“Then why’d he leave?”
“Because he was scared.”
“I’m scared, too. And I don’t get to leave. Because they’re after
He pressed a hand to the wood. “From here on out, I will tell you everything. Every move, every choice. And you will get a say. Deal?”
“What were you doing at the bank?”
Not a hesitation. The question right there, locked and loaded.
His mouth went dry. How could he tell her something like that?
“You said you’d tell me everything,” Cielle said. “So?”
He struggled to find a point of entry. “Remember how I told you your grandma died?”
Her voice came through the door. “Yeah. Cancer.”
“I never talked to you about what that was like. For me, as a kid. And so … with me now and what I’m looking at … I didn’t want to put you through that.” He took a breath. “That’s why I was on that ledge.”
He waited, palm against the door, listening. Nothing.
Just as he was about to turn away, the knob twisted and the door pulled open a little more than an inch. Her face, red from crying, filled the crack. She looked in his eyes, really looking at him for the first time since he’d come back. Then she nodded and closed the door.
Chapter 22
Waking on the well-worn couch to the sight of his favorite potted plant in the corner, the artfully distressed wood of the coffee table, and his dog curled in a spot of light beneath the curtains, Nate felt a momentary peace. Then he sensed the hard metal against his palm. He raised his hand, the pistol he was gripping came clear in the early-morning light, and the whole disastrous situation came flooding back in on him. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, and Casper padded over to him. He dug his fingers into the dog’s scruff and kissed his head. How he loved the smell of his fur after it had been baking in the sun.
First order of business-Urban’s safe-deposit key, which he dug from his pocket. The number 227 stamped unevenly on the head. He tapped it against his knuckles. Flipped it like a coin. Slid it back into his pocket.
He took his pills at the kitchen sink before walking down the hall to the bathroom. Passing the laundry room, he saw Janie’s kicked-off clothes from last night, her underwear atop the heap. They were her favorite style from the Gap-pink, crosshatched. Not her most alluring pair, but still, the sight of them brought a rush of nostalgia. More times than he could count, he had watched her blow-dry her hair in them, had folded them out of the dryer, had slid them from her body. And now he diverted his gaze and kept on because noting them was somehow inappropriate. The shifting politics of intimacy.
When he returned to the living room, Janie was there, straining to reach above the mantel, the oversize Lakers T-shirt she slept in pulled high to the backs of her thighs. It took a moment for him to realize what she was doing. With a little grunt, she reached the frame and unhooked the portrait of her, Pete, and Cielle from the wall.
She turned, noticing Nate. “I bet this makes you happy.”
“Not today.”
She set the frame on the floor, leaned it against her legs, and stared down at it. “You were always messy. You infuriated me, and then … well, we could make love or fuck sometimes and I woke up mad next to you and woke up ecstatic, but I never woke up”-she searched for the words-“mildly contented. Pete was so safe after you, and kind, but there were times I thought, ‘If I have to drink another glass of Kendall-Fucking-Jackson pinot noir, I’m gonna hang myself with one of his woven silk ties.’”
Nate couldn’t help but smile. All humor faded, though, when he saw the weariness that remained on her face. She was voicing everything he’d dared to hope these past few years was true. And yet now that she was relating it, it felt nothing like how he’d dreamed it would be. An impression came over him-walking out onto thin ice, cracks spiderwebbing around his feet. Any direction he moved could put him under. He struggled to find the right next step. To find what was right for her.
He cleared his throat. “Pete had his good points, too.”
“Yeah.” Janie carried the portrait to the kitchen and set it against the back door. The spot for trash. “But I will
Nate recalled standing on the beach that fateful day as Janie, still dripping from her near drowning, argued with her date. He thought, again,
Still facing the door, she lowered her head, and her lovely shoulders rose once and fell. When she turned, her eyes were wet, but she held herself together. “I’m scared, Nate. I’m really goddamned scared.” She stayed by the door way across the room from him, as if any human proximity were painful right now. “I keep wanting to get Cielle out of here while you do this, but a woman and a girl on the run from these guys? Might not be a safety improvement.” She ran a hand through her chopped blond hair. “I suppose I’ll do what I have to when I have to.”
“I don’t want to leave,” he said. “Here.” He felt a need to avert his gaze and realized he was no longer talking about safety.
“I don’t want you to leave either.” The scoop of skin visible at her collar turned pink as it did when she was trying not to cry. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. The diamond glinted at her left hand. “But I’m afraid to count on you.”
“You can.”
“People don’t change.”
“I changed once.”
“Yeah.” Not quite a smile. “For the
He sensed, over his shoulder, the empty space above the mantel where the portrait once hung. “Then I can change again.”
Walking out, he felt her gaze on his back. He stepped over the loose brick on the porch and headed for the curb. As he reached the Jeep, a mangled hand snared the driver’s-side handle and tugged the door open for him. Charles, bowing like a chauffeur, his smart-ass grin showing off a few chipped teeth.
“You’re going to the bank?” he asked as Nate climbed in.
Nate tugged the door closed, turned over the engine. “Yes.”
“To do
Nate smiled as he pulled out, leaving Charles behind.
Chapter 23
A surreal elevator ride up to the eleventh floor, a numb walk through the lobby, and out onto the bank floor, the site of five homicides that he himself had perpetrated. Nate had timed his arrival to coincide with the lunchtime swell. Lots of customers, lots of distraction for the busy staff. The trolley housing the complimentary coffee had been restored to its upright position, though he noticed a ding in the metal side, no doubt where one of the gunmen had kicked it over. After pouring himself a cup of decaf French roast, he took his place at the back of the substantial line.
Which gave him plenty of time to relive where the bodies had fallen, how the blood spatter had misted, and countless other subtleties that left his stomach roiling. As he trudged forward in the teller line, his fingers worked Urban’s key nervously in his pocket, digging his nail into the indentations of the stamped number-227. The damn box was less than twenty yards away, but the distance between here and there felt like a marathon.
