The Empire (Filthy Trilogy 3)

“Yes. She will. And Harper will either believe in you or she won’t. Don’t you want to know which it is?”

I inhale and sit back down. Blake sits down across from me this time. We both turn on our headsets and we listen as Harper chats with the hotel employee leading her to her mother’s door. “She flew in late,” Harper says. “She’s tired, I’m sure, but—well, as I said, her husband died and I’m terrified she found out and had a medical crisis.”

“Of course,” the other woman says. “I have our team on standby to get medical help for her quickly. Here we are,” she adds.

I can tell they’ve stopped walking. There’s knocking on the door. “Mrs. Kingston?” calls out the other woman.

“Mom?!” Harper shouts out.

This continues for a good five minutes. “When do we open the door?” Harper asks.

It’s right then that I hear the door open. “Harper. Jesus. How did you even find my hotel?”

“Oh my,” the hotel employee says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—she was worried and—I can escort her back downstairs.”

“No,” Harper’s mother states. “She can come in.”

“Thank you,” Harper says, I assume to the attendant. “Thank you for your help. She did nothing wrong, mother. There’s something I need to tell you.”

There’s movement and the sound of the door opening and shutting before Harper’s mother says, “You won’t talk me out of going to the police. He tried to kill my husband. He tried to kill your step-father. Eric did this.”

“Eric didn’t do this.”

“You think he came back for you? He came back because he wants the empire. He came back to claim the empire. I know. You should know, too.”

“He doesn’t want the empire. I don’t know where this is coming from, but that isn’t important right now. Mom. Mom—your husband has died. He had a massive heart attack and he died.”

“What?”

“He died. He’s gone. I’m sorry—”

She sobs, and then screams, a blood-curdling scream. “Eric did this!” she shouts. “He caused all of this. He’s the end of us all.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Harper

My adrenaline is pumping so hard that my hands are shaking. My mother hugs herself, tears streaming down her face, and only now do I realize that she’s fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Her computer is open on the coffee table of the living room hotel suite, a pot of coffee next to it. She wasn’t asleep when I was calling her. What was she trying to prove?

Anger surges through me. She’s playing games. She’s not who I think she is and I don’t know what that means. And yet she sobs, “He did this,” blaming Eric. “Eric’s the reason this happened. The minute he came into this world, into this family, he changed the future. He changed everything.”

“He was here before we were here,” I remind her. “What are you even talking about, mother?”

She turns away from me and runs right into the coffee table, yelping, and starting to tumble. I catch her arm and turn her to face me. “I need to know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t. You don’t need to know. He’s gone now. It’s too late. He’s gone!” She shouts out that last statement, shaking with the words, and on another sob, she falls to her knees. I go down on my knees in front of her, scared now with the intensity of her reaction. “Mom. Mom, are you okay? Do I need to call for help?”

She sucks in a breath and grabs my arm. “Xanax, by my computer. I need a Xanax.”

I glance at the bottle and back at her. “How many have you taken?”

“None. None today, but give me the whole damn bottle. I can’t take this pain.” She reaches for it and I grab it.

“No,” I say. “One. Just one until you see a doctor.”

“I loved him. I really loved him. Now he’s gone and I can’t fix it. I’m alone. So very alone.”

I don’t feel the sympathy for her that I should and I don’t know why. This is my mother. She’s hurting. I just—this isn’t the person I know. I read the label on the bottle and stand up, opening the bottle to count pills while she crawls to the couch and sits down. Satisfied that I’m not helping her overdose, I offer her a pill. She downs it in between sobs and sips of coffee.