Chapter Thirty-Eight
Grace’s POV
Three days. Helena had been dead for three days, and I still hadn't been able to cry properly. Just pathetic little hiccups that got lodged in my throat, making me sound like I was choking rather than grieving.
Maybe I was choking. On guilt. On shame. Because of the memory of Hunter’s hands on me just hours before my sister died.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, splashing cold water on my face for the third time that morning. I looked like shit. Pale. Hollow-eyed.
I was two days late. My period was always right on time. I was scared to take a test and find out… if.
“Grace?” Maya’s voice through the door. Hunter’s sister had barely left my side since the hospital. Hovering. Watching. Like she thought I might break. “You okay in there?”
“Fine.” The word scraped my throat raw. I wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. Nothing would ever be fine again.
“Margo’s here,” Maya said. “With your dad.”
Great. Just great. Just what I needed. My mother, with her razor-sharp grief and her accusing eyes. I could already hear her in my head. Why weren’t you here, Grace? Why were you in Chicago when your sister needed you? I wasn’t Helena’s keeper. Helena could’ve had an accident while I was here... I didn’t have superpowers to stop it or even psychic powers, so I couldn’t have prevented it.
But in my mother’s eyes, her pride and joy was gone, and she needed someone to blame. She would never blame Hunter.
No, my mother’s anger was my problem… as if I could have stopped the car from hitting that tree. As if I could have saved Helena. I’m just waiting for the words I know are at the tip of my mother’s tongue… I wish it was you in that car, not Helena.
I opened the door. Maya stood there. She truly was a friend. She’d been sleeping in one of the guest rooms, refusing to leave me alone in this house with Hunter. That was a joke… Hunter. Who I hadn’t seen much of since the accident. He had spent most of his time in the study getting drunk.
“I can tell her you’re not up for visitors,” Maya offered.
I almost laughed. Margo Wilson wasn’t a visitor. She was a force of nature, a hurricane in Chanel who would blow through this house and leave devastation in her wake.
“It’s fine,” I said. Because what else could I say? No, I can’t face my mother because I’m too busy drowning in guilt over what I did with my sister’s husband?… there was no almost about it. We had crossed a line.
Maya didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “She’s in the living room. I made coffee.”
“Thanks.” I followed her down the stairs, every step feeling like I was walking to my execution.
Margo sat perched on the edge of the sofa, her back ramrod straight, her blonde hair… the same shade Helena’s had been, was pulled back in a severe twist. Her face was all puffy from crying, but her makeup was flawless. Because God forbid Margo Wilson look anything less than perfect, even in grief.
Dad sat beside her, his hand covering hers, his face gray and lined. He’d aged a decade in three days. I think everyone had.
“Grace.” Margo’s voice was brittle, like something that might shatter if you touched it wrong. “There you are.”
I moved into the room, unsure whether to sit or stand. “Mom. Dad.”
Dad stood, pulling me into a hug that felt too tight, which was so not him. “How are you holding up?”
Like I was the one who needed comforting. Like I deserved comfort at all. But I didn’t, not really.
“I’m okay,” I lied, my voice muffled against his shoulder.
When he released me, Margo’s eyes raked over me, cataloging every flaw, every sign of my unraveling. “You look terrible.”
“Margo,” Dad said quietly.
She waved him off. “Well, she does. You need to take better care of yourself, Grace. What would Helena say if she saw you like this?”
I flinched. Helena wouldn’t say anything. Helena was dead. Helena would never say anything ever again.
“I’m fine,” I repeated, the words automatic. Empty.
“Have you spoken to Hunter today?” Margo asked. “He isn’t answering his phone.”
Because he was locked in his study, probably drinking himself into oblivion even now. Because he couldn’t bear to look at any of us, least of all me.
“He’s... dealing with things in his own way,” I said carefully.
Margo’s mouth tightened. “Well, there are decisions to be made. Arrangements. The funeral home needs to know about the casket, and the flowers, and—”
“Our dad is handling most of it,” Maya interrupted, coming in with a tray of coffee mugs. “Hunter just needs a little time. Just give it to him. He just lost his wife.”
Margo’s gaze snapped to her. “Time is the one thing we don’t have. Helena deserves a proper send-off. Everything needs to be perfect. If he doesn’t believe he can do that, then we will take over.”
Of course it did. Everything about Helena had always been perfect.
I sat down, feeling sick. I hadn’t eaten well over the last few days. Guilt. The acid of it was burning into my empty stomach.
“Grace?” Dad’s voice, concerned. “You okay, honey?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“She’s just tired,” Maya said, covering for me. “None of us have been sleeping much.”
Margo set down her coffee cup with a sharp click. “Well, I need you to pull yourself together, Grace. I need you to pick up Helena’s blue dress from her room. The one from the Thompson wedding last year. The funeral home will need something and she looked so beautiful in that dress.”
The blue dress. Like it mattered what Helena wore in her casket. Like anyone would see it besides the mortician. The casket needed to be closed because of the accident.
“Sure,” I managed.
“And make sure it’s pressed properly,” Margo added. “You know how Helena hated wrinkles.”
I almost said it. Almost snapped that Helena was past caring about wrinkles now. That she was past caring about anything. But I bit it back, nodding mutely instead.
“I can come with you,” Maya offered.
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “I mean, I’m fine. I can do it.”
Sighing, not sure how I felt about going into Hunter and Helena’s room. He hadn’t been in there to sleep since the accident. But I didn’t move, just stayed where I was, looking at my hands.
“Good.” Margo nodded, already moving on. “Helena always looked lovely in blue.”
It made me stand and move out of the room. “I’ll go make sure she kept the dress.” Needing a moment away from my mother.
As I passed Hunter’s study to head up the stairs, Hunter stood in the doorway, looking like a ghost of himself. Three-day stubble. Bloodshot eyes. The smell of whiskey clinging to him like cologne.
We froze, staring at each other. It was the first time we’d been face to face since the hospital. The first time we’d been alone since Chicago.
“Hunter,” I said, the word barely audible.
His eyes met mine for a split second, then slid away. “Grace.”
That was it. My name. Nothing else. He stepped past me into the room I had just left, careful not to let our bodies touch, like I was contagious. Like he couldn’t bear the thought of any contact between us.
I escaped upstairs, hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the banister.
Oh God. What if I was pregnant? How was I going to tell him?
I could be pregnant with Helena and Hunter’s baby.
The thought hit me like a physical blow. I leaned against the wall in the hall.
A baby. Helena’s baby. Growing inside me while she lay cold in a morgue.
What fresh hell was this?
I needed to know. Had to know. But not yet. Not today. I couldn’t handle one more thing right now. Not while Helena was still waiting to be buried. Not while Hunter could barely look at me.
I had to get through this, no matter what. But first I needed to make sure Helena had kept the blue dress. Take it to be pressed.