He Will Be My Ruin

by K. A. Tucker

  I force a smile and nod, and in a fog over this latest news, I turn into the throng of people heading in every direction. I prepare myself to be bumped a dozen times before I reach the street.

  Somehow I still spot him.

  Taking long strides through the milling crowd, in his pinstripe suit, the perfectly tailored pant legs falling just right with each step. Mere feet away from me.

  The guy whose naked photo sits tucked in my purse.

  At least, I think that’s him.

  He slows as he passes, his eyes catching mine as I watch him climb the steps. Blue eyes the color of an early-morning sky capture me. The connection lasts mere seconds, but as I watch him disappear into Celine’s building, time stands still.

  “Maggie?”

  By the look on Dani’s face, she’s been calling my name for a while. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. Do you know who that guy was?”

  All it takes is one glance up the steps and she knows who I’m talking about. She smirks. “Every breathing female in our building knows who Jace Everett is.”

  Jace Everett.

  He’s real. He’s not just an Internet picture, Detective Childs.

  And Jace begins with the letter J. Like the “J” who sent flowers to Celine.

  “He works with you?”

  “Uh-uh. He’s a hedge fund manager at Falcon Capital Management. A really successful one. His ego goes well with it, from what I’ve heard. He basically waltzed into a corner office with his Princeton degree and Tom Ford suit and started raking in the money, while everyone else is cutting their teeth at the bottom of the food chain. Most of his coworkers can’t stand his privileged ass. As beautiful as it may be,” she adds with a wry smile.

  I look up at the building towering above us—all sixty-five stories of it, based on the elevator buttons. There must be thousands of people working in there. “You know an awful lot about him.”

  She shrugs. “I’m sort of friends with his assistant, so . . . you know how it goes. Office gossip makes the long, boring days more bearable.” She pauses. “Celine always noticed when he was anywhere nearby. I think she had a thing for him.”

  No kidding. For the most part, Celine and I diverged in our taste in men. But this guy . . . I’d call him universally attractive. “Did they talk a lot?”

  “Who? Celine and Jace?” She frowns. “No, not at all. He’s too good for a lowly admin, the arrogant SOB.”

  “But she—” I cut myself off as I stare at the building. This man was once my salvation. Now he will be my ruin. “Are you sure?”

  She chuckles. “If they knew each other, I would have heard about it. Trust me. He generally sticks to his rich bitches.” She cringes. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” You don’t grow up in my shoes without forming reptilian-thick skin. “See you later, Dani.” I hop into a cab and head home.

  My thoughts are vaulting back and forth between Rosa’s failing health and the hedge fund manager who apparently wouldn’t give Celine the time of day.

  But clearly must have.

  CHAPTER 6

  Maggie

  I didn’t need to drag the truth out of Rosa.

  Celine’s computer just gave it all to me.

  Phone in one hand, a glass of Maker’s Mark in the other, a hard soccer ball–sized mass sits in the pit of my stomach as I stare at the email. I hardly ever drink. But tonight, I pilfered the bourbon from Celine’s brass bar cart, having looked for the first thing besides the half bottle of vodka that Celine didn’t finish off the night she killed herself.

  That half bottle, I dumped down the drain.

  After returning from Vanderpoel, I spent a good hour digging through the box of Celine’s work things. There wasn’t much—a few framed pictures, including another one of her and me at Christmas on Coronado Island Beach when I was eighteen; a toothbrush, comb, lip gloss, moisturizer. Some personal paperwork files—her health insurance enrollment, a memo from HR regarding company holidays. A magazine.

  So I decided to try her computer. It’s password-protected, of course, but I know Celine well enough to know that while she’d make an effort to change her passwords frequently for security reasons, she’d also jot them down and hide them nearby. A big no-no in Security 101, but for Celine, who had a memory like a sieve, it would have been a necessity.

  Sure enough, I spotted the sheet of paper tucked into a book on Roman Catholic relics sitting next to the keyboard. All of her latest computer passwords were listed there.

  It took no time at all to get into her email, to find the message Celine sent to Rosa back in July, listing the questions she needed to ask her oncologist. Questions like:

  How did they not catch this in the frequent checkups?

  What treatment is most effective for cancer that has spread into the bones, the lymph nodes, the liver?

  What does “terminal” and “one to two years to live” really mean?

  When do we tell Maggie?

  Rosa is dying.

  I also found the draft email to me that Celine began back in September, sharing the devastating news and explaining that she was deferring school until “after.” That she planned on working at Vanderpoel until December and then subletting her apartment to a friend until “after.” As of Christmas, Celine would be living in San Diego, to be with her mother.

  Rosa made Celine swear that she wouldn’t tell me just yet. They planned on telling me together, when I came back to America for the holidays. Rosa didn’t want me dropping everything and flying home to fuss over her, like I had done last time. I guess at some point while writing this message, Celine decided to not send it; to respect her mother’s wishes.

  Rosa picks up on the third ring.

  Tears spring free the second I hear her melodic voice. “How could you not tell me?” I ask, my words shaky.

  “Oh, mijita.” She sighs. “Because there’s nothing you can do.”

  “We can try!” We were in this exact same situation not even two years ago. Only, the prognosis didn’t seem so bleak back then.

  “No! Don’t waste more money and time on trying to fix my diseased body.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not a waste if it can save you.”

  “It can’t, though. Not this time.” I hear it in her voice. She’s already made up her mind. I wonder if she was this resolute before losing her only daughter, if Celine was the only thing she was fighting for. She blows her nose. “I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve already left everything to come and take care of me once. I couldn’t let you do it again.”

  Stubborn, stubborn woman! “I do it because I can and because I want to. None of this other stuff matters.”

  “It does matter. It matters to all those poor people who you help. All those little children! You save lives. I can’t bear the idea of children starving to death and miserable while you sit here and watch me die.”

  “Well, I’m coming back to California as soon as I’m finished here and I’m staying with you.”

  Normally, she would keep pushing, arguing with me. For such a small woman, Rosa has fire in her.

  Rosa had fire in her.

  She simply sighs. “Good night, mijita. Get some rest.”

  I listen to the dial tone for a long moment, swiping the tears away with my palms. I’ve dealt with plenty of death, doing what I do. Children who can’t be saved from illness, adults who should have another forty years of life ahead of them, if not for the past forty years of hardship. I cry for them, but I avoid getting too close. This is different. Rosa and Celine were always more my family than my real family. And soon I will have lost them both.

  If Celine’s apparent suicide didn’t make sense before, it really doesn’t make sense now. Rosa is dying. That news would have hit Celine hard, but there’s no way she would put her mother through this kind of pain, knowing what was to come. Celine would have stuck by her side until the end. That’s the Celine that I knew.

  Could she
have changed so much?

  Could Celine really have been that sick?

  Sucking back a mouthful of bourbon to combat the rising emotional bitterness, I click through Celine’s favorites bar, stopping on her blog. I smile at the header. The Relics Hunter. She’s been running it for years. It was her way of sharing her growing knowledge and her creative mind. Even with a full-time job and all of her treasure-hunting, she was pretty religious about updating the blog with her latest finds, describing the items in detail, and her speculations about where they came from, and what they could mean. There are over seven hundred posts here, some featuring multiple items. That doesn’t surprise me, given that there must be over a thousand collected pieces in this apartment.

  I used to read every post. I can’t remember when exactly I got too busy and stopped. We’d both grown busy over the years. What used to be daily phone calls became weekly ones. Then we started relying more on email and texts to keep up on the everyday stuff, and Christmastime to fill each other in on the things that really mattered, curling up with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn on Rosa’s stiff, floral couch.

  We could easily go weeks without talking to each other, because when we did talk, it was like no time had passed. I used to think that was great. Now I see that it just made it easier to take Celine’s presence in my life for granted.

  There hasn’t been a blog post since August, around the same time she knew that her life was being put on hold.

  Searching through her computer files, I find one entitled “Item Catalogue.” Inside are more than three thousand images—multiple shots, at different angles, of each piece in her collection, capturing signatures and markings and particular details.

  A wave of relief hits me. This is exactly what Hans needs. Which means I won’t have to do it, thank God. This folder will save me days, I’m guessing. All I need is a large flash drive to copy the images and send them over.

  Another thing to add to the list.

  I fan through the stack of papers in Celine’s work box haphazardly, my thoughts cycling through the events of the day. And to Jace Everett. On impulse, I type his name into Google and his face appears at the top of the search screen. I begin scrolling through each link, leading to articles about the thirty-one-year-old’s remarkable success, including his education at Princeton that helped him secure a career at the New York branch of one of the largest investment management firms in the country.

  A firm that his father helped start decades ago, before he stepped aside to become governor of Illinois.

  “Well, that may explain a few things,” I mutter through a sip of bourbon. Not that I can say too much against nepotism.

  A magazine article shows up in the search, naming the governor’s son as one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors under thirty-five. It’s a striking picture—a very typical business shot with Jace in a sharp blue pinstripe suit, perched on his desk, the formidable city skyline looming in the window behind him.

  My eyes flash to the magazine among Celine’s work things.

  The cover matches the photo on the computer screen.

  Flipping through it, I quickly find where Celine earmarked the page to identify the start of the article. Only the first paragraph talks about his career—with some extremely impressive stats. The rest focuses on Jace’s interests—sailing, rock-climbing, and golf. Either he’s the most unoriginal guy I’ve ever seen or he has genuinely been molded into the archetypal privileged offspring.

  Apparently he’s a budding collector of French fine art, as well, boasting a few pricey Henri Matisse and Edgar Degas paintings that were passed down to him from his maternal grandparents, people of old world wealth.

  That would definitely grab Celine’s attention.

  Farther down are his qualifications for the “perfect woman”—confidence, attention to detail, an appreciation for honesty.

  Aka—a hot, shallow trophy who doesn’t mind being used for sex.

  But what I’m most interested in are the photographs. Besides the desk shot, there is one with him, the family-oriented son, standing between the governor and his mother, who, with her upswept hair and pearl earrings and French manicure, appears to be every bit a politician’s wife; a grand, historic home towers in the background, and each of them is in matching snow-white polo shirts and beige slacks.

  I’ve met plenty of politicians and their families. I haven’t trusted any of them. Maybe that’s because they see my parents and me as nothing more than campaign donors. Maybe it’s because I went to school with the children of congressmen who didn’t like me because my parents didn’t support their parents in whatever bill or scam they were trying to pass in the Senate. I’d bet money this eligible bachelor and I would ram heads like two mountain goats within five seconds flat.

  The third picture . . . I’m guessing Jace Everett is somewhere near the Grand Canyon, based on the rusty cliffs. An evening sunset fills most of the picture, illuminating a powerful body as he scales a mountain.

  Holding up Celine’s secret picture of him, I compare the tattoos—an eagle perched on his shoulder. You don’t find many guys like this marked by ink, but I guess it’s patriotic enough that no one can complain too much.

  My heart begins to race.

  They’re the same. Jace Everett is definitely the guy in the picture.

  I’m on my feet, pacing the miniscule living room, my mind spinning. Celine knew this guy, but she was hiding it. From me, from Dani, from Hans. From the peculiar old lady next door. They worked in the same building, but they didn’t work for the same company, so it couldn’t be a case of office politics. But I’m almost positive Celine was sleeping with one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors.

  And there doesn’t seem to be any proof of it, except my gut, a flower delivery card from someone named “J,” and an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of paper with a picture printed on it.

  “Ow!” I howl as something sharp digs into my foot. I pick up the loose screw and launch it across the apartment. The tiny, cramped apartment, whose walls are suddenly closing in on me. I need out.

  I yank on my boots, coat, and hat, grab my keys, and throw open the door.

  And yelp when I find Ruby standing there, wrapped in a colorful afghan, her white hair set in rollers for the night, a small tin in her hand.

  “Is everything all right, dear? I heard you yell. Would you like to come inside?”

  I fight the shudder that comes with thoughts of all those books. Right now, I’d suffocate in there. “I just . . .” I heave a sigh and fall against the doorjamb with frustration. “I need some fresh air.”

  She smiles like she has a secret, her cloudy eyes magnified behind thick lenses. Pointing a gnarly finger toward the forest-green door marked EXIT at the end of the hall, she says, “Take those stairs all the way up. You’ll find your fresh air there. And take these cookies.” She hands me the tin. “You’ll need them as bribery.”

  I frown, my panic and frustration giving way to curiosity. “Thanks, Ruby. Have a good night.”

  Without looking back, I head for the stairwell, a narrow and dark, musty space that forces me to hold my breath and climb steps two-at-a-time in my rush to reach the top, my vision beginning to tunnel. Barreling through the cracked door with closed eyes, I exhale in relief as fresh cold air hits my cheeks.

  I’m on the roof. I expect to find snow-coated concrete and utility meters and pigeon poop up here. Instead, a wooden fence door stands about ten feet away, with lattice-screen walls on either side, a bramble of dead vines weaving through the gaps, blocking the view beyond. I don’t hesitate to seize the metal handle and yank it open.

  Inside hides a garden of twinkling white Christmas lights snaking around potted shrubbery and urns that overflow with evergreen branches. To my left sits a small teak table with only one folding chair; to my right, a raised flower bed, lined by stone and filled with decorative markers that show where plants grew in the summer months. Lanterns flicker throughout.

>   And Grady is lying stretched out in a giant hammock ahead, sandwiched between layers of blankets, one arm tucked beneath his head. A sizeable enclosed fire pit—no doubt a hazard—burns next to him.

  I inhale deeply. Growing up on the West Coast and spending the last few years in the developing world, my nose can always pick up on the faintest scent of marijuana, even when entangled in the smell of burning wood.

  I step past the vine-covered arbor and into the rooftop garden, working at my coat’s buttons with my one free hand. “Hey. I’m sorry. Am I intruding?”

  He simply eyes me from his spot. Until I’m pretty sure he’s looking for a polite way to say Fuck off. I want to get high in peace. But I’m not ready to fuck off, and this place . . .

  This is quite the little paradise.

  Suddenly, Ruby’s words make sense. I hold up the tin. “Ruby gave me these. In exchange for safe haven.”

  Finally, a small smile touches his lips. “Well in that case . . .” he drawls in that charming English accent, gesturing toward the only chair.

  I choose to wander instead, having never been good at sitting still. “This is amazing.” I peer over the edge and down to the street below, still busy for a Tuesday night at eleven.

  “I like it.” He sounds so relaxed, I envy him. It must be the pot. I haven’t smoked anything since I was twenty and revolting against all forms of authority. Tonight, I think I want to revolt against reality. I could get high as a fucking kite and let my mind fly away. Maybe I’d find the truth somewhere up in the clouds.

  Picking a sprig of sage that’s shriveled and brown but still intact, I hold the leaf to my nose, breathing in the delicious scent. “Did you do all this?”

  “Yup.”

  “Even that?” I point at the sturdy-looking pergola that canopies him. The hammock he lies in is self-supported, with an impressive curved wooden frame to hold the corners up.

  I sense his heavy gaze on me. “Even that.”

  “A guy who can garden and build.” I could use him in Ethiopia. “Can tenants come up here?”