The Redemption of Memphis Drake: A Second Chance Romance

by Shay Stone

  “Yeah … for her. I’m doing it for her,” I mumble, somehow finding my footing. I fold the paper in half and scribble Nyla’s name on the back, propping it on a shelf where it is sure to be found, leaving my heart beside it. Mike gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and guides me down the corridor to make our escape. He’s already outside and I’ve got my hand on the open door when I hear my name being called.

  “Memphis, they’re ready for you. It’s time,” Max informs me, full of smiles.

  “Memphis, come on,” Mike whispers, tugging on my sleeve.

  Max’s eyes narrow. “Memphis, what’s going on? Where are you going?”

  If I was smart, I’d keep going without explanation. But I can’t make my feet move. The tears continue to soak my lashes, falling in succession when I blink. I swallow past the lump in my throat and remind myself this is the only way to keep my angel safe. “Please protect her for me.”

  His mouth gapes, too bewildered to reply. I disappear through the door knowing I’m about to destroy the only woman I’ll ever love. The one I’d do anything to protect, even if that means protecting her from me.

  PART TWO

  (Three Years Later)

  THIRTY-FOUR

  No More Rules

  The birds chase each other darting in and out of trees, chirping a gleeful tune on this warm Louisiana morning. It’s a beautiful day in Lake Charles, where we now reside. We moved here about six months ago when my dad’s condition took a turn for the worse, and he had to go into a nursing home. When the time comes, he’ll be buried with my mom in a cemetery just outside of Baton Rouge. But Vito knows that’s where I grew up, making it too dangerous to move back to the area.

  It’s been nearly three years since we left New York and I have to say, I’m more than a little disappointed we’re not back there yet. A few months after I left, I anonymously mailed out two copies of the thumb drive. One to Giovanni hoping it would give him the evidence he needed to put Vito away for good; another to Dimitri Volkov, head of the Russian crime syndicate in New Jersey and the person whose territory Vito encroached upon most. I didn’t care which of them got to Vito first, as long as one of them did.

  But my plan backfired a bit. Vito was arrested and convicted on a few minor felonies that earned him three years behind bars. But without me to authenticate the drive and the information, they couldn’t get him on anything significant like racketeering or murder. This meant there was an even bigger target on my back. Not only did most of Vito’s crew remain on the streets free to hunt me, the police now had the drive. I’m sure they were doing everything in their power to uncover James Hamilton’s true identity and track him down, knowing he was their best shot at keeping Vito locked up for good.

  And with the guards at the penitentiary on his payroll, Vito’s incarceration protected him from Dimitri’s wrath. Although rumor had it, the Russians were beginning to make a play for Vito’s territory. When Vito got out, there would be a war. I needed it to happen. With any luck, Dimitri would come out on top rendering it safe for me to return to New York. And more importantly, to Nyla.

  I push my Dad’s wheelchair through the courtyard to a grassy heath with a good view of the duck pond and take a seat on the turf next to him. I like to think he enjoys watching them, even if he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say much of anything anymore.

  It’s devastating to watch the strong, intelligent, charismatic person you idolized fade away until all that’s left is a shell of a man who can’t even dress himself or recognize his own sons. And it’s even worse knowing there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. Dad would never want to live like this. If he could, he’d tell you he wished death would take him now. And if I were any kind of son, I’d grant that wish. But I can’t. I’m many things, but a murderer isn’t one of them.

  The sun warms my skin making it pinch a bit. I reach into the satchel hanging off the back of Dad’s chair to find the sunscreen and apply it liberally on his arms and face and then slather some over mine. “How’s that? Better?” I ask, knowing I won’t receive a reply.

  Our conversations are one sided these days. I fill him in on how Mason’s faring in college; how Cora’s doing since she moved back home to be with her sister, and I bore him about my job at the investment firm. I’ve done my best to go straight. I severed all ties with my old life, starting with sending Mike on his way immediately after we got out of New York. Pulling cons lost its appeal. I’m not that guy anymore. I wasn’t lying when I said Nyla changed me. Or that I changed because of her.

  It’s never long until she comes up in conversations with my Dad. In a rare moment of clarity before his mind went, he asked two things of me: Always look after Mason; and talk to Nyla because, to quote him, “You’re a miserable son-of-a-bitch without her.” He was convinced she’d forgive me if she knew the truth. I remained far less optimistic.

  Not a minute goes by that I don’t think of her. She haunts my dreams and threatens my sanity. I see her on streets we’ve never strolled down, in towns we never visited. She’s hidden in the lyrics of every song, dancing in every melody. Her scent is carried by the wind comforting me and torturing me all at once. I, too, am little more than a shell of a man trudging through a life I no longer recognize. A life that has no meaning without her.

  Dad’s head bobs as he begins to dose off. He sleeps a lot more these days, or maybe I’m just boring him to death. I let him rest and take out my burner phone, dialing the number I know as well as I know my own name.

  She answers. She always answers, even though I use a different burner every time to guarantee she won’t recognize the number. When we were together, she sent all unknown numbers to voicemail. Yet she answers them now. I know it’s wishful thinking, but I like to pretend it’s because on some level, she knows it’s me.

  “Hello?” Nyla’s sweet voice drifts through the line. It’s become my drug of choice through the years, calming me and quelling my bitterness towards the world. I try to limit my calls, only reaching out once every two or three months. But over the last few weeks, they’ve become more frequent.

  “Hello?” she says again with less patience. I close my eyes knowing if I’m lucky, she might say it one more time before hanging up. And then she whispers something I’m not expecting. “Memphis?”

  My eyes pop open and my mouth drops. I want to respond, but I can’t. It’ll only open a door I can’t walk through. If I do, I’ll never close it again. She waits a beat and sighs. “Of course, it’s not you. I’m being stupid. God, I’m such an idiot.”

  “It’s me, angel. I’m here,” I reply in my head and panic, ending the call before I say the words out loud.

  I roll onto my back and rest my arm over my forehead, shielding my eyes. That has to be the last call. It’s too risky. I left to protect her and every time I make contact, I’m putting her in danger. I chastise myself, vowing there will be no more calls. No more hawking the Katie’s Helpers website or Jen’s social media accounts, hoping someone will post a recent picture of Nyla. I have to cut myself off completely. I take Dad back to his room, pitching the phone into the trash can in the hall along the way.

  “How about I see if the game is on?” I ask, turning on the television after getting him settled into the chair. He stares forward unresponsive.

  The local news is just finishing up when the reporter cuts to a National story. “Earlier this week, a troop of boy scouts made a gruesome discovery while out earning merit badges. The remains of who police have now identified as Angela Stapleton, were found in a shallow grave in Black Rock Park, New York. You may recall the daughter of famous television evangelist, Harlan Stapleton, went missing almost four years ago, right around the time her father was stabbed to death in his jail cell after being indicted for embezzlement.”

  The screen changes to a clip from a press conference with the local Chief of Police. Reporters shout questions at him in rapid succession. He waves his hands for the crowd to settle down and addresses them like they�
��re already in the middle of a conversation.

  “No. Despite her father’s suspected ties to the Moretti syndicate, we don’t believe this was a professional hit. The body was badly decomposed, but we believe the cause of death to be strangulation, consistent with a crime of passion. We have no suspects at this time, but we would like to speak to Ms. Stapleton’s ex-husband, James Hamilton. If anyone has any information on his whereabouts, please contact …” he says, rattling of a phone number.

  Angie’s dead. That’s not a shock. I assumed as much. The idea they think I had something to do with it is upsetting, but that’s not what’s got my mind spinning. It’s the location. Black Rock Park. I know that place. A week after I moved to Manhattan, Mike called me sounding distraught and asked me to pick him up from a bar in Black Rock but was nowhere to be found when I got there. Then he showed up to Nyla’s charity picnic the next day strung out on coke with a bullshit story about hooking up with some chick.

  My mind starts making ludicrous leaps. Could Mike have killed Angie? No, that’s insane. What possible motive could he have? They never even met. His job was to follow her and get information. He never had any direct contact with her. Or at least he wasn’t supposed to. I push the silly thought aside and watch a few innings of the game with my dad before heading home.

  When I arrive at the apartment, I find a note from Mason saying he’s gone to a study group and will be home late. I grab myself a beer and flick on the television hoping to catch the rest of the game. This is my typical Saturday night now. My life revolves around work, visiting my father, and daydreaming of the day I can return to New York and beg Nyla for forgiveness.

  The game is anything but entertaining, allowing thoughts of Nyla to pepper their way in. Normally, I focus on the happy times, but today I keep reliving the moments just before I walked out of the church, like my brain is trying to tell me something. Mason asks me if I really want to do this; Mike urges me to leave, telling me if we don’t, Vito will have all of us rotting away in some shallow grave in the woods like Angie.

  That’s eerily coincidental. Why would he say that? We didn’t even know Angie was dead at the time, although we suspected it. And burying someone in the woods wasn’t Vito’s style. Depending on the offense, he’d either make a display of the body or dispose of it in a way that would render it unidentifiable. He’d never be that sloppy.

  But Mike would.

  “No, that doesn’t make any sense,” I remark to an empty room. He barely knew her. There’s no reason to think he’d be involved. Still, the thought keeps nagging at me. Black Rock is almost directly between Greene County and Manhattan. It would have been a perfect meeting place for the two of them.

  I fire up my laptop and pull up an article on Angie’s death that mirrors everything mentioned in the news story. From there, I do a quick google search and bring up the website for the Church of New Hope. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find, but it seems as good a place as any to start. Nothing stands out until I come across a memorial page with a picture: In Loving Memory of Sally Reed.

  I know her. She’s the woman who called out to me in the hospital when Mason was sick. No. She didn’t call out to me. She called out to James Hamilton. No, not to James. To Jimmy. No one called me Jimmy except Angie. How could she be so familiar with me when I have no recollection of her at all? I remember damn near everything.

  I close my eyes watching a memory unfold before me like a movie. I’m at the hospital searching for my Dad and Cora to tell them they’re about to transport Mason. Giovanni is down the hall, questioning people about James Hamilton. Sally calls out to Jimmy. Mike tells me to go with Mason, he’ll deal with Sally. Nothing odd sticks out.

  Stumped, I click on the link to her obituary. According to this, Sally died the day after we saw her. There’s another link to an article in The Greene County Tribune detailing Sally’s death during a home invasion. The lack of forced entry led police to suspect she knew her attacker.

  Chill bumps pimple my skin. Murdered in a home invasion the day after we saw her? There’s no way that’s a coincidence. And why can’t I remember this woman? Was she connected to Vito somehow? Could he have had her killed?

  I open Facebook and weed through countless Sally Reeds until I find the correct account. The whole page is a memorial to her with tons of photos posted by family and friends. I examine each one, clicking on the person that tagged her and scroll through their photos as well, looking for any others that contain Sally.

  My eyes start to burn, fatigued from staring at the small screen. I’m about to give up when I come across a photo of Sally and a woman standing together smiling. But it’s the faces in the background that catch my attention. Angie is perched on the edge of a desk staring up at a guy with those “fuck me” eyes I came to know well. The man’s hair color is different than I’m used to and only his profile is visible, but I’d know that face anywhere. It’s Mike. His hair has been dyed the same color as mine and the reflection from the light makes his brown eye look blue. Is he wearing contacts?

  What the hell?

  I replay the memory from the hospital again, this time focusing on Sally’s face. She’s smiling, coming toward us. But her eyes aren’t trained on me. They only flit to me for a second and dart right back to Mike where they remain. They never glance my way again. It wasn’t me she was calling. It was him.

  I sift through the comments under the photo.

  “Hey Sally, who’s the handsome guy in the background with Angie?”

  “That’s Jimmy Hamilton. He’s one of the bookkeepers for the church. They’re dating.”

  My mind works frantically to piece together a puzzle that’s missing parts. Angie and Mike knew each other? Even if they did, why would he kill her? Maybe she discovered he was embezzling. If he did the same half-ass job stealing from the church that he did stealing from Moreau Enterprises, it’s at least possible he got caught and someone told Angie about it. Or maybe she threatened to pin Harlan’s embezzling on him. As much as Angie hated her father, she worshipped him equally. And Mike did freak out when I mentioned the police would be looking into Harlan.

  The theory is thin, but without being able to confront Mike, all I can do is make assumptions. He’s always had a horrific temper. But murder?

  I shake off the thought. What can I do about it? Calling the police wouldn’t do any good. I have no idea where Mike is, and I have no proof other than a picture on a website. And of the two of us, I’m still the more likely suspect.

  I close out of the windows and pull up Facebook, heading straight for Jen’s page like I do every day, hoping to see a recent picture of Nyla. Not that it’s ever done me any good. No one has posted a picture of her online since I left. I swear Nyla’s doing it on purpose to punish me. She knows I can’t go one day without seeing her beautiful face. It’s driving me insane not knowing how she’s doing.

  My fingers hover over the enter key after Jen’s name is typed. Cold turkey, Memphis. I power down the laptop and recline into the couch sipping my beer, forcing myself to focus on the game. If only my brain would power down as easily as my computer.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  One week. that’s how long my vow lasted. I’m lounging on the couch with my feet on the coffee table and my laptop resting on my thighs, toying with the bracelet Mikayla gave me while I wait for Jen’s Facebook page to pull up.

  Mason plops down beside me munching on a bag of Doritos. He peeks at the screen and rolls his eyes. “What happened to going cold turkey? I thought you cut yourself off.”

  “I did. From Nyla. I’m checking in on Jen,” I toss off the flimsy excuse we both know is a lie. Damn, how long does it take for a page to come up? Mason steals the computer from me moving to the other end of the couch. I make a grab for it and miss. “Give it back.”

  “No. This is for your own good.”

  “I swear I will hide your heart medication if you don’t hand me that laptop right now.”

  “No can do, bro,�
� he says, glancing at the screen. “Ho-ly shit.”

  “What?”

  His brows pinch together. “Uh, I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

  “What? Is she with someone? It’s not Trevor, is it?” I hope she’s not with that douchebag. I knew he wanted her back. Mason hesitates before showing me the screen, and when he flips it around, I know why. “What the hell?”

  There, staring back at me, is a picture of Jen and Max, Alex and Colin, and Nyla … with Mike. The caption beneath reads: Vegas baby! My angel looks like a vision in a white sundress standing in front of the Chapel of Love. Mike’s arm is wrapped securely around Nyla with his other hand raised in the air showing off a wedding band. His mouth hangs open, mocking surprise. She’s holding up her hand displaying a ring as well, wearing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. There’s no sparkle. Or maybe I don’t want there to be. It was posted the day after our last phone call.

  “What’s Nyla doing with Mike?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But I know what Mike’s doing with Nyla. He’s conning her. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen. I take out my phone, barking instructions to Mase while pulling up travel sites. “I’m going to need you to check in on Dad for a few days. Think you can do that?”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever you need. Why? Where are you going?”

  “New York.”

  He bolts to his feet. “Memphis, no! You can’t. If Vito finds out he’ll kill you.”

  There’s genuine fear in his voice. Mason knows everything now. Well, almost everything. I told him about Vito, explaining why I worked for him, and confided my suspicions about Mike’s role in Angie and Sally’s death. He understands the gravity of the situation. But he also knows once Dad dies, I’m the only family he has left.