by Emily Duvall
He looks up from his phone with a withering glare. “No.”
I step back. “You’re like Libby.”
Another sigh. “How so?”
“She’s on her phone all the time.”
“She’s important, like me. People want our advice.” His lips quirk into a grin and he points ahead to the sound of the oncoming train roaring down the tracks.
We take the orange line Metro to Rosslyn. The area is busy with the energy of Friday evening. Caleb doesn’t say much to me and his answers are short and one-word.
We approach the intersection and I’m less worried about making conversation and more fascinated with the crosswalk. We have nine seconds to get to the other side. “We should hurry.” I dash across the street and make it in time for the blinking orange light to warn pedestrians to stay back. I make it and turn to find Caleb Allan waiting on the other side.
A rush of traffic goes by and I step back and take in the sight around him. That’s when my gaze shifts, and I see the other man—the one from six months ago. My heart rate flies and I swallow hard. The man next to Caleb is the one from the bar. A place and night I can’t tell anyone about. I never forget a face, or a name, and his cold-hearted eyes are staring right at me. He sees me, too. We see each other. His name is Paul Pierce and he lifts a finger to his lips as if to say shh, but all I remember is the sound of his voice. If you tell anyone, I will find you. I will hunt you down and I will kill you.
My breath is stuck in my chest. The memory is reborn. It’s as real as it was on that chilly, dark, November evening—a night I have not told anyone about. Libby and my parents would freak out. They would insist on accompanying me everywhere. And I do believe this man. I believe that he would hurt me.
Chapter 2
Caleb
I missed the crosswalk on purpose. Maren is standing on the other side, not at all self-aware as people walk around her to get a spot. Her hair is parted down the middle and falls over her shoulders. What was with those questions about my height? About my name? One minute she’s rushing across the street and waiting for me to cross. Now? She doesn’t wait. She turns, and she’s gone, moving away.
The light changes and I catch up to her. “Someone’s in a hurry to get to the museum,” I say accusatorily.
Maren keeps looking ahead, to the length of the sidewalk. “I saw someone I recognized.”
A glance over my shoulder confirms my suspicions. No one seems to be coming after her. My tone is condescending. “Who?”
“No one. Never mind.”
She continues, keeping a slight pace ahead of me. I see the unfortunate sighting of another crosswalk in our immediate future, which means we’ll have to stop together. The red hand blinks and sure enough, Maren comes to a full stop like a traffic cop. I was willing to risk dodging moving vehicles to move this along. Maybe I’m being too hard on her. It’s not like I have to spend time with her. I do have a lot going on and I don’t want to answer questions or figure out if she did or more likely, did not see someone she knows. I angle my head, giving her a closer appraisal.
“Are you and Libby sleeping together?” Maren says, still not turning her head to make eye contact.
The random question grates on my nerves. Like she has any right to ask. “No,” I answer flatly and give myself a mental point. I wasn’t being too harsh. I just don’t like her.
Libby and I had an awkward flirtation a million years ago. There was no spark then and there isn’t one now. I don’t think about her as anything other than a colleague, which leads me to question her tonight. Out of the blue, she asks me to escort Maren to the museum. She didn’t say why, and frankly, I forgot she had a sister. Was this a strategic professional maneuver? Libby is my biggest competitor at the firm. A month ago, we both interviewed for a job in the Manhattan office and any day now we will have the answer. I don’t see how asking me to walk with Maren tonight could have anything to do with that. But…maybe I’m missing something?
Maren and I pass by a string of restaurants. Thai, Chinese, Italian—my stomach rumbles at the rich scents of spices wafting in our direction. The museum better have decent appetizers. Abruptly, Maren stops in front of an ice cream shop. “I’m going inside,” she announces, opening the door.
I push the door closed. “There’s food at the function.”
“What kind?”
“I have no idea.”
“Go ahead without me.” Maren opens the door with more resolve and leaves me standing on the sidewalk.
“Wait,” I call out. The door slams in my face. “You’re going inside?”
“She just did, buddy,” a passerby says.
My head tilts to the store’s name and I’m hit with a stab of unexpected pain. My stomach tenses. My breath sticks in my throat. I can’t breathe, and when I do, I release a thin stream of air between my closed lips. I haven’t been in an ice cream shop in years. Not since…I push those thoughts away fiercely. A lifetime ago. Another time and another place I don’t want to think about right now.
I side step a mother dragging her screaming toddler out the door and the feeling of being suffocated is overpowering. Somehow, I manage to find my way to Maren and stand next to her. “This is lame,” I mumble.
Maren is leaning over the display at the selection of flavors. She does not look at me. “You could have gone without me.”
“I told Libby I would deliver you and I will.”
Her face angles up to mine. “Like a package?”
“No, not like a package.”
“What flavor are you getting?” she says, moving an inch forward with the line.
“I’m not ordering anything,” I say, determined that she catches my tone.
One of her delicate brow’s wrinkles. “Why not?”
“Ice cream shops aren’t my thing. They’re for kids.” And because her favorite flavor was strawberry.
She looks around the room at the tables full of grown-ups. “There are more adults than children.”
The woman in front of us turns a curious gaze at me. She sizes me up and huffs.
“What?” My voice is clear. She spins back around. Good. You do that.
Maren puts in her order in what seems like several long minutes later. We move to a table and she takes her sweet time eating the triple chocolate. She scrapes the bottom of her cup with tedious precision.
I check email from work and see we’ve taken on a new case. My name is included in the recipients, so I assume I’ll be involved in some capacity, when, what I’m hoping for is to be long gone by the time this case sees the light of the conference room. My eyes scan several paragraphs, summing up the case in a breath. A drinking and driving incident involving three underage girls and the owner of a bar, a man named Paul Pierce. Yawn. I sigh and put my phone down. I look ridiculous in my expensive suit and tie in the middle of a store with the walls painted hot pink and green circles. “Are we done?” I say to Maren.
Maren doesn’t flinch at my tone. “Yes.”
My miserable sigh is laced with impatience. “Finally.”
I get up and leave. I don’t say another word to Maren. I walk behind her the rest of the way to the museum.
The sight of City Art Museum is like dollars raining from the sky and I walk faster, as if I’ll catch money. What I’m really walking away from, is her.
I’ve been to the building several times before. The exterior is impressive with multiple levels and tunnels for hallways, each one designed by a local artist. My mood has been ruined, thanks to Maren. What should have been an easy end to the day has left me eager to corner Libby and find out what the hell she was thinking.
Maren’s distracted by the red ceiling at the entrance and I leave her behind. We’re in the building and she knows where to go. The company function is for the employees and their families. My family is all over the place. A sister lives out-of-state and parents residing on opposite coasts sums up my close relationships.
I spot Libby, rather she sees us first and makes her wa
y over. Libby’s a beautiful woman. Light hair, pink lips, a classic, easy smile. Juries love her. I’ve seen Libby make an argument and the older ladies get these smiles on their faces like she’s their daughter. I’m not so easily fooled, and I know this is part of Libby’s strategy to win, to be approachable. I give her credit and I think she’ll eventually make partner. I almost feel bad for when she’ll have to congratulate me on getting the promotion.
The thought of moving to Manhattan puts fresh energy in me. I need this promotion. I want it. The opportunity is close enough to taste the sweet rewards. I will have an office near Central Park and clients with secrets for me to spin. The perks of being connected to powerful, insanely wealthy people will be more gratifying than this B-grade city.
“You guys took a while,” Libby says, coming right up to us. She’s livid and accusatory. “I was about to call you.”
“We stopped for ice cream,” Maren explains.
Like any other adult in this room would have done the same. Please.
Libby grants her sister one pissed-off look. “Ice cream? Maren? Really?”
“Yes, really,” I draw out with satisfying irritation. I do get a kick out of the fact that Maren looks completely unaffected by Libby’s tirade. That’s impressive.
Maren’s tone is bored. “I was hungry.”
Libby inhales a meticulous breath through her nose. “You were supposed to come straight here.”
“You asked me to bring her. I didn’t know I was chaperoning.” I am growing resentful of how my evening is turning out, stuck between two sisters and not in a good way. “She’s a grown woman. She could have gotten here on her own.”
A cross between anger and disappointment spreads over Libby’s face. “Forget it, Caleb. You have no idea. Just, go.”
“You’re wrong. I think I have a very good idea.” Maren misses my tone. Libby does not.
A harsh look is aimed at her sister, the kind Libby uses when cross-examining witnesses for the prosecution. “Maren, we’ll talk later.”
I catch Libby’s arm and pull her close. “Next time don’t ask me to do you any favors.”
Her eyes go wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I don’t let her go just yet. “What’s up with your sister?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing my ass.” I drop her arm and glance at Maren. “Next time hold the sprinkles.”
Maren’s mouth tightens. “Next time stay outside.”
“You can be awful, but you know that.” Libby glares at me and turns her attention on Maren.
Fuming, I grab a glass of wine from the attendant. Her overeager smile is at every turn of the conversation. She’s ignoring imploring looks from my coworkers who want her to walk on over with the tray of wine. I could have her if I wanted. Despite popular myth, a man likes a bit of mystery about a woman and I know her age, her major, and how she’s planning to spend her summer in less than thirty seconds. I play interested, knowing this won’t go anywhere. For one, I’m seeing someone, and second, I’m not in the mood for flirting—thank you very much, Maren Cole.
Wine lady is going on about the exhibit in front of us by an artist who takes famous images and tears them apart, only to put them back together. I hate to be a buzzkill, but this screams copyright infringement. The lawyer in me wants to talk to the museum’s legal counsel and ask how this is even possible, but I would rather get the evening over with. The weekend starts tomorrow, and I intend to sleep in until noon and blow off work for a few hours.
Libby’s busy in conversation with our boss, Julie Lyon, and I notice Maren sits down on a bench at the far corner of the room. My anger dissolves, and I feel a tad sorry for her. At least she’s not hanging around me.
“Hey, handsome,” Sara says, approaching me with a glass of white wine. “You look like you could use a refill.”
Make that two. I give her an appreciative once-over and take the glass. What’s underneath those clothes stirs dirty thoughts I’ll act upon later. I keep my voice low and husky. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Right in front of me.”
“When did this happen?”
“Six months ago.” She links her arm through mine with a pouty, sultry look. “I have to go back to the office for a bit, want to join?”
Yes, I do. I want to do it on her desk and hear her scream my name. I sip my wine, not losing track of the real reason I showed up. “I can’t. I have to talk to Julie.”
Sara’s smile wanes. “How about we meet up for dinner later?”
I keep my gaze on Julie. Libby’s taking up my time with the boss and another associate is hovering. Seems I’ll have to get in line. I don’t look at Sara and hand her my glass. “Dinner. Fine.”
“Hold on.” Sara nods ahead. “So…that’s Libby’s sister?”
My gaze travels over to Maren, sitting on the bench, her shoulders rounded, and head bowed at her phone. “Apparently.”
“I didn’t want to say anything, but no wonder she never talks about her.”
“There’s an understatement.”
Sara cocks her head and her bangs shift away from her eyes. “I haven’t said anything, but I heard Libby broke down in front of the partners at the retreat last fall. She lost control of her emotions, something about her life with her sister is tough. I mean, the sister looks normal. I haven’t spoken to her, so I wouldn’t know. I think Libby used that story to get a foot in the door to become partner. I wouldn’t put such a tactic past her.”
Libby is good at her job, much as I want to jump on Sara’s bandwagon, I don’t. My competition since I started at the firm has always been Libby. She’s smart as I am and excellent in the courtroom. I won’t take that away from her, not even for Sara’s gossip wheel. I say nothing. I don’t need to. Let Sara interpret that anyway she wants.
“I would never bring someone like her to a company event.” Sara leans over to my ear and whispers, “Let’s hope she doesn’t embarrass her.”
Maren appears to be stuck on her phone, her head bowed, and her focus nowhere else. One of the associates at the firm takes a seat next to her. Leave it to Reed to provoke the one woman who doesn’t show interest in him. Ten seconds is all the time needed for him to realize she’s not going home with him and even though I was annoyed about the ice cream detour, I am rooting for anyone who turns down Reed, Maren included.
“Anyway,” Sara keeps talking, “I’ll text you when I’m finished with my work.”
Reed puts his arm around Maren. She wiggles away only to have him latch on harder. I glance at Libby and she’s busy hogging Julie’s attention. Their backs are to Maren. They aren’t seeing any of this.
“Did you hear what I said?” Sara tugs on my arm.
“Uh-huh.” I am way too fascinated watching this mess unfold. If I could give out points, Maren would get one.
Maren scoots further on the bench, to the end, and falls off with a thud and a crash. The bag flops open and her belongings roll over the floor.
Reed hovers over to her; his face is a mixture of humor and shock. “I’m sorry,” he says tripping over his own actions.
“Go away,” Maren shouts.
“I’ll help you up.” Reed sticks out his hand.
“Leave me alone.” She takes a swing at him and misses by a mile.
I am at Maren’s side in a heartbeat and my glare at Reed is enough for him to know he is making this worse. Libby kneels next to Maren and speaks in a soothing tone. I have no idea what just happened, but now she’s rocking back-and-forth and I’m not sure what the hell I should do. Everyone in the room has their gaze set on these two.
Libby looks over her shoulder. I’m the one person standing in her direct line of vision. “Caleb. Give me a hand. Get her purse.”
Maren goes oddly silent.
Reluctantly I scoop up her belongings. Keys, phone, seven tubes of lip gloss, and I hold the bag out to her. “Your things.”
“He elbowed me,” Maren says.
&nb
sp; Libby takes the bag. “I’m sure this was an accident or a misunderstanding.”
Maren’s not discreet. Her voice is raised, and her finger is aimed at Reed. “It wasn’t an accident.”
Libby shushes her. “Reed shouldn’t have done that, I agree. I’ll tell you more about him later. Right now, you’re fine—you’re okay. I shouldn’t have pushed you to be here. You hate art. I’ll get you home.”
“Yes,” she answers with relief. “This is so boring.”
“I’ll walk with you,” I offer, moving with them away from the onlookers.
Libby looks around the room, at our coworkers sipping their drinks and whispering. “No, stay. Enjoy the party. I shouldn’t have brought her.”
I put my hand around Maren’s arm. She lets me guide her outside. I’m doing this for Libby and to hide my embarrassment at why Julie keeps Reed on staff. I hate to think about what he does to women when they don’t push back.
The front steps of the museum are empty. The night sky comes later this time of year with light blue streaks and thick gray clouds. Libby asks Maren to wait over by the railing. Maren looks up at me. For one, clear moment, I feel the jolt of a connection. Her eyes are a stunning green. How did I miss this?
“I can’t go back in there,” Libby says, pacing across the step and shaking her head. “What was I thinking?”
“You weren’t.”
She shoots me a loaded gaze. “I didn’t ask you to come outside with us.”
“You asked the question. Not me. In fact, why did you ask me to go pick her up? She could have gotten here on her own. She decked Reed on her own.”
“I worry about her. She gets distracted, like the detour to the ice cream shop. She just does what she wants, and I needed her to be on time.”
“Yeah, but, you described her as extremely shy.”
Libby raises her chin and her cool brown eyes meet mine. “I wanted to give her the benefit of doubt. I don’t like people making assumptions before they meet her.” Libby sighs and tucks her hair behind her ears. “She’s on the Autism spectrum. She’s high-functioning, that’s the official diagnosis.” She meets my gaze with a brave stare. “I haven’t told many people. Most of the time she’s…she’s…normal. She’s been having an off month.”