"Diana."
Isla clutched the phone tighter before she lost her mind and smashed it on the floor. Here he was, calling after all these years of deserting her. She cursed him for not waiting until the inquest was over.
A/N: Diana is Isla's middle name.☺️
"Mr Dehler?" Her tone was sharp and hostile. She couldn't bring herself to call him her dad.
"You know, I wasn't expecting you to pick up. You're supposed to be dead."
Isla stood rock still. He was still this wicked? She winced in pain as flashes of her terrible childhood came back. If she were too die now, her death wish would be to stab her dad in his throat with a razor. That way they'd die together and reunite with the devil himself in hell. The devil and two devils.
"You could have hired an assassin to hunt me down months ago. You should have killed me when you had the chance, Mr Dehler."
He cackled. She imagined him strapped up in his wheelchair, newspapers spread out on the table before him. She knew he stank of tobacco, that he hadn't shaved his beard in a month.
"Stop playing games with me. Say whatever crap is on your mind and get off the phone. I'm not missing my best friend's inquest because you were stupid enough to call me at this time. What do I pay those damned nurses for, huh? I strictly warned them to keep you out of my life."
"You're turning the tables now, huh? Pretty little dickh___"
"What do you want? Money? I'll wire you a couple of bucks asap, then you forget that I ever existed. Deal?"
She tied her curls in a bun and secured it with a diamond hairpin. It glittered in her hair, highlighting the hues of silver that Isla got when she last visited her stylist.
"I want more."
Her breathing stopped for three seconds before her knees gave way and she crashed on the floor. She'd always been disgusted with his nagging her for money, but she wished that was the case now. She knew that he spent half of his cash on tobacco. He'd gamble the rest away, then ask her for more.
She never really cared, just wished that he gambled away his life someday.
"Fuck you," she snapped.
He laughed out loud. She heard him moving around in the wheelchair, the rustling of papers in the background.
Penelope, her personal maid, poked her head through the door. Isla shot her a withering glance. She took that as her cue to retreat, but her mistress raised her hand.
"What the fuck do you want?" Her back was turned to the maid, who wrung her palms together, distressed.
"Your ride to the courthouse is ready, Miss Diana. And I've made you breakfast. Waffles with flax and almond butter and eggs."
"Which type of eggs?" Isla threw her coat over her shoulder.
She'd hung up on her dad a couple of minutes ago, saying something like, "Gotta go, asshole. See you in hell."
"Scrambled." Penelope said that as Isla strode towards the entrance, where she was shivering.
"This is the last time I say this nicely, ungrateful brat. I. Hate. Scrambled eggs!" She yelled.
Her maid stumbled backwards, tittering dangerously on the first stair.
"But you loved them last week when Mr Sherman came visiting___"
"I'll love them whenever I want, thank you very much. Right now,I hate them, so you'd better whip up some healthy breakfast for me asap. And hey, I'm turning sweet sixteen next Monday. You should clean..." She gestured all around them, "This mansion up."
"How many times do you turn sixteen?"
Isla gasped. "As many times as I want. Now fuck off."
Penelope didn't realize that she her right foot had almost slipped down the stairs until it was too late. As she made to run for her dear life, she tripped over the staircase, bumping her head on the steps, shrieking at the top of her voice.
Isla followed after, but instead of helping her maid up, she sneered, "Make sure to break your legs next time."
Other servants came rushing into the living room where Penelope was rubbing her ankle, feeling the searing pain shoot up to her knees. She put on her best puppy dog eyes as a silent plea to them.
Isla rolled her eyes. "The dumbass who lifts her is fired."
They froze.
She giggled. "Nah, I'm just cracking up. All of you are fired. Come on, run along."
Their mouths gaped open.
"What are you waiting for, a thank you for ruining my morning and being the worst dickheads ever? Get lost already!" She grabbed her keys from the dining table and rushed out to her garage.
Easy, she told herself. You can do this. She turned her key in the ignition of her black Porsche and backed out of the driveway, seething with frustration pent up since those cops arrested Craig and dumped him in a jail cell. His inquest had been slated for that day. Damn those servants. Damn her dad. Damn everybody.
Damn the inquest too. Craig was sitting in the witness box like a moron, messing up the questions thrown at him. It was almost eleven. Any other day, he'd be snuggling with Novah in her bedroom, or his, after he brewed them both a hot, steaming cup of coffee.
The mob outside freaked him out to death, as did the coroner questioning him. Once, the latter raised the windows and the angry cries of the people swept in. Craig flinched, then covered his face with his hands. Isla was right. Nobody believed that he was innocent.
"Why did you split up with Novah just before her death?" There it was; another stupid question that he wanted to shove back down the coroner's throat.
"My best friend was upset." He shrugged.
"You showed up late at the party, yes?"
"Yeah," he mumbled.
"Good. I presume you were quite busy? Sealing your plans to have your girlfriend slain?"
He turned beet red in the face.
"I didn't___"
"That car had your number plate on it, boy. You hired the assassin."
"I swear I didn't! Stop forcing me to confess!"
"Easy now, son." His attorney patted his back fondly.
There were several reporters in the room too. He saw flashes as they took pictures of him. Dear God, why was this happening? On the night of Novah's death, he'd almost made love to her right there on the hospital bunk. He knew that he should be ashamed of himself but he wasn't.
A part of him loved her in a different way, as someone he just needed to fill the vacuum of another someone in his life. He knew if Isla something started to believe in love and fell for him, he'd seek refuge in her love. She'd always been exactly what he needed, been there by his side even when he fucked up most. Standing there in the inquest room, he scanned the arena for any signs of her. She'd taken off her coat earlier, and he could now read I love you printed on the front of her red top. She tipped her head and smiled at him.
"Relax. I've got you", she mouthed.
He nodded, then winked to let her know that he'd gotten her message.
"One more question."
Craig groaned internally.
"Who drove that fucking car?"
Isla didn't miss the look of shock registering on his features before he composed himself again, seeming calm. Except that he wasn't. His heart was jackhammering in his ears, everything appeared to fade into the background. He could see only Isla raising her brow at his sudden change of mood.
"I told you I don't know", he mumbled. "I swear I had nothing to do with her murder."
Really?
Isla tried to fight off the thoughts overpowering her.
He's lying.
Butterflies were doing a mumbo jumbo in the pit of his stomach. He mouthed to her, "I did it for you."
She wiped away her tears. They always embarrassed her. Did love always have to be this difficult?
She rose from her seat in a heartbeat, and started pushing her way through the seated crowd. A few murmurs of disapproval hummed in the air. She ignored them, her eyes trained on her target. Craig.
"Back off, young lady," Mr Coroner hissed.
She snubbed him, pulling up Craig for a hug instead.
He stared back at her with widened eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Looking out for my best friend," she whispered so that nobody else heard her.
"Be strong, ok? You've got this." She smiled at him one last time. That was it. That was when he realized all of him loved all of her, and there was no going back for them both.
Mr Coroner glared at them. He was pouting. And supremely pissed. Isla was charged with contempt of court. She took it coolly with a good-natured shrug of her shoulders. Craig grinned at her. No matter what happened now, they had each other.
The judge looked her in the eye. Something told her he hated her vibes.
"The court shall convene tomorrow. Same time, nine o'clock. And, Miss Dehler?"
"Yes, your Honor."
"Try that move of yours tomorrow, and you will be stuck in that box for contempt."
"I'll put up my best behavior, Your Honor."
Everybody stood at attention as the judge marched out of the room, flanked by hefty security guards sporting walkie-talkies, their cold eyes hidden behind dark shades.
Tomorrow. His fate would be decided. Either 25 years in a federal prison or he fly out of the courtroom, free as a bird.