Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
Aiden
The shaman is waiting, as expected, when I pull over at her residence.
She knows.
I knew she would have known Mom had died.
I approach her, and she silently whispers, "Heaven guide her soul."
I tighten my lips, nodding in response. She leads me into the sitting room where I sat during my last visit.
"I wanted to tell you in person," I inform her once I am seated, refusing her offer of tea.
"Thank you, son."
"Do you want to attend the funeral?"
She looks stunned, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. "You will permit me to do that?"
I nod without hesitation. "You are like a grandmother to me now. You mothered my mom throughout the years following her rescue; it is only right that your presence is not missed. However, if you cannot attend..."
"I will be there," the shaman interjects, her tone sharp. "I must say my final goodbye to my daughter."
Perhaps she adopted Mom as her own after losing her child; she never ceases addressing her as her daughter, even when it is glaringly obvious that she is not.
"Good. I will let you know when the date is set." We must retrieve her body from the morgue first.
The shaman nods, and silence falls between us before she shifts the subject to me. "Are you taking precautions as I warned?" Her gaze lowers to the ring on my finger, relief crossing her eyes. "You must always have it with you. When you bathe, when you sleep—no matter the circumstances—you must never remove it. Danger lurks everywhere."
"I am well aware." In fact, I have a suspicion regarding the source of the impending danger.
Lachlan.
News of my father's plan to hand over the estate to me must have reached him. He already despises me; now, with the latest revelation about Dad's plan, he will hate me. I must brace myself for a fight.
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"You look sad," Hermione notices upon my entry into the house that night.
I had spent several hours with Raymond after leaving the shaman's place, apologizing for failing to answer or return his calls. He was stricken when he heard what had occurred, offering his sincerest condolences. I drank with him to dull the pain I have carried all day since learning of my mother's demise.
But drinking only results in intoxication; it merely drowses the mind. It could never provide the hope I yearn for. Against my better judgment, I hoped that my mother would live again—this time, not tethered to a wheelchair or out of her mind. I wished we could return to the nostalgic moments of the past when it was just us. When she was young and vibrant with health. When I could still see her smile. Happy.
But reality cuts deep. She is dead, lost to me forever. I tell myself she has gone to rest—that she has passed on and will find better comfort in heaven than on earth—but grief is determined to crush my soul with its viselike grip.
Eventually, I am forced to cease drinking. I need a clear mind to bring myself home. Although I am not fully inebriated, I am still as good as sloshed.
Hermione wrinkles her nose as she approaches me, her lips twisted in disapproval. "You've been drinking? What happened today, Aiden?"
She steps closer to assist me across the room. "Do you need to vomit?"
My stomach recoils as I scoff at her question, a wry smile forming on my lips. "I am no amateur when it comes to drinking."
"You do not make a habit of it, either," she counters. "And judging by your demeanor, I suspect something has occurred. Is it your mother?"
I wince. Her conjecture is incisive.
Hermione’s eyes widen as she stares at me, shifting her weight to the side. Her mouth parts as she asks, "Your mother?"
"Yes, Hermie. She ceased her struggle this evening," I respond in a low, hushed voice.
"I am so sorry," Hermione whispers. She embraces me, guiding my head to rest upon her shoulder.
I surrender to the embrace, inhaling her scent. My arms wrap around her slight waist, my face buried in her hair. A shiver races down my spine as emotion surges through me. Hermione comforts me, asking no questions, for which I am profoundly grateful.
A pervasive headache tortures me as she guides me toward the bedroom. She foregoes her nightly routine, choosing to remain by my side throughout the night. She curls into my body as she sleeps. I hold her; her proximity is the only reason I secure any rest at all.
It is not entirely peaceful. I endure nightmares, but she is there to soothe me back to sleep with hushed whispers and tender kisses. She reminds me of my mother.
"Thank you," I whisper to her.
"You need not thank me for doing what I ought to do," she says, drifting off to sleep soon after.
She has resumed work since her discharge from the hospital, refusing any persuasion to stay home and fully recuperate. Her prior illness upon returning from her trip had sequestered her at home; she was not about to allow a mere allergy to do the same. With soft snores escaping her throat as she sleeps, her chest rising and falling against my ribs, it is evident she had an arduous day at work.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to her breathe. It is still hours until dawn. Given how tense I feel, I doubt sleep will claim me again anytime soon.
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Noah informs me the next morning as I depart the house that Annabelle has been released on bail as instructed. She remained resolute in her testimony, claiming her assault on Hermione was unintentional. In fact, she insisted she was the victim, citing the arm she sprained when Hermione shoved her.
Janine, conversely, has already sealed her own fate. The evidence against her was damning: the substantial amount of cash found on her person while she attempted to flee, and her immediate resignation from work following the incident. Moreover, she eventually confessed that she had not been coerced; she was a willing participant in the attempted homicide, enticed by the offer of a significant sum.
"Keep an eye on her," I say.
"Already on it," Noah answers.
Clicking my tongue in acknowledgment, I terminate the call. Since Annabelle refuses to confess, we will have to apprehend her partner—both of them—the hard way, I suppose.
My next call is to Dr. Meyers regarding the retrieval of my mother’s body.
I desire her funeral to be as intimate as possible; therefore, discretion is of the utmost importance. I cannot tolerate a media barrage during such a critical moment.
Next, I secure a serene landscape with picturesque scenery where I can lay my mother to rest. Plans for her interment get underway. Transporting her from the morgue to the burial site proceeds without attracting notice. I invite only a handful of family and confidants, including Hermione, Dad, Raymond, Hermione's parents, Neil, and Jordan. I keep the list compact, limited to those closest to me. I want to avoid a crowd, yet I am careful not to offend anyone important by their exclusion.
The funeral takes place in the early morning as the sun rises across the horizon. All dressed in black, we move perfunctorily through the procession. Time seems to blur before me. By the end of the service, my mother is buried. I receive condolences from those present as they depart one by one.
Only Dad, Hermione, and I remain, staring at the mound that marks Mom’s grave. I have laid her beneath a tree blossoming with her favorite flowers, in a field thriving with orchids and peonies. The wind carries their scent, stirring a sense of nostalgia within me. Hermione clutches my arm, rubbing it comfortingly. I tighten my lips, forcing back a swallow.
"You may take an extended leave until you are ready to resume your duties," Dad tells me. "I will be unavailable as well."
I nod briefly in acknowledgment. "Thank you."
Dad sniffles, looking at Hermione. "I trust you will take excellent care of him."
"I will," she promises.
We escort Dad to his car and watch him depart before heading to our own. Kash holds the door open for Hermione and me, his expression somber. We settle inside, and he pulls away.
"Do you have a specific destination in mind?" he asks, glancing at us through the rearview mirror.
"Home," Hermione answers on my behalf. "Take us home, please."
Kash nods in understanding, navigating the car toward our residence. Hermione holds me tightly in the backseat, a beacon of support. I rest my head against her shoulder, drawing upon her warmth and scent to prevent the grief from overwhelming me. My chest remains constricted, yet her proximity provides profound relief.
I will miss my mother, but I am grateful I found Hermione before her passing. Mom is irreplaceable, but I am thankful I do not have to endure this loss alone. I have the woman I love to offer emotional sanctuary.
"Thank you," I murmur, releasing a shaky breath.
Hermione sinks her fingers into the hair at my nape. My body jolts in response, but it is a mere ripple against the depth of my melancholy.
"You're welcome," she whispers, wrapping her arms around me in a soothing embrace.
I close my eyes, surrendering to the succor she provides.