“Why?”
“The man was filled with rage over the death of his child. Your father thought that he needed to hurt your dad to dissipate some of his own hurt. The grief he experienced with the loss of Molly was immense.”
“You said you were with Seth Toone the night of Dad’s accident.”
“I was.”
“Vincent Toone figures out where we’d be. He gets a diplomat who won’t be held accountable for vehicular homicide. He had Hanasal drink heavily, so he couldn’t remember, then he drove into our car. He was protected by the airbag. He must have unbelted Hanasal, done something to make it look like he had been driving and flung? But Hanasal got out of the car to puke. That I remember clearly. And Vincent, he just walked away.” I reached for the note I’d found in Mom’s journal. “Vincent Toone wanted Mom to suffer, so he was trying to kill me but killed Dad.” The words barely squeaked up my throat. My voice was helium.
When Spyder canted his head at my last sentence, I held up the note to my mother, and Spyder read it over.
“Did you know about this?” I asked.
“This your mother kept from me,” Spyder said, rubbing his fingers over the blue ink.
“He needs to be held accountable.” Obviously. But how could I prove this? It wasn’t like I could go into a court of law and say, “I was hypnotized to remember. Oh! And my folks are ghosts hanging out behind my shoulder, and they were trying to catch my attention so I could remember for some reason.”
“Perhaps with time,” Spyder responded to me, saying Vincent needed accountability. “Not right now. It is a seed that I do not wish to plant in your mind.”
Vengeance was that seed.
So many times in my adult life, I have seen revenge and hate be the impetuous for terrible outcomes.
I had to be on guard myself against those thoughts. I’d tried those lessons with Hanasal.
He died.
I was not healed.
Had I not learned anything?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Christen and Gator walked into the ballroom at the Davidson’s private social club. An enormous turn of the 20th-century mansion just outside of DC proper in Maryland. Twenty-foot ceilings, walnut-lined corridors, period-stained-glass windows made for an elegant setting.
Kira, London Davidson’s college roommate, had made the arrangements, and she had done a lovely job.
She had devised a World War II vibe with vintage war posters, WWII model airplanes, and the catering staff dressed as GIs at a USO dance. A swing band, now getting up from their instruments to take a break, had been set up on the dais. A nationally competitive jitterbug duo had shown off their routine.
There was a lovely buffet with period dishes, Waldorf salads, and salmon in aspic.
Everyone seemed to be having a good time. And so far, I’d just stayed huddled with my friends at our designated wedding party table—safe.
All of Strike Force was here; Randy and Axel came solo. Deep and his wife Grace, Blaze and his girlfriend Faith, Jack and his fiancée Suz, Reaper and Kate, Striker and I rounded things out. Gator would have his teammates stand with him as his groom’s men. Lula and I would stand with Christen’s soon-to-be sisters-in-law Genevieve and Auralia on the bride’s side.
Gator’s biological brothers weren’t due until tomorrow morning, getting here in time for the rehearsal.
“Where are your mom and sisters, Gator?” I asked, looking around. Their name cards weren’t on our table, and I wondered where London would have seated them since they were strangers to everyone else.
Gator looked down at his phone, texting.
A moment later, a scowl crossed his face.
“What is it?” Christen asked.
Gator swiped his tongue across his teeth. And pressed the dial symbol. “Where’d you get that address?” he asked without a hello. After a long pause, while he listened, he said, “Sit tight. I’m comin’ to pick you up and bring you to the correct location. I won’t be long. Promise.”
Christen laid her hand on Gator’s forearm as he swiped the screen closed and dropped his phone back in his tux pocket. “Did they get lost?”
“London gave them the wrong address. They’re on the other side of the city.”
Christen’s gaze scanned the room, stopping on London, who was dressed like a 1940s Hollywood starlet in her vintage Dior evening gown. Christen glared so hard that people who encircled Christen’s stepmother all turned as they felt the thought daggers flying toward London. “I’m coming with you.”
“Christen,” Lula said. “This party is for you and Gator. Why don’t I go get Mrs. Rochambeau?”
“Because,” Christen said, still glaring, “this party has zero to do with Gator and me. This is schmoozy Assembly crap. It’s so my dad can say during negotiations, ‘You came to my daughter’s wedding celebration. We’re like family. Let’s line up our interests.’” She turned her attention back to Lula. “It’s only about business. And I can imagine London, never having met Gator’s family, assuming that because they live in the Louisiana Bayou that they would come and act like hicks.”
“Christen,” Gator started, but whatever he was going to say fell off.
I thought Christen was probably right on that account. London probably gave the Rochambeaus the wrong address, so they’d come in late when no one would notice when the toasts were made, and they wouldn’t need to be identified and welcomed to the family.
So ugly.
“I’m coming with you.” Christen slid her hand down Gator’s arm, lacing their fingers together. “And we’re going to eat while we’re out instead of this food. Then we’re going to take the longest, slowest
