Page 87 of Holding On

“You two must’ve bonded over the fact that neither of you ever shut up, you imbecile. You said she was an ace in your pocket. You’re the one that chose to pursue that, plus, with the promise of paying off her brother’s debt, you didn’t even have to string her along, so don’t fucking complain to me! And you were fucking her anyway, so I’m sure it was a real chore.” Rick still loosely has the gun pointed at me with his right hand as he tries to stop the blood flow with his left hand. If he hadn’t kicked me in my back, I could try to make a run for it, but right now, I don’t think I would get very far. My lower back is radiating pain, and I really hope he didn’t do any serious damage with those last kicks—they were really hard.

“You told me you didn’t sleep with her, Kane. What’s he talking about?” Debbie Jo slowly turns and stares down at Kane with rage radiating from her pores.

What the hell is going on?

“One time, babe, it was just one time. That’s all she’d do, and it was vanilla boring shit. Then she said we were better off as friends. Your brother said we needed to keep her close, and if we didn’t need her at some point, I would’ve stopped talking to her months ago. Joke’s on me though, because the asshole I thought was my partner fucking shot me!” Kane carries on whining at Rick about whoever this Natasha woman is.

Am I supposed to know that name? I don’t, and I have no idea what the hell they’re talking about. I also don’t know how much blood Kane has to lose before he passes out, but hopefully that’s sooner than later. As he continues his tantrum, I notice another family similarity between Rick and his sister—Debbie Jo has her own vein I’ve never seen before in her forehead, and it’s now throbbing and prominent.

His whining is exceptionally loud, but he’s keeping Rick’s attention and anger focused on him instead of me, so maybe it’s better if he doesn’t pass out or die quite yet.

“And is that your excuse for what we had, Kane? Did my brother tell you to string me along too? I am so sick of men thinking they can control me!” Debbie Jo stomps her feet like a petulant child as Kane’s attention is finally focused on the woman looming over him.

“No, babe, you misunderstood. She was just a pawn; you and I are the real thing. I did everything you asked for, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting … well…” Kane’s face is looking exceptionally pale, but I don’t know if that’s because of the blood loss or because of the panicked looks he’s darting between Rick and his sister.

“Did you at least bring the one thing I told you to do?” Debbie Jo demands in a screech, raising her hands in frustration—but like a switch is flipped, she glances over her shoulder and freezes as though forgetting it’s not just her and Kane in the room.

“I can’t help you get that bitch out of here if I’m fucking shot in the stomach, you dumb fuck!” Kane bellows and moans.

Rick already shot you once, dumbass! I don’t think he will hesitate to do it again.

“Will you two both shut the hell up and let me think? And, Kane? If you can’t do that, I’ll shoot you somewhere that will shut your annoying ass up for good. Why am I constantly surrounded by incompetent people that can’t do their fucking jobs?” Yep, I knew that was coming. I’m well-versed in Rick’s escalation and thought process. If Kane pushes him much more, it’s only going to get worse for him, and since he’s already been shot, that’s not very promising for Kane. There’s only so many options for escalation after a bullet wound to the gut.

And it’s not looking much better for Debbie Jo.

Kane groans. “You owe me! You promised me twenty percent!”

“Twenty percent of what?” Shit. I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Rick holds the dishcloth to his face—to stop the bleeding from his nose that I broke as I preen to myself—but a slow creepy smile spreads across his face, quickly transforming the pride I felt into terror.

His vein isn’t throbbing, but instead of that being a reassuring sign, it has the opposite effect.

He looks calm. Way too damn calm.

“You know what’s better than twenty percent of a multi-million-dollar life insurance payout, Kane?” Rick calls over his shoulder as he cocks his gun.

“I don’t know, that sounds pretty good to me.” The dumbass really can’t read the room.

Rick turns toward Kane. “Sure, but you know what’s even better? Not having to share the payout with anyone.”

My stupid mouth opens again. “Are you talking about my mom? Did you kill her for her life insurance?”

Rick’s steps toward Kane freeze, and he turns, slowly like a creepy display at a haunted house that’s broken and moving even slower than it should, before changing his path to walk deliberately back to me, stopping just before he reaches me on the kitchen floor.

Shit.

He casually leans his hip against the counter, as though he has all the time in the world and he just stopped by for a friendly visit—and didn’t just commit a host of crimes in my home. But nothing is casual about Rick, not today, not ever. Everything is calculated, and if it’s not a part of his agenda, it doesn’t fit into his life.

“You dumb little girl. No one killed your mama, the only person responsible for Bridget’s death is Bridget herself. And I sure as shit did not have life insurance on her; she wasn’t insurable with how fucking drunk she was all the damn time.” He’s not wrong. I don’t have memories of my mother being sober in my life, regardless what time of day it was. “She was, however, fucking annoying. It got even worse when she did that stint at that fancy rehab your brother conned Bridget into going to with those fake promises of financial stability and being reunited with her kids, and blah blah blabbity blah.” He sighs like we’re talking about a quarterback fumbling a play in a big game … not the murder of my mother.

“She didn’t care about having a relationship with you two brats. Did you really ever think that was a factor? No, she just wanted the money, but your brother had too many rules and hoops that she had to jump through like a fucking circus dog. She should’ve just stayed there, but no, she crawled back, only to bitch and moan about how ungrateful everyone in her life is—you, Wells, me. And I know it doesn’t make sense because I was long overdue for some peace and quiet, but if I had wanted your mama dead, she would have been gone years ago. I didn’t have anything to do with her death, and honestly, I was a little bummed to hear about it.” He shrugs. “I guess I can be sentimental, but is anyone surprised that drunk went and drank herself to death? I mean, really, it’s amazing she lived as long as she did.”

A shrill bark of laughter erupts from Debbie Jo. “You dumbass, Rick. You still don’t see it?” Like a switch has been flipped, Debbie Jo’s face contorts as though she is grief stricken and upset. “Honestly, Officer, I wish she would’ve gotten off the bottle. I loved Bridget. She was the closest thing I had to a sister, personal demons and all, but sometimes, you can’t love someone enough to make them love themselves enough to get sober. I told her mixing those pain meds with the booze wasn’t safe and she,” she wipes away at non-existent tears, “she swore she wouldn’t do it again. I can’t believe she’s really gone!” Her pain sounds so believable. She shakes her fists at the ceiling in anguish before breaking her act and dissolving in a booming laugh.

Apparently, neither Rick nor Debbie Jo know that the authorities are now investigating her death as a homicide.

And they clearly don’t know that I know about the insulin shot that killed my mother.

Debbie Jo's acting façade falls as she smooths the front of her dress with one hand, keeping the other one behind her back before continuing, "Rick didn't have anything to do with Bridget's murder. He wouldn’t ever do that to her, God only knows why. But like always, I’m left to take matters into my own hands and clean up other people’s messes. And … she needed to shut the hell up for good.”