by Penny Reid
She gets a text. “Hold on.” She shifts in my lap and taps out an answer.
My fingers press into her upper arm, her left hip. Memorizing the feel of her.
Her chest rises and falls, nipples pressing through worn fabric. A T-shirt and jeans is practical for this place, but it feels more right for her than the librarian shit. So why the reserved outfits? She makes her money in an Etsy store, or she did up until last month. She can wear anything she wants.
It’s not like she’s transformed completely, of course. She still wears her brown glasses. And the ponytail I so badly want to undo is still there.
I slide my hand over the glossy hair.
She tucks away her phone and gives me a fun, vixeny look and that little half-smile that I want to kiss right off her face. And I do.
She sighs. “I don’t want to return to the real world.”
Exactly. The current between us feels ancient, like a soul-deep déjà vu.
“But Carly’ll be done with rehearsal soon.”
A couple of guys I didn’t meet walk by and she nods at them. I find myself pressing my hands over her thighs, letting them know she’s mine.
She twists and looks at me. “What did you just do?”
“What?”
“Did you go caveman just now with the glare at those guys and the handsy thing?”
“Maybe.”
She laughs. “You can’t do that!”
“What can’t I do?”
She narrows her eyes. “Behave.”
I lean into her ear, whisper, “Or what?”
She narrows her eyes. “I dunno. Maybe I’ll have all the Cock Worldwide cranes repainted with the face of Smuckers instead of that logo. How would you like that?”
Something in me goes still. She could do that. One phone call and she could.
Locke’s most valuable asset is stability. A change like that would literally threaten thousands of people who depend on me. And she could do it. She has all the power.
One phone call.
Thousands of people. My responsibility.
The ID is mob-level good. This is a five-alarm fire.
I feel queasy.
She’s searching my eyes. We’ve been laughing at the exact same things all month. If I weren’t me, I’d think the crane thing was funny, too.
She tries a smile. “A cartoon picture of Smuckers’s round little marshmallow head? Maybe not, huh?”
Do I really know her? Really?
I give her my breezy smile, the one that always fools the cameras, and I reach for my phone. I’m moving away from her.
“Kidding,” she says. “Really.”
I’m scrolling through my phone, like I might find a feel-less-screwed-up app there. They need to make an app like that.
“Come on, you think I’d do that?”
“I’m kind of a freak about that logo.”
“Wait. You think I’d do that?”
A silence. I’ve let her closer to me than any woman ever. The fake dog whisperer who inherited my birthright.
Have I been reckless?
In my gut I trust her. Automatic. But my head is ringing with what Brett said. Our own PI doubts her. I don’t know her real name.
Thousands of people depend on my leadership.
They deserve better from me.
“Oh my god. You seriously think I’d do that?”
“I don’t know, that’s all.”
Her mouth falls open. Stunned. Hurt. “How can you not know? Like I’m an enemy of the company suddenly? Like I'm outside…” She goes pale. “Oh my god.” Her phone’s ringing, but her gaze is on me. “Because, of course, you still wonder if I’m a scammer.”
“It’s not like I’m standing here wondering…”
“I told you things would be right. I swore to you. I meant it. Oh my god—I’m so stupid.” She pulls out her phone and answers. I can tell it’s her sister from her tone. “I’m coming.”
For once I don’t know what to do. “Let me give you a ride, at least. Let’s talk.”
“I’ve had enough of your talk.” She’s texting.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling a Lyft,” she snaps. “There’s one two minutes away.” She puts away her phone and heads to the other side of the place where Latrisha is.
“Vicky.” I go along. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“Not happening.”
Latrisha is there. Glaring at me. They exchange glances that probably contain girl communication about what a jackass I am.
Vicky grabs her purse, spins around, shoves past me, and walks toward the red exit sign.
I follow.
She turns at the door, looks me in the eye. “I’m asking you to not follow.”
The way she asks, it’s important to her. I fold my arms, teeth grinding. There are things I need to say, but I don’t know what.
She pushes open the door and heads out into the night.
She doesn’t want me following, but there’s no way I’m not watching from the door, not when she’s wandering around that gloomy sidewalk. She clutches her purse, forlorn under a streetlight.
I'm Henry Locke. People depend on me. I protect my people.
No matter what the cost.
A black car rolls onto the lot. She slips in and they drive off.
My heart curls into a cinder.
Dizzy, I wander out to my truck and start unloading the last pieces—a concrete block that weighs a ton and some massive wood slabs. I bring them in, one by one, to Latrisha’s workstation.
I can’t shake the memory of her wounded expression.
What have I done?
Latrisha eyes me as I muscle an unwieldy piece of debris into the corner. I say, “Why are the coolest looking hunks of rebar-wrapped concrete always the heaviest?”
“Somebody would help you with it.”
“I want to do it.” I get another load, and then another. I go back to her and peel off my gloves. She has paperwork for me to sign.
“I met her,” she says when we’re done, folding her copy.
“Who?”
“Bernadette. Your mother. She was mean about my hair.”
I look toward the red-lighted exit sign, thinking about going for a night run later. Anything to run off this energy. “She had a hard time being nice.”
“That’s what you call it? Is that how she always was to people?”
“To people. Yeah.” Not the dogs, though. Never the dogs.
“She was like that to Vicky. A complete bitch about her clothes.”
“That’s what you get when you sign up for Team Bernadette,” I say.
“You think she signed up for Team Bernadette? Dude, your mom stalked her. She pursued her, manipulated her. Vicky did everything she could to avoid that woman, but she wheedled into her life and Vicky took pity on her and she made sure she was safe and all of that. And now here you are, screwing with her, too. Lay off.”
I pause. “My mom pursued Vicky?”
“Your mother literally harassed her, demanding she talk to Smuckers after the fair.”
I frown. “What fair?”
“The fair?” Latrisha continues. “Where she volunteered to fill in for the pet whisperer? Do you not even know this story? That’s how they met. Vicky was there selling those bow ties, and the person who was being pet whisperer or whatever didn’t show up. They had some booth or something. So Vicky volunteered to do it. They put this ridiculous outfit on her. And your mother comes along and Vicky’s like, Smuckers enjoys hearing you sing, and your mother was convinced she had dog whisperer powers from then on.”
Cold steals over my skin. “That’s how it all started?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know. Did you care to even ask? Or were you too busy listening to Coldplay and shopping for tartan plaid scarves?”
“What are you talking about?” My mind reels. Dog whisperer booth. Were these the details Vicky had tried to give me? The ones I refused to listen to? “Singin
g,” I say.
“Doesn't everyone sing in front of their pet? That’s what Vicky said. And they’d run into each other by accident after that, and your mom would be all, You have to tell me what Smuckers is thinking! Offering her money and stuff. And Vicky would insist she wasn’t a pet whisperer, insist there’s no such thing. Your mom thought Vicky was withholding her psychic gift from her. Out of spite or something.”
I nod. “Of course she would.” Bernadette thought the whole world existed to spite her.
“Vicky and Carly would run into your mom a lot after that, mostly on this bench they’d pass every day going to Carly’s school. They wondered if she was stalking them. Your mom would hit Vicky up for readings but she’d refuse. And then this one day your mother was all dizzy and faint. It was hot out…” Latrisha relates a story about Mom having a dizzy spell. Mom needing help up to her apartment. Feeling queasy.
Needless to say, I’m the one feeling queasy now. None of this sounds like a con.
It sounds like Vicky, though.
Latrisha tells me about how Vicky saw the dry water bowl, how it made her worry. Of course Vicky would notice something like that and worry.
Fuck.
Latrisha tells me about the moldy bread out on the counter next to the butter. Was it all deliberate, Bernadette playing helpless to pull Vicky into her orbit? Probably.
Latrisha tells me about Vicky refusing money, so Bernadette hired Carly to walk the dog, as an end run around Vicky’s objections. Classic Bernadette—if she can’t pick off the strong animal in the herd, she goes for the weak one.
She goes on about how Vicky started playing dog whisperer when she thought it would help my mom. I walked in on her saying some pretty ridiculous stuff to her in that hospital room, but maybe it’s what my mother needed to hear. How would I know? I hadn’t spoken with her in years.
They all believed Bernadette was alone in the world. Bernadette would have encouraged that belief. She lived for drama.
My heart bangs out of my chest. Vicky told me she was a pet whisperer accidentally and I hadn’t believed her. Who ends up as an accidental pet whisperer?
Vicky does.
Because she cares about people. Because she’s a woman making her way alone in the world—without help, without protection—and she’d have empathy for another woman like that.
If anybody got scammed, it was Vicky.
She told me she’d make things right in the elevator. I heard the truth in her words.
And ignored it.
I text her nearly a dozen times. When she doesn’t answer, I stop by her building. I pay somebody to let me in and make my way up six flights of stairs to her door. I’ve never been here, but I have her address from company records. I knock.
All I hear is a parrot squawking.
This is an apartment-sitting gig—she mentioned it once before. She made it sound nice. It’s not. Judging from the building layout, those two are living in four hundred square feet at the most.
A real grifter would have figured out how to milk the company by now, or at least get credit on the promise of it. A real grifter would be living it up. A penthouse with a view. Meal services and maids. The mob? They would’ve made a move by now.
But more than that, I know her.
And I didn’t listen to my heart.
Vicky and I had a relationship that ran deeper and more intimate than a lot of people I do big money deals with and I couldn’t keep an open mind for her.
And it killed her.
I know. Because I know her.
I knock again. No answer.
“Vicky, are you in there? I messed up,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I knock again. I talk into the crack between the door and the frame.
It becomes pretty clear she’s not home right around the time a neighbor threatens to call the police.
I stumble out of there wondering—miserably—what the hell have I done?
Chapter 21
Henry
The champagne is flowing, but I’m hitting the scotch.
Unfortunately, no amount of drinking will kill enough brain cells to make me forget what an asshole I was.
There’s a jazz trio on the other end of the lavishly decorated ballroom and Jana Jacabowski is trying to pull me away from the bar toward the dance floor.
“Not in the dancing mood,” I say, setting my glass down for the man to refill.
Because all I can think about is the hurt on Vicky’s face.
She never asked to play pet whisperer for my mother. She certainly never asked for that will to be changed. She thought she was getting money for taking Smuckers to some overpriced celebrity vet.
And I wouldn’t trust her.
Of all the women I’ve been with, she’s the only one who doesn’t seem to care about the Locke fortune, the only one who bothered to look behind my name and wealth.
And what do I do? Treat her like a grifter.
My texts stopped delivering to her. Blocked. My calls go to voice mail, and I doubt she’s been listening to those.
I stopped by the makers co-op. She wasn’t there. I probably seemed desperate. I’m not embarrassed. I’ll keep trying. I won’t give up.
Jana Jacabowski waits. We had an arrangement to be seen here together and talk up each other’s causes. She and her sister have been good allies for us.
Brett casts a warning look at me. “Brett’ll dance,” I say.
Brett puts on his most charming smile for her. What am I doing? Another dick move.
I snap out of it. The four of us have a deal. This is about the business. I down the scotch and take her out to the floor, moving on autopilot, dancing, chatting, spinning Jana around. She’s a force for good in the city, a woman I respect. A dip for the cameras. She screams and laughs. Another spin.
I let Vicky down big-time. It doesn’t mean I have to go on permanent asshole mode with people who need me.
Brett and Maddie Jacabowski spin by. I smile. If Vicky were here, she’d see right through that smile.
Jana and I do our time with the politicians. This is where she shines—the Jacabowski women are total movers.
A councilperson compliments me on the dog PR stunt. I laugh it off.
We discuss the Ten, the project everyone is excited about. “The Ten is transitional,” I tell him. “It’s forward-looking, yes, but I’m taking things much further now that I’m moving into leadership.”
Translation: it’s too late to make the Ten into the cool project it could be.
“Once you take over leadership from the dog?”
“Yeah, once I take over from the dog,” I say smoothly.
“You guys actually did a stock transfer. That’s ballsy.”
“He really is in charge. He and his advocate.” I wink. “We’re doing our best to guide him. Smuckers would be putting fire hydrants all over Manhattan if he had his way.”
Jana laughs. “The dog has more vision than some builders.” I suppress a smile, enjoying her dig at Dartford & Sons, assholes of the building community.
Brett’s there and we’re posing for photographs. Somebody grabs Jana away and I use the opportunity to hit the bar again, but then I see Renaldo, hanging out on the fringes of the place with one of the retired city managers.
They’re elderly guys who are still important for their wealth of knowledge, but they have zero power anymore. I go over, keep my back to the brightly colored dresses and black tuxedoes, so many peacocks peacocking it up.
Renaldo lumbers up from his seat and claps me on the back. “Henry!”
“He was telling me about the Ten,” the man says.
Through my scotch-fuelled haze, I scramble to remember my picture for him—a fish. A whale.
“Jonah,” I say, taking his hand, clapping mine over his.
The three of us take a seat at the edge of the place and talk development. Bonding. We talk about the Ten. I want another scotch, but I go for a club soda to avoid the famous Renaldo side-eye.
Jana Ja
cabowski waves from across the room—she’s leaving with a friend. I sit back and relax.
“So what’s really going on?” Renaldo asks me as soon as we’re alone.
“I screwed up. I didn’t go with my gut.”
“Tell me,” he says.
It’s been ages since I went to Renaldo with something. He knows about Vicky and Smuckers, of course. I lay it all out. I tell him about humoring her until the competency hearing. I tell him about taking her around the company, and how incredible it’s been. The bright, fun energy she brings. The goodness of working with her. I tell him about the makers space. “You would love it,” I say. “Spending just that time with her without all the bullshit, that was amazing. We were amazing. She’s special.”
I tell him I’m more convinced than ever that she accidentally fell into this thing. Lay out everything about that.
Then I tell him about the joke she made and he winces. “Ouch. A dog face?”
“I didn’t have to let it mess me up. Like I couldn’t be strong for the firm and open-minded about her at the same time? I had to react.”
He smiles into the distance.
“What?” I demand.
“She hit your button,” he says. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Henry.”
I watch him warily, bright brown eyes and skin like leather.
“Your mother was a crazy bitch. She dedicated her life to smashing every sand castle you managed to build. My picture of your childhood is you sitting on the front stoop of your mansion, clutching that bear of yours, crying your eyes out because she’d left. Yet again. Bernadette was a narcissistic gold digger who blamed you for everything. And your father didn’t do shit to correct that.”
“Don’t,” I say. “That’s enough.” He’d always kept opinions like that to himself.
“Yet you always wanted her love. You’d follow her around. Remember how she always called you Pokey?”
Pokey. Her nickname for me. “I never could keep up with her.”
“Of course you couldn’t. You were a child.”
I shrug. “I'm glad for how she was. She taught me to be strong, to rely on myself.”