by Torre, A. R.
“Well, you’re here.”
I paused, confused. “And?”
“And we have unfinished business.” He eyed me. “Think you can squeeze in one more client?”
I set down the menu. “You know, grief counseling really isn’t my specialty. My clients are normally a little darker than that.”
“I have a few skeletons in my closet,” he admitted.
“And they shave.”
He winced. “I can shave.”
I scraped my fingers across his jaw and tugged at the wild, thick tufts. “Nah. Keep it.”
He pulled the edge of my stool, bringing me closer to him. “I also wanted to give you this. You left it at my house.”
He pressed something into my palm, and I looked down to see the emerald ring. “Robert . . . ,” I protested.
“Stop,” he ordered. “We went through the argument about it already. It’s yours. Take it. Consider it a peace offering for me wanting to kill you.” He winced. “Now, can you forgive me?”
“I don’t know.” I slid the ring onto the ring finger of my right hand. “Can you forgive me for not realizing what a monster John Abbott was?”
He studied me, his pupils moving minutely as he read, judged, and processed what he saw in my eyes. “I think I already have.”
He hadn’t. The chances were high that he would never forgive me.
“How did you know that he was guilty?” I asked. The question was the one thing left unanswered, and it had followed me for three months.
He sighed, and I knew he didn’t want to walk back down that path, but I had to know what he’d seen that I had missed. “The autopsy report on Gabe. The blood labs.” He turned back to the bar and picked up his drink. “His insulin levels were perfect, as if he’d worn his pump the entire time. But in order to do that, he’d need infusion sets.”
“So why wouldn’t you suspect another diabetic?”
“There are dozens of variations of infusion sets, but more importantly, I hadn’t gotten the call to pick up his prescription. Which I didn’t notice or think about at the time. I mean, my son was missing. I barely knew what my middle name was, much less if I hadn’t gotten a call from the pharmacy. And if I had noticed, I would have chalked it up to them knowing that he was missing. But months later, almost seven months after he was gone, I was at the pharmacy, picking something up, and I thought about it.” He looked at me. “So I checked with the insurance company, and someone else had picked up his prescriptions. The insulin and also his inhaler.”
“And then you figured out it was him?”
“No.” He sighed and took a sip of his beer. “And then I ran background checks and wasted a shitload of time looking at all the wrong employees of the pharmacy before I figured out it was John.”
“Oh.” It was a cruel irony that the one thing that had probably put Gabe Kavin on John’s radar was the same thing that led to his killer.
“I had a dozen talks with John about Gabe, before, during, and after his disappearance, and I never suspected a thing.” He met my eyes. “I was a prick to assume it was any different for you.”
I shrugged. “I’m a professional. It was my job to have seen something.” And we had both been, at multiple points in this journey, pricks and liars.
“Here.” He raised his bottle. “To cradling sorrows to sleep.”
I clinked my glass against his. “I’ll drink to that.”
I smiled at the familiar toast, remembering when I had given it in the run-down country bar. It seemed like a lifetime ago. We had been strangers, our history linked without us knowing, our focus on distraction from our grief and problems.
William S. Burroughs once said that no one owns life, but anyone who can lift a frying pan can create death. He was right. Killing is the easy part. The act of living—of finding happiness in life—that’s the hard part. Moving past grief and guilt, and learning to love and to trust . . . I wanted to take that path, but I rather liked cradling my sorrows. I enjoyed the well of emotion, the proof that an empathic soul still existed in my aching chest.
One day, I’d move on and forgive myself. I’d live a proper life. But for today, I just needed to survive. To survive and make room on my calendar for one new client. A scruffy, bearded killer who smelled of sunscreen and had a goldfish as a pet.
Robert reached for my hand, and this time, I didn’t pull away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s interesting, because first drafts are such solitary journeys. Late nights, your back cramping in protest, a pile of empty soda cans beside you, your dog wheezing out a loud snore as you try to manage just a few hundred more words before bed. There isn’t anyone to turn to, anyone to pass off the keyboard to and say, “Hey—mind finishing up this chapter?” We’re stuck, in a hypothetical canoe, in the middle of the lake, with no one to row but ourselves.
But then . . . we make it to the other side, and there’s a group there, waiting to pick up that heavy manuscript and help. The group I had for this book was fantastic, and I could fill another two hundred pages singing their praises. For now, I’ll try to be concise.
Maura Kye-Casella, thank you for being such a source of support and wisdom for the last eight years. You continually believe in me and my stories, and I am so grateful to you for all that you have done for my writing—and my career.
Megha Parekh, this book is all thanks to you! Thank you for your insight and ideas, for brainstorming plot points and for sifting through the half dozen concepts until we found the right one. I’m so happy with how this book came together, and so blessed to be a part of the Thomas & Mercer family. Thank you for your vision and support.
Charlotte Herscher, your edits and feedback made this story so much stronger. Thank you for pushing hard where I needed it and for giving me room where I was stubborn. And for all the late-night emails and the phone calls—I appreciate your willingness and dedication more than you know. We’ve now got two book babies under our belt—I hope there are many more in our future.
To Laura Barrett, copyeditor Sara Brady, proofreader Jill Kramer, and the formatting, cover design, and Thomas & Mercer team: thank you for your attention to detail, your creative talents, and your support of this novel. I sincerely appreciate your efforts.
And finally, the readers. You have no idea how important you are. Thank you for picking up this book. Thank you for stepping into Gwen and Robert’s world. I hope you enjoyed reading their story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Until the next book . . .
Alessandra
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 Eric Dean Photography
A. R. Torre is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling author Alessandra Torre. Torre is an award-winning bestselling author of more than twenty novels. She has been featured in such publications as ELLE and ELLE UK and has guest blogged for the Huffington Post. In addition to her writing, Torre is the creator of Alessandra Torre Ink, a website, community, and online school for aspiring and published authors. Learn more and sign up for her monthly updates at www.alessandratorre.com.