“Did it help you?” I said.
“Did what help?”
“Therapy.”
He nodded. “It did.”
I laughed a little. “It’s weird. I’m not afraid of murderers with guns, but I am terrified of sitting in a room with somebody like my brother and spilling my guts. That’s just…”
I shuddered. Trey almost put his arm around me, but reconsidered, perhaps to avoid cranking the emotional intensity of the moment any higher. I could feel the intention, though, in the non-accidental touch of his fingers against the small of my back. He dropped his hand to his side, and I decided that things were perfect the way they were, the two of us shoulder to shoulder, facing the same direction, fingertips brushing.
“Was that Marisa on the phone earlier?”
He nodded.
“And?”
“I’m suspended again, this time indefinitely pending psychiatric evaluation and a hearing with the board.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’s fair. Generous even. She could have fired me outright.”
The car broke the surface of the water. Trey flinched as they pulled it out of the lake, moss and mud and slime dripping from the wheels. Water gushed out the open driver’s side door, and I saw a fish flop in surprise and plop into the lake. I remembered my first days in that car, learning about Trey as I watched him drive. I also remembered the first time I’d driven it myself, the crystalline realization that this was his identity I held in my hands, one of the most true and vulnerable parts of him.
The understanding came to me in a rush. “You knew Marisa would find out about this case, didn’t you?”
Another shrug. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps nothing. You engineered it. Completely pulled the rug out from under old Trey so that new Trey could have a clean slate.”
He considered. “I’m not sure what happened. Right now I am having a hard time reconciling what I know I know with what I don’t know I know.”
The car caught on a submerged branch, and the fender ripped free. Trey looked nauseated. Of course he hadn’t reckoned on losing the Ferrari. We watched it get hauled onto the back of the wrecker, a sad and soggy hunk of metal. Beginnings and endings, we were always moving toward one or the other. Cycles and circles.
And I realized that I was okay too. Despite the craziness and the mayhem, the crises and cross purposes. Better than okay, thriving, and so was Trey. There was very little the world could throw at us that we couldn’t handle. Downright formidable, we were. Partners in every sense of the word.
And I saw the next beginning and end coming at the same time. It was a Before and After moment, like when I’d made the U-turn that had taken me back to Trey’s apartment. The Tai before that moment hadn’t known how to love and be loved so fiercely and completely. A new understanding blossomed, and I got lightheaded with the rightness of it.
I took a deep breath. “Trey?”
“Yes?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t want to run a gun shop.” I thought hard about the words coming out of my mouth. “I want to be a private detective.”
He nodded, his eyes on the distant tragedy. “Okay. I want a new Ferrari.”
I wrapped my arm around his waist and cinched him close. “Okay.”
Chapter Fifty-five
The drive from Adairsville to Alpharetta was a quiet one. Trey sat silently in the passenger seat of his rental car, holding his mother’s rosary in his lap. It was the one item he’d salvaged from the water-logged carcass of the F430, and he ticked off the marble beads with practiced fingers, though he offered no prayers or words of penance.
The Ferrari manager had agreed to meet us at the dealership even though it was almost closing time. He was very gracious about it, made the appropriate noises of horror and sympathy at our story of the previous car’s demise.
“Would you like to come into the office?” he said. “We can begin the paperwork there.”
I shook my head. “No. He needs to get in a car right now.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Right now.”
The manager was a shade nonplussed. “But last time Mr. Seaver had very specific requirements.”
“Yes, but now is different.” I patted his shoulder. “Go ahead and get the financing in order. We’ll be back in a second.”
I watched while Trey made the rounds of the showroom like a visitor to some automotive petting zoo. Several of the display models were fresh from the factory. Others were secondhand, returned by unsuccessful drug dealers and suddenly broke dot-com millionaires. They all had one thing in common—six-figure price tags.
In a showroom of canary yellows and flame reds, Trey stood next to the only black car available, a California T. I joined him beside it. Just like his previous vehicle, it had a black-on-black interior with buttery, hand-stitched leather and polished chrome.
But Trey was shaking his head. “It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a convertible. I need a coupe.”
I started to argue, then realized that would be pointless. He was still looking backward. He needed to be looking forward.
I opened the driver’s side door. “Get in.”
“I—”
“Just do it.”
He complied, slipping the rosary beads into his pocket. I shut the door behind him and got in on the other side. The T felt friendlier than his old car, still low to the ground and styled for speed, but lighter, more playful than the deadly serious F430.
I read from the tag. “It’s got a V8 twin turbo engine. Five-sixty horsepower with a top speed of one-ninety-six. Double clutch gearbox. And look! A fuel economy mode!”
He wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. I could feel him simultaneously quickening and shutting down, excited and then restrained. He was trying to remember who he was. The Trey of danger zones and full throttle? Or the Trey of speed limits and stop signs?
He shook his head. “It doesn’t feel safe.”
“It’s not. But you don’t need safe anymore.” I pointed at the button
