Page 91 of Bed of Thorns

And I told her everything, every sordid detail that I’d been privy to, the conversation I’d had with Markus. While she remained quiet throughout the fifteen-minute explanation, I could feel her emotions, the anger and hatred I felt almost as intense. But I also felt something else.

Love.

I finally turned around, uncertain what to expect. Her expression was serene, as if in me telling her the truth, she refused to accept what we were facing.

“I remember more about that night, Edmond. The darkness. The fear. Lightning. I went to your father’s office. I knew you’d gone there. I overheard the argument you had with him. When I got there, I heard voices, three of them. Yelling. Fighting. Then I found the courage to walk into the room. You were holding a knife. I remember there was blood everywhere, lightning flashing in through the windows giving it an eerie glow.” She stated the words calmly, with no emotion. She pushed her wine aside, rising to her feet and folding her arms. “It was so dark, but the flash of lightning allowed me to see what was going on. That’s when I screamed, and you snapped your head in my direction. I’ll never forget the look on your face.”

Swallowing hard, I moved closer, a few visions rushing into my mind. The night. The darkness. The horrible argument.

And the man who’d been determined to locate what my father had, killing him in the process.

“Then something happened. That man. He was alive. He…” She looked away, her mouth twisting. He knocked you down. I…” She pressed her hand against her head, her body shaking.

“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to try and remember. That’s the past.”

Mercedes lifted her head, a look of utter confusion on her face. “Something’s wrong,” she managed.

I cocked my head, realizing she wasn’t just trembling.

She was spasming.

“Edmond!” she moaned as she lurched forward and into my arms.

Then her body started to convulse, her eyes rolling in the back of her head.

“Mercedes. No. No!”

* * *

My mother had prayed her entire life, finding comfort in hope. Even when she’d been diagnosed with stage four cancer, she’d remained faithful, certain she could be healed. She’d encouraged me to be a devout Christian, but I’d been too busy being a jock to care. She’d ensured me that God would always be by my side, never allowing me to take any more than I could handle. I’d thought I’d had my whole life ahead of me, all planned out. I didn’t need anyone’s help.

Now, all I could do was pray that God hadn’t forsaken me.

If only I had my mother’s strength. She’d endured so much with the dozens of procedures, chemo and radiation. My father had insisted on alternative medicine, doing everything in his power to give her a second chance at life.

As I sat in a hard chair, Mercedes’ hand in mine, I realized that I’d seen my father exactly this way more than once while visiting my mother in the hospital.

He’d been praying.

And crying.

Only once did he tell me that he would do anything for my mother. That he’d hunt down every doctor in order to save her.

And he had tried, no matter the cost.

Why hadn’t I paid any more attention to his actions, or bothered to ask him how he’d finally afforded her extended care, especially after losing the house I’d grown up in? The foreclosure had devastated him.

I brought her hand to my face and cringed. Her fingers were so cold. So goddamn cold. Her blood pressure was still far too high, the doctors concerned that she might have had a stroke. I’d done this to her. I’d risked her health and safety. For what? A chance at providing the retaliation against my father I’d hungered for? Sadly, the reason was far less admirable than that.

I’d been lured into a lifestyle I’d dreamt about.

Money.

Power.

It didn’t matter. I had been ready to sell my soul for all the accolades I could grab.

Not just ready. I’d done so.

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