Page 17 of Punishing Penelope
“Where’s Stephan?” Liam asks. Lexi is sitting on his lap, her face buried in his chest.
Cole shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Cops took him? The dad?” The hate toward the foster dad grows in me, fury temporarily replacing grief. I want to kill him with my bare hands—hands still covered in little Savannah’s blood. I want him to suffer the way Pen and her folks are suffering.
“Dunno. He was still there when I left. You know… they’re probably not gonna charge him. He defended his home. It’s his right.”
“What?” Lexi and Sandra speak as one.
“Not now, man,” I growl. “Not. Now.” Nausea, then rage fills me, and my pulse roars in my ears. I see what Cole’s saying, but what the fuck?
Sandra, Lexi, and Cole engage in a lively discussion. A nurse comes by to tell them to tone it down.
I can’t sit still. My restless worry eats my insides. Pacing the waiting area, I keep stealing glances at the trauma room. Curtains cover the windows, and all I see are shadows of people.
Liam comes up to me.
We hug, united in the black hole that is our grief.
My thoughts are with Penelope.
And there’s pain, sharp, stabbing pain.
The door opens to the room. We all go still. No one speaks.
Then the last piece of hope is lost.
We see it on their solemn faces and in their tired postures.
It’s over.
Mom visited the Wilders with flowers and condolences, but I haven’t dared. It’s been two days. When’s a fitting time to ask your girlfriend how she’s doing when her sister’s just been shot to death, the body barely cold?
I loathe myself for my selfish thoughts, but the worry we’re over before we’ve even really started festers and grows, and finally, I take the bull by the horns.
With a bouquet of lilies clutched in my left hand, I ring the doorbell. I feel like an idiot. I didn’t know what to bring. A teddy bear? Chocolate? Roses? Nothing seemed right. The lady at the store said lilies. I hate them. They stink of death. Who’d want them, anyway?
When I hear steps, I toss them in the bushes next to the porch and wipe my hands on my pants.
Mr. Wilder opens. His eyes are empty, he has gray two-day stubble, and he smells unwashed and of days of drinking. He takes one look at me and opens the door a little wider, wordlessly inviting me in, then walks off.
Closing the door behind me, I don’t know if I should wait or go find Pen.
I don’t have to decide when she shows up at the far end of the hallway. She looks defeated, her steps slow and sluggish.
“Hi.” I raise a hand, then let it fall. How do you greet someone who just lost her baby sister in a senseless killing?
She stops out of reach.
“Hi.” Her voice is raspy, her eyelids puffy.
I step closer and hug her. How can I not? My heart aches for her, for us. Chop off my arms and legs, and it would hurt less than this.
“How’re you holding up?”
She lets me hug her, but it takes a while before her arms sneak up around me to hug me back. Then she shakes, and without looking, I know she’s crying.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I say, tears filling my eyes, too.