At 4:30 a.m. his eyes snapped open. He glanced around the room, heart picking up speed, unsure of his surroundings. New York City, not San Diego, he reminded himself.
An analog clock sitting on the nightstand ticked away the seconds. He reached for his cellphone and waited. At 4:35 a.m., she would call. Every year since Emily's passing two years ago, she called him.
His phone buzzed to life. He clicked it on.
“Bastard,” a feminine voice rasped.
Yep. Right on time.
“Hello, Mrs. Lowell.”
“One of these days you're going to get yours. God will see to that.”
“Sure.”
Without so much as a goodbye, the phone line went dead.
He inhaled sharply.
Emily would've been twenty‐five years old today. Guilt rode him like a horse, and every year he wrestled with a life‐changing decision. Should he continue to keep quiet about Emily?
The groan that escaped his lips wasn't the sound of a man awaking from a deep slumber. It was more like the yelp that comes when the family pet has its paw closed in the car door. He twisted around and brought a clump of silk sheets and a comforter with him. They tightened around his waist, trapping him in the queen‐sized bed.
It was over, everything just had to stop. This wasn't a comeback. He raised himself on his elbows. It was a slow descent into madness. Thoughts of Emily and Beth swirled in his mind. He'd nearly lost his sister trying to please Nia. What was he thinking? You weren't. He let her down. Just as he'd let Emily down.
He pushed away the covers, and his feet landed on the mahogany‐stained bamboo floor. Twenty-five, his conscience sniped. Twenty‐five steps to the bathroom, he corrected, redirecting his negative thoughts to something positive. The bathroom, which he inconveniently had built down the hall from him, was a full bath, unlike the half bath in his bedroom. A psychological ploy, designed to help him start his day.
He ignored the baby grand piano calling to him in the living room, and refocused on the guest bathroom at the end of the hall. She was blue! His conscience tried again to goad him into torturing himself for leaving Emily. Yes, blueberries sounds good on some waffles, he thought. He exhaled as his hand gripped the brass door handle. If he could just make it to the shower everything would be fine.
The malevolent voice changed gears. How about three grams of—. “Sugar!” Danny screamed. It was loud enough to alert Mickey. He let out a few barks and padded into the bathroom.
Danny pushed the golden wolfdog back and tried to close the door. “Good morning. You can't come in, because Daddy needs to take a shower.”
After locking Mickey out, he stepped into the glass stall and turned on the cold knob, letting the frigid water hit his pajamas. He sighed as the water hit the top of his head and ran down his face. This morning ritual was the only way Danny managed to get himself up every day. The cold slapped the anguish from his mind. He stripped off his wet clothes, and slapped his hands together.
As he toweled himself off, he heard his phone buzz. It took all his strength not to chuck it out the window.
“Hello.”
“Danny, let me up. I'm downstairs.” Robert was here to prep for tomorrow's interview. He inhaled again, but a vise-like pain gripped his chest, making the next breath unbearable.
“I can't do the interview.”
Robert began to plead with him.
“Goddamn it, I said I can't do it!” His voice cracked, reaching a shrill point. Danny put a hand over his mouth. His fingers shook.
Robert reminded him of the promises he'd made. It would ruin their reputations if he faltered now.
“I don't care,” Danny said.
“Danny, this is it. If you can't make this interview, I'm done.” Desperation hung in the man's voice, the last tactic in his small arsenal of persuasion tricks—a test, to gauge how important their relationship was to Danny.
“Alright, but let's get breakfast first. I'll meet you downstairs in thirty.” He ended the call as Robert began to sputter in protest.