They turned around in perfect unison to see Abby walking towards them. She looked beautiful in the September sunlight. Her blond hair had hints of auburn in it that Aberlour had never noticed. Her eyes were the colour of emeralds. Her black dress was elegant and fit perfectly.
When he shut his eyes, just for a minute, he imagined killing her.
It was an empty gesture. It took no time at all. He felt no guilt. Then again, it had been days since Aberlour had felt anything other than anger and grief.
“Hey, Abbs, thanks for coming,” Oliver said, and the relief felt genuine as he grabbed her by the waist and hugged her close. He pressed his face to her hair and sighed in her embrace. Just as he had done in Aberlour’s arms just a few hours before.
“Aberlour,” Oliver’s mother said. Mrs. Darling looked as beautiful as ever. Her cheeks were a bit too rounded for her age, and her face was unlined, both of which were a true credit to the skills of her plastic surgeon. Apparently, money can, and does, buy youth. But she was still a cold-hearted bitch in Aberlour’s estimation. Aberlour’s mother always used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does.” She’d been wise, his mother.
“My condolences,” she said with icy politeness, extending her hand towards Aberlour.
He shook her hand, dropping it as quickly as he could, feeling nothing but antipathy towards her.
“Thank you,” he replied politely, unsmiling.
Oli’s father, Samuel, approached them. A greying version of Oliver, he’d gone a little soft in the mid-section, but still looked healthy enough to bore you to death with long-winded speeches.
“Tragic,” he said. “Truly tragic,” he repeated, as though it would help in any way, as he shook Aberlour’s hand.
Aberlour nodded in grim silence.
“I’d never thought I’d be grateful that you got shot,” Abby said, as Oliver pulled away from her. “But I am.”
She was staring at the graves with a self-righteous, slightly mocking twist to her mouth.
“Abby,” Oliver said, sounding tired and resigned.
She turned towards him inquiringly, as fucking clueless as ever.
She wasn’t stupid. Not really. As much as Aberlour wanted to ridicule her and cast her as a nauseating idiot, she wasn’t. He knew that. Intellectually, he knew it. He just couldn’t stand her. The sight, the sound, the mere thought of her was enough to kill what little patience he had left.
“We’ll take my car,” Samuel said, casting a look in Aberlour’s direction.
Aberlour had a feeling he’d missed a question, so he turned to Oli with a raised brow.
“I’m sorry?”
“The reception,” Oliver replied. “Sabine’s hosting,” he said, insinuating that he was just reminding Aberlour of an event he’d known about all along.
“We’ll take my car,” Samuel repeated with a condescending smile directed towards Aberlour.
“I’m not going,” Aberlour replied, shaking his head.
“You’re not?” Oliver looked very surprised.
“I can’t,” he replied.
Oliver paused for a moment to take in Aberlour’s closed expression. He swallowed against the grief stuck in his throat and nodded in understanding.
“Would you give us a minute?” Oliver asked, glancing quickly at his parents and Abby.
With a perfunctory smile, his parents walked back towards their car. Abby kept her hold on Oliver’s elbow, as if she had no intentions of leaving them alone.
“I’ll be right there,” he promised her.
She cast a dark look in Aberlour’s direction but headed over to join Oli’s parents.
“I should have told you,” he said once they were out of earshot.
