash angrily at me before settling back to the predatory glare. She really must be after something specific.

---