Thousands (Dollar 4)

Just like I hadn’t stopped to think about her when I’d made other phones calls while at sea. In some way or another, each of my conversations would affect her—just in different ways.

The first had been to her mother.

The second was to Jethro Hawk—our host at tonight’s masquerade. It was a well-known fact he dealt in diamonds—exquisite gemstones that sometimes had a cheap buy price while others were so rare they were utterly priceless.

I wanted to give Pim something better than origami dollar animals. I wanted to show her the depth of my affection. I’d emailed Hawk the design I’d sketched and hoped to God he had time to create it.

The third was to my uncle Raymond. As usual, he filtered his phone calls through his answering machine, so I was forced to leave a terse message, warning him and my family that the security guards surrounding them were for their protection. That the cousins murdered by the Chinmoku last week were only the beginning and not to be stupid by listening to my mother’s hatred for me. He needed to stay alert even though I’d increased security. He had to guard the children even though I’d added around-the-clock care for the smaller members as they tottered off to school.

I did my best for everyone, and it still wasn’t enough.

Even now, as I sat beside Pim in a private room waiting for her mother, I wished I could’ve done more.

The exclusive use of this space had only been granted after hours of arguing on the phone with the warden and providing a hefty donation to the educational program to ensure Pim and her mother’s first encounter in years would be behind closed doors and not with bars barricading them or other inmates around to hear.

Once again, I rubbed my neck from the prickles of tension and awareness running over my flesh. I’d offered to stand outside. I’d wanted to give Pim privacy. But as we’d traipsed through the drab, depressing prison, cutting through locked gates and being buzzed into sections of the establishment by our escort, Pim had taken my hand even while standing rigid and regal.

She had her own power, yet she wasn’t too proud to borrow a piece of mine.

That made me tumble even harder. To know she had the strength to do this after so many terrible things had been done to her. My feelings toward her weren’t of obligation and a desire to protect her because I found her weak.

Shit, no.

My feelings were enamoured because she used her healing as a ladder.

One rung at a time.

Each one climbing higher and higher from her past and hardship, slowly growing bolder and more beautiful each height she scaled.

I knew without a shadow of fucking doubt she would’ve achieved this without me. She would’ve found a way to kill Alrik. She would’ve found a way to come home. And she would’ve found a way to continue living.

She wasn’t alive because of me.

I was living because of her.

If there was any debt where we were concerned, it was me to her. Not the other way around.

We’d sat at this table in deathly silence for five minutes before the door opened and in walked a stiff guard followed by an older, sadder, crueller version of Pimlico.

Pim froze.

My eyes narrowed, drinking in the mother of the woman I loved more than myself.

Sonja Blythe wasn’t like the photos I’d studied online. She no longer had access to makeup and hairdressers. She neither wore business suits nor had airs and graces. The almost snobbish look she’d perfected—the smugness of knowing what others were thinking and that no secret was safe around her—was buried beneath a harsh dare to provoke her.

I’d never admit it, but Pim looked a lot like her—not in appearances so much—but in the way they took on the world and won.

Even though Sonja Blythe no longer wore suits or makeup, I preferred this version—the skinnier, harder version—because it was honest. Her arms were ripped from whatever pastimes she kept herself busy with. Her body thin beneath grey overalls but not sickly.

If she picked a fight, I’d put my money on her to win.

Her hazel green eyes, so like the daughter I was in love with, locked onto me in recognition of our phone call then immediately discounted me for Pim.

Pim didn’t move an inch, her fingers turning white on the table.

The officer tapped his prisoner on the shoulder, breaking the connection for a second while he removed the handcuffs. When Sonja Blythe was untethered, he said, “Fifteen minutes. Everything you say and do will be recorded for future use.”

Part of the prison’s policy was an officer remained in the room for the safety of the visitor. After I’d lost my temper and pointed out the visitor would be the daughter the inmate killed for and paid an extra bonus to yet another in-house inmate program, I’d managed to secure utter privacy—minus the eavesdropping video and audio recorder.