Baby dove giggles and sniffles as she nods her head. “She wore flip flops everywhere until it snowed and she was forced to wear boots because she hated anything on her feet. I remember her clomping around in them when we were together. My mom loved to sing but she was tone deaf and it was awful, but I still loved listening to her. And she…” A tear slips down Stevie’s cheek as she pushes her hair behind her ears. “She gave the best hugs. I felt happy and safe when my mother hugged me, and she’d always say,‘Princess Stevie, you will rule the world with your smile one day.’”
While I can tell this moves my little dove deeply and seems to be both hard for her and something that brings her joy, my lack of finesse and tact strike again when I all but blurt, “How did she die?”
And this amazing creature who seems to understand me better than anyone else doesn’t skip a beat. “She killed herself.” But then Stevie arches a brow in question.
Thankfully, Iknowwhat that look means so I sigh and nod. “I knew that.”
“Because you make it your business to look into everyone you interact with.”
“I do, which you knew because you’re almost as good at profiling as I am.”
Stevie smiles and shrugs one shoulder. “It just makes sense. Harvester of Bones stuff and all. I figured you looked into me and my family at some point after the parking lot, and since you’re affiliated with the Kings, it made even more sense. You knew too much about me to not have.”
“And it doesn’t bother you? Me digging around in your history… your father’s history?” Because maybe that means it won’t bother Stevie when she inevitably finds out I was hired to do that as well as off her old man.
There’s that optimistic hope again.
Stevie shakes her head. “It doesn’t. Especially knowing what you do… for a living, I guess?”
“You could call it that.” I chuckle then look down at her hand still covering mine. “You will never cease to amaze me, baby dove.”
“I think it’s safe to say that’s mutual.” I lift my gaze, and when it connects with vibrant teal eyes, I can’t help but return the smile dancing in them. Even as Stevie continues. “But what you’re really asking me is,howdid my mother kill herself?”
I nod. “It isn’t listed anywhere, only that her death was ruled a suicide.”
My little dove turns to look out the window, her stare searching the night sky, dark as pitch save for a sliver of moon. “This isn’t the house I’ve always lived in. We had a different one when I was born, one my father took when he pushed out the previous president of the Demon Seeds.” Bypushed outshe means murdered, but we both know that so there’s no reason to correct her. “It was just behind the clubhouse, another farm house almost as old as Rolling Meadows itself, but it sat far enough away from everything that it was almost secluded.”
Stevie reaches toward the nightstand and grabs the mug of tea, sipping the warm liquid slowly before she continues. “My mother and I were home alone, as usual. Beau didn’t used to have so much security on our house back then because of how far away it was.” She sighs and begins drumming her nails against the ceramic. “I don’t remember much from that night because I was only three at the time, but I do remember my parents fought before my father left to go to a church meeting. Beau stormed out of the house and my mom was crying. After that I have no firsthand account of what happened, just what Rochelle has told me over the years.”
“Which was, what, Stevie?” Call it morbid curiosity or a lack of empathy, but my need to know the specifics of Celeste Williams’s death is growing by the second.
“My mom gave me a bath after dinner, put me to bed, then she lit the house on fire before hanging herself from the banister in the hall.” Baby dove turns to look at me, her expression sad despite the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Apparently, she thought that was the only way she could get away from my father.”
“And that’s…”
Stevie nods. “Where my scars are from. I guess I woke up at some point and went downstairs. Everyone thought I was trying to get to my mom, that I saw her hanging there and waited underneath her until the fire spread, causing the banister to break. She fell to the ground, and based on the placement of my burns, they thought she fell on me, most likely knocking me out before more pieces of railing did too, and since they were on fire, I ended up with these.” She motions to her scars that are visible. “That wasn’t the first time I cut myself, Victor.”
I nod because that was obvious even to someone as inept as me. “But you usually do it on your scars so no one notices.”
“Sometimes I have nightmares about the fire. I don’t remember anything after my father left that night but I dream about it. It never sticks and I’m sure it’s a form of PTSD, but whenever I have those dreams, those nightmares—”
“You cut. But today was an exception.”
We sit quietly for a few moments, my girl staring out the window again as she walks down a very short memory lane while my mind races with this new information.
Information that seems rather fabricated, solely based on Stevie’s account of her interactions with her mother immediately before her death, if you ask me, but what do I know? My own mother was a rotten garbage human and she didn’t kill herself, so maybe a good mom who loved her child would still take care of them before she did.
Too bad my gut says otherwise.
I’ll leave it be for now, though.
Stevie just shared some very heavy information with me and for some fucked up reason, I’m inclined to do the same so she doesn’t feel so alone.
“My parents were incredibly abusive.” Baby dove’s gaze swings toward me at that, and I clear my throat. The only other person I’ve shared any of this with is Little John, and he doesn’t even know all of what I’m about to tell Stevie. “Both alcoholics, both sadists, both terrible humans who should never have had children to begin with.”
Stevie looks at me with so many questions written all over her face, prominently the fact that she caughtchildrenand wants me to elaborate on that, but I won’t. Not tonight. I’ll save that story for another time.
“The ways my childhood was fucked up are endless but I can understand your need for relief in the form of pain to a degree, and it might just give you a little more insight into what kind of factors contribute to turning a devastatingly handsome man like me into the thing that goes bump in the night.” My girl giggles as I wink, then continue. “When I was around eight-years-old, I was cleaning the house as my mother so often made me, top to bottom, every inch with a fine tooth comb including their bedroom, but this particular time was different. While sweeping under their bed I came across a few magazines, reading material no child should get their hands on because of the nature of the content.”
