The Bourbon Kings
Page 75Their bathroom was a Jack and Jill—and the room on the far side of the long, thin space was Edward’s.
Max got in his bed and stared straight ahead. “We shouldn’t have gone down there. It’s my fault.”
“It’s both our fault.” He glanced down at Max. “You stay there. I’m going to go wait for him to come back in.”
As he went into the loo, he closed the door behind himself and prayed Max followed orders. He had a bad feeling about what kind of condition Edward was going to be in when their father was done with him.
Oh, how Lane wanted to go back to earlier and redo the decision to go to the parlor.
Putting the toilet seat down, he sat and listened to the pounding of his heart. Even though he couldn’t hear the whipping anymore, it didn’t matter. He knew what was happening across the hall.
For some reason, he kept looking over at their three toothbrushes, which were standing up in a silver cup by the folded hand towels on the counter. The red one was Edward’s because he was the eldest and always got to pick first. Max went for green because it was the manliest of what was left. Lane got stuck with yellow and hated it.
No one ever wanted KU blue—
A soft click and the rasp of a door being opened broke the quiet. Lane waited until there was a second click and then he got to his feet and peered into Edward’s room.
In the dimness, Edward was walking toward the bathroom all bent over, with one arm around his belly, and the other thrown out to steady himself on the bureau, the wall, the desk.
Lane rushed forward and took ahold of his brother’s waist.
“Sick,” Edward groaned. “Gonna be sick.”
Oh, God, he was bleeding down his face, their father’s signet ring having cut into his skin when he’d been cuffed.
The going was slow, Edward’s legs struggling to hold his torso up. Part of his pj’s top had gotten stuck in the waistband of the pants when they’d been pulled back into place after the whipping, and all Lane could think about was what was underneath. The welts, the blood, the swelling.
Edward barely made it to the toilet in time, and Lane stayed throughout the vomiting. When it was done, he took that red toothbrush out of the silver cup and got the Crest. After a brushing, he helped his brother back out and over to the bed.
“Why don’t you cry,” Lane said roughly as his brother settled on the mattress like his entire body hurt. “Just cry. He’ll stop as soon as you do.”
That was the way it was whenever he and Max got beaten.
“Go to bed, Lane.”
Edward’s voice was exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” Lane whispered.
“It’s okay. Go to bed.”
It had been hard to leave, but he’d already screwed up badly once that night and look what had happened with that.
Back in his own room, he’d gotten in between his sheets and stared up at the ceiling.
“Is he okay?” Max asked.
For some reason, the shadows in their room were completely threatening, seeming to have been thrown by monsters moving and lurking on the periphery.
“Yes,” he lied. “He’s fine—”
“Lane?”
Lane shook himself, and glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
Lizzie pointed at the microwave. “It’s done?”
Beep …
Beep …
He just stood there and blinked, trying to return from the past. “Right, sorry.”
Back at the table, he put the steaming food down and sat in his seat … only to discover that he’d lost his appetite. When Lizzie reached across and put her hand on his, he took what she offered and brought it to his mouth for a kiss.
“What are you thinking about?” Lizzie asked.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
Well, didn’t he have so many things to pick from.
The blush that hit her face was covered when she put her palms up. “Oh, God …”
He laughed softly. “You want me to change the subject?”
“Yes,” she said from hiding.
He didn’t blame her. “Fine, I’m really glad I came out here. Easterly is like a rope around my throat right now.”
Lizzie rubbed her eyes, and then dropped those hands. “You know, I can’t believe about Rosalinda.”
“That is just plain horrific.” He sat back in his chair, respecting her need for another topic. “And get this. Mitch Ramsey, the sheriff’s deputy? He called me on the way here. The medical examiner’s initial thought is hemlock.”
“Hemlock?”
“Her face …” He circled his own with his hand. “That gruesome smile? It was caused by some kind of facial paralysis—which happens to be well documented with that variety of poison, apparently. Man, I’ll tell you what, I’m not likely to forget what that looked like for a very long time.”
“Is it possible she was killed?”
“They don’t think so. You need a good dose of hemlock to get the job done, so it’s more likely she did it herself. Plus her Nikes were brand new and had grass on the bottoms.”