That promise now, after the "Elizabeth" call, him dressing, "family emergency," bolting? Sounded like some alternate universe tale, not mine.
Phone lit, buzzed.
I grabbed it.
Paul: Can I call tonight?
Paul: Home. Happy birthday tomorrow.
Just that.
I stared forever, screen locking, relighting, locking.
Set it back on the sill, looked out.
Snow kept falling, silent, blanketing everything white, clean like nothing had happened.
But once you start thinking about some things, you can't unthink them.
Chapter Two
Paul
I'd always believed there were moments in life when you knew, crystal clear, you were doing the wrong thing, and then you went ahead and did it anyway.
This was one of those moments.
Outside the window, Boston's skyline blurred in the rearview mirror. The lights along Charles River shrank to pinpricks, then vanished.
What was racing through my head wasn't the road or the route. It was my stepmother. Elizabeth Vincent's phone call, still ringing in my ears.
"Tomorrow, three o'clock. The Rossis will meet you at the Four Seasons. Diana's flying in from Milan. Paul, this is the only chance to salvage the European operations. Not a choice."
Not a choice.
I floored it, like speed could shake loose the mess spinning in my head. Boston's night wind slammed against the windows, a low howl. What the hell are you doing, Paul Vincent?
Fifteen minutes ago, I'd climbed out of Casey's bed. I say "climbed" deliberately—the word carried too much I didn't wantto examine. How fast I moved. How guilty I felt. How pathetic my excuse was. An excuse I'd invented on the spot. "Family emergency." Just like that. Clean. Then I buttoned my shirt, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door.
I stopped at the door. Looked back at her.
She sat in the middle of the bed, wrapped in sheets, hair messy, knees pulled to her chest, eyes on me.
Forget it. Just drive, Paul.
I exhaled hard, jerked the wheel right, and turned onto the private road leading to Vincent Manor.
The headlights swept across two rows of thirty-year-old oaks—thick black trunks standing bare in the winter night, carrying a spine-chilling solemnity. Like every homecoming required walking through a graveyard first.
As a kid, I thought this road was beautiful. Now it just pressed down on me, closer and closer, no way back.
News of my father's deteriorating health came last week. Not from him, of course not. Vincent men would rather die in their chairs than say "I need help." Family tradition. His private doctor called me quietly, said things were worse than what they'd made public. Told me to prepare myself.
I'd been staring at the European division's reports for three solid weeks. Every time I wanted to throw the whole stack into the fireplace. But burning the paper wouldn't burn the numbers.
The manor's main building glowed with a few lights against the dark. I parked, sat in the driver's seat for two full minutes, staring at the steering wheel, taking a completely pointless deep breath. Then I went inside.
Elizabeth sat in the living room, spine straight. She always sat straight—even late at night, even alone. Like someone stood behind her with a ruler, measuring her vertebrae around the clock.
