“Are you up for some breakfast downstairs?” he says, his voice still deep from sleep. “I’ll probably just have coffee and a bagel, but I’ll sit with you.”
“Sure, but I need some time to get ready.”
He plucks his watch from the bedside table and glances at it. “Why don’t we meet down there in thirty minutes? I’m going to hit your bathroom first, though, if you don’t mind.”
After he gets out of bed, finds his boxers on the floor, and pads off to the bathroom, I push myself up to a sitting position. Both my wrist and hip are throbbing lightly, something I managed not to notice last night, even with Logan on top of me, gently holding my wrists.
And now, here it comes at last: guilt nosing its way into the room. My stomach twists, not only from regret but panic, too. I’ve made a commitment to Sebastian, and sleeping with Logan has been a total violation, one that would cause Bas such pain if he knew. Even set our relationship on fire.
And though last night seemed separate from Bas and me, a type of time travel to a past life unrelated to my new one, surelyBaswouldn’t see it that way.
I realize suddenly that he’s still never responded to my messages from yesterday. Maybe hedidfind my text dismissive. But right now, of course, that doesn’t hold a candle to my infidelity.
God, what an awful mess I’ve made.
I dress quickly and fire up the Nespresso machine on the dresser. From the bathroom comes the sound of the tap running at full force and water splashing. Logan was always noisy at the bathroom sink, cupping water with both hands and tossing it at his face. It’s like hearing a song on the radio that I haven’t listened to in years and haven’t even remembered until now.
He emerges moments later, and I keep my back to him as he finishes dressing. Then I turn and hand him an espresso.
“What do you think you’ll do today?” he says.
Yes, whatwillI do, besides trying to swim against the waves of guilt now trying to swamp me? Alison Handler suggested last night that I drop by her studio, but at this point I don’t see any reason to. I haven’t lost my resolve to find out if Mel had an affair with her husband—and as far as I know, he’s the one who dragged the table in front of the door last night—and yet I’m not going to learn anything by looking at his wife’s creepy paintings.
“Just answer emails, I guess,” I say, starting an espresso for myself. “And read Mel’s writing from the digital archive. I’m supposed to be getting the link soon, so I’ll pass it along when I have it ... You?”
“Just tying up some loose ends,” he says. “And I want to stop by theMuseoffice while the workers are around, see if I can get to the bottom of things. I’ll also talk to someone about repairing the door.”
“Great.”
He takes a long pull of his drink and narrows his eyes. “I know this sounds crazy, but part of me has wanted to go by Pebble Creek Park while I’m still here. I don’t know, maybe being back there will be a release of some kind.”
I shake my head as hard as I can. “Logan,don’t. I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, but I went by the other park, Mohegan, yesterday to see where Riley was attacked, and I’ve regretted it ever since. It’ll stir up all the worst things for you.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” he says, massaging the back of his neck. “I think I brought it up so you’d talk me out of it.”
The second espresso is finished pouring, and I take a careful sip.
“Were things the way Riley described?” he asks.
“Very much, and that’s partly why I came to believe her. I saw the jogging path and the picnic tables, hidden under some trees. The creek was shallow yesterday, but the cabdriver told me it can get full enough to carry someone downstream—depending on how much rain there’s been.”
“That makes sense.” He shakes his own head, not as a no but with a look of dismay. “Remember me saying that Riley’s story made meangry? Because if she’d come forward at the time, things would have moved faster here, and Amanda Kline might still be alive. Since then, though, I realized that I alsoresenther. She somehow managed to fight back and roll off the table and throw herself into that raging creek. But none of that happened for our beautiful Mel.”
“I know,” I say quietly. Because, for the first time, I realize I’ve felt twinges of resentment as well. Riley gotaway.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, something begins to paw at my brain—and it’s got nothing to do with regret this time. I hesitate, the espresso cup in midair, and though I struggle to hold on to the thought, it beats a fast retreat. It’s like I’ve heard the scuff of a shoe behind me, but when I turn around, no one’s there.
Logan drains the last of his coffee without taking his eyes from my face.
“What?” he says, clearly reading my expression.
“Uh, nothing.” But itissomething. The elusive thought has drifted within reach again, and this time I grasp hold. It’s really more of a question, one I should have asked myself yesterday.
“See you in a few, then,” Logan says. He grabs his blazer from the armchair and swings it over his shoulder. Still a bit of the rogue, even at fifty-nine.
I nod, smiling.
“Bree.”
