He asked me to take a walk outside after club let out. We’re not allowed to leave the building, except at designated times to go specific places. But Haven House isn’t a prison; it’s a school. He pointed that out—not to pressure me, he said. But because he didn’t think it was right.
Outside, it was so cold that our breath hung in heavy white clouds as we headed across the yard toward the trees.
And in that moment, I didn’t feel anymore like somebody stuck living at Haven House. I felt like an ordinary girl, taking a walk to nowhere with a boy she liked. Normal—I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt that way before.
I thanked Reed for doing that for me. And you know what he said? That I did that forhim,too.
And then, as we stepped inside the trees, it just happened. He finally kissed me.
Katrina
TWO DAYS BEFORE
Back in Park Slope, there was an envelope addressed to me, dropped through the mail slot. I locked the front door behind me, then sat down on a stool at the kitchen island to open it.
Inside were Doug’s messages, the ones I’d asked Ahmed at Digitas to get his hands on. I hesitated, looking down at the stack of messages, so many and only from the last five days. There would be some from me in there. Was I also a little worried I might find messages to or from other women? Yes, maybe. Doug and I hadn’t had any official discussions about being exclusive, but the thought of learning that he hadn’t been made me sad.
But it turned out that it was hard to identify who had sent anything. There were only phone numbers associated with the messages, not names. I was able to pick out his daughter’s number by the number of messages and the consistently snarky edge to her responses. Snarky, but not unkind. You could sense the love buried underneath—or I could. I don’t think Doug had known that, though, which was perhaps the worst thing of all. He died never knowing that he’d had a fighting chance to get his daughter back.
Maybe I still had a chance with Cleo, or at least more of one than I’d thought. I would simply keep trying. But with an openheart and gentleness. And honesty, for once. I needed to tell Cleo that I’d threatened Kyle on more than one occasion. I needed to admit that there was a chance that my actions had put her inmoredanger, not less.
How about dinner?I texted her. I wanted a commitment.Would you come home? Please.
An ellipsis appeared almost instantly but then disappeared. I squeezed my phone, waiting. Hoping.
I know you don’t want to come,I added.I understand, Cleo. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. And I’m not asking you not to be mad at me. Or to forgive me. I’m not trying to tell you how to feel. I’m only asking you to come to dinner. There’s something I need to tell you.
I stared at the phone, and then finally:Okay. Dinner. Sunday. 6:30. At home.
My heart surged with relief. But I knew better than to overreact. Or I was at least trying to learn. Aidan was wrong about so much, but he was right that Cleo wasn’t a little girl anymore. I couldn’t force her to do anything. I never should have tried in the first place.
Great!
I turned back to the printout of Doug’s texts. It was a lot to sift through. But I eventually found the one with the threat about Advantage—$500,000 was what they’d asked for, exactly as Doug had said. A stupidly huge amount of money. It was the mark of amateurs. Or … people who weren’t after money at all. I was relieved to see that Doug’s responses to the demands—three in total, of escalating intensity—matched exactly what he’d told me. And all of it within only a few days. The last message he got certainly did seem like a threat:You have 24 hours to get us the money. This is your last warning.Doug’s car accident was hours later. Was it possible that the timing was a coincidence? Sure. But it didn’t seem likely.
And then one of the last texts he received, from a 917 number Ihad no way of identifying:Doug, could you come meet me? I know it’s late. My apologies. But it’s important. We need to talk. You know that.
And Doug’s reply, the last he would ever send:Where and what time?
Now would be best. 126 Nepperhan Avenue. 11:00 p.m.
The address in Yonkers belonged to a small, very run-down strip mall—liquor store, nail salon, dry cleaner’s, according to Google Maps. All of which would have been closed at that hour. A late-night, last-minute meeting was suspicious under any circumstances, especially given the location and the fact that Doug had died on his way there—a setup, it seemed.
I called Ahmed.
“I’m pretty sure my work here is done,” he said good-naturedly.
“I know. Thank you,” I said. “I do need one last quick thing. A reverse number lookup. The name associated with a cell number.”
“No good deed goes unpunished, huh? Okay, fine. Give me the number.”
He texted back a few minutes later, presumably having paid off some cell phone company employee. That was the fastest way to get a number.
Number belongs to a Phil Beaumont, corporate account. Darden Pharmaceuticals.
I texted Mark the next morning after a night of fitful sleep.We need to talk about Phil.
My phone rang almost instantly. Good. A call would be more efficient. And I was done splitting hairs.
