A Reason to Kill (Reason #2) (42 page)

Nic lay there thinking as he did every night, wondering where he went wrong. He thought about how at fifteen, she became despondent, pulled away from him, fought with her mother and snuck out at night to meet friends. By sixteen, it was obvious she had problems that were far from normal teenage angst—then he’d found her stash of drugs and knew.

Nic stared at the ceiling, the shadows from the fan blades spinning like a carousel as he lay there thinking. They gave him something to look at while he tried for the millionth time to figure out what had gone wrong. What had he missed? Why couldn’t he save his little girl?

The only person who had those answers he’d buried over a year ago along with a piece of his heart. Blonde hair, big blue eyes and a smile that would melt your heart, Chelsea was daddy’s little girl—his heart and soul. Rolling to his side, her picture on his bedside table, Nic reached out and touched the frame.

“
Ma petite fille est
gone,” Nic whispered to his daughter’s picture. Chelsea stared back at him with smiling eyes as she laughed at the camera. He’d taken that picture on her fourteenth birthday, and by her fifteenth, she was moody and had no need for what was left of their family. He and his wife had divorced two years prior, and Chelsea and his son Nicholas spent their time between two homes. In his heart, he knew the divorce had been the catalyst for her behavior. If he could do it all again, he would have suffered through his wife’s midlife crisis, and the men she brought into their bed if it would bring his daughter back. He’d worked long hours to provide what his wife needed to keep her happy, but in the end, Kat had sought attention elsewhere. No house big enough, no wardrobe large enough had kept her faithful, and he’d walked away.

“
Mon Dieu
.”
Nic bit out, “Look what my pride has caused.”

Closing his eyes, he thought back to the last time he’d seen his daughter alive. Thin, broken, angry that he had put her into a rehab clinic for a month—she’d spat at him for leaving her there. He’d had no idea how bad her addiction was until he found her passed out in her room; a needle stuck in her arm. She’d spent three days in the hospital from that almost overdose, and then he packed her off to rehab, kicking and screaming the whole way. The last words out of her mouth had been “I hate you, Papa.” He knew she didn’t mean it; they’d always been close, but at that moment, he figured she did. He’d given her that and told her “I know you do
‘tit ange,
but papa loves you even if you do.” Then he’d kissed her forehead and tried not to look back at her anguished face, but he had, and it killed him to see her that way. “It was for the best,” the doctors had said. “Private facility, one of the best in the country,” they’d told him, but his angel was smart, so smart. She’d found a way out, called a friend who had drugs and then she’d taken too much. After one week at the clinic, they’d called to say she’d escaped. Six hours of searching had ended with a knock at his door from the parish police, confirming his worst fears. His baby was gone.

Breathing hard at the memories of that day, his baby’s ashen face relaxed in death was forever etched in his mind. It drove a pain like a hot, sharp knife in his chest with the faintest memory. He could see her lying on that cold metal table, and he’d wanted to fold her into a blanket and wrap her in his arms like he did when she was just a babe. Nic brought his fists to his eyes and tried to rub the vision away. “Jesus, how did this happen? How the fuck did I let this happen?” he asked the room. But, just like every night he laid in the dark since his daughter’s death, the only answer he ever had was the same. He’d been working when he should have been watching.