“Oliver, why don’t you retire?” Sophie asked him once.
“Retire? Retire to what?”
“I don’t know. To a peaceful and stress-free life?”
“I’ve poured my life’s blood into that company!”
They didn’t talk about the subject again.
Sophie shows Sarah the guest bedroom where she can take a nap and attempt to fight off a sudden migraine. Returning to the bedroom she shares with Oliver, Sophie settles into a comfortable chair in her reading area and fires up her laptop, then googles Anna Summers. The search turns up nothing relevant. She looks out the window, to the view of the Empire State Building, the MetLife building, and beyond to New Jersey. She bites her lip, thinking.
“Anna Summers death,” she types.
There are tons of articles. She eyes the first headline from a month ago—one disturbing sentence: “Woman Found Dead in Cherry Hill Home.” She double-clicks on it and reads through the article.
“Police found Anna Summers, 32, dead inside her Cherry Hill home. Acting on a lead, FBI dug in the basement where they found her buried under the concrete. Summers had a foster daughter and is said to have been with child at the time of her death.”
“What the hell?” she whispers. Sophie feels like she’s been punched. For another hour, she googles and reads everything she can find related to the story, until she feels a breath on her ear.
“Anything good?”
“Jesus Christ!” she shouts, slamming shut the laptop. She jumps up, places the laptop in the chair, and turns to confront him. “Oliver! Why do you always have to sneak up on me like that? You’re going to give me a heart attack!”
“How could I sneak up on you in our bedroom? I thought you heard me walk in.” He displays a pleased expression.
“No, I didn’t. You prowl around like a cat.”
“The key is balance,” he boasts. “It’s an incredibly useful skill.”
“Wear a bell or something.”
He laughs, taking no offense. “What were you doing?”
She runs her hands through her disarrayed hair. “Nothing. Reading.”
“About Anna Summers?”
“You know about her?”
“Yes. I was present during Bridges’s interrogation. They arrested him for the murder of Anna Summers and her unborn child.”
“Right. Sarah ratted him out.”
“Correct.”
“The articles don’t mention anything about Bridges, though. Did he confess?”
“Of course not. He denies it completely. I don’t know all the details. Why are you investigating Anna Summers?”
“Because it could be something important…Sarah mentioned her once.” Her sister’s words play out in a flashback. That was his first kill. He was obsessed with her. He sliced her throat and stabbed her multiple times. “She said Anna was some girl Bridges killed because she denied his invitation to prom.”
“Anna was Sarah’s foster mother.”
Sophie blinks. “What?”
“Bridges revealed that in his police statement.”
“So, okay, Sarah is a liar. What else is new?”
“Maybe it’s part of her delusions.”
“Did Bridges know Anna was pregnant?”
“He claims he didn’t. But according to Sarah, it’s why he killed her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Bridges and Anna were in a relationship.”
“And he killed her because she was pregnant? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t know, Sophie. Bridges won’t admit to anything.”
Largely disturbed, Sophie flops down on the bed and stares at the ceiling. Oliver relaxes on his back next to her, his hands resting on his stomach. A thick silence lies with them.
“Oliver, when you found me in that storage unit…was the door unlocked?” she finally says, her tone beyond unhappy.
He looks at her. “What?”
“The door. Was it unlocked?”
“I don’t remember,” he murmurs.
“Of course you remember. Please, tell me.”
He sighs. “Yes, it was unlocked.”
“But you said the police smashed it down.”
“They did. And after, they realized the latch didn’t have a padlock.”
“Damn it, Oliver. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because I knew what would happen,” he replies.
“Are you psychic now?”
“Sophie, you’re hard enough on yourself already.”
“I didn’t know if the door was locked. I never tried it. Oliver, don’t you see? I could’ve walked out at any time! I could’ve saved us all this trouble if I had just—”
“I knew you were going to react this way.”
“Because…because I assumed that…it…he said that—”
“Sophie, you don’t know if the door was unlocked the whole time. Bridges could’ve unlocked it right before I found you. It really doesn’t matter anymore. He’s in prison. It’s over.”
There is just still too much unknown for Sophie’s comfort, and Oliver’s willingness to be oblivious to the possibility of more danger despite Bridges’s incarceration is infuriating, and alarming.
F I F T E E N
* * *
Why is it Always the Crazy Ones?
THE PRISON DOORS buzz open. In he walks, fearless like a gangster kingpin. The click-clack of his shiny loafers announce his footsteps. He is in his most charming suit, feeling giddy and triumphant.
“All is ready for you, sir,” says Number One, nodding respectfully.
He doesn’t look at him or respond. His long strides continue through the maze of corridors, then into the cell of the man who will answer his questions. He finds Bridges lying in his bunk with his hands tucked underneath his head, staring at the ceiling.
Number One bellows, “Get up. El Jefe wants to see you.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name. Tell him I’m busy.”
“I said get up!”
“All right, all right. I’m going.” He sits up and puts his feet on the floor. “Take it easy, Numero Uno. No need to lose your head, brother.”
“I ain’t yo’ brother, chump.”
“Hello, John,” says the man in the sharp suit.
John looks up at him from his seat on the edge of the bed. “Who the hell are you?”
“Allow me to introduce myself.” His hands are crossed business-like over his stomach. “My name is Gordon Flynn.”
“Gordon Flynn,” he repeats, then gazes out into the distance lost in thought. “What can I do for you?”
“First, let’s talk about what I can do for you.” Flynn takes a few slow steps around the cell.
John doesn’t take his eyes off him. “My favorite subject.”
“Freedom,” he says, then turns on one heel and looks right at him. “I can give you freedom with a flick of my head.”
“Why?” More than anything, John wants freedom.
“I have questions you need to answer.”
“Yeah, no-fucking-shit. What do you want to know?”
“Who are you, John? Who sent you here? Who do you work for? FBI? NSC? Who?”
“My name is John Henry Bridges. I enjoy long walks on the beach and clichés. I am a psychopath. How do I know? Because I am also a world renowned expert in psychopathy.”
“It is in your best interest to answer my questions truthfully.”
“Is that a threat?”
“You’ll know when I’m threatening you.” He scratches his chin. “I heard you had a visitor recently. A blonde one.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen for the pretty girl,” John says with a cunning smile.
“How is she involved in all this? Is she your employer? Was it a publicity stunt? Is Oliver in on it?”
Why is it always the crazy ones? John wonders. He pulls out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it with a Zippo. “What makes you think that?”
“No one is supposed to know where you are. How did she find you? How did she just breeze in here?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
“There is no record of you in the prison registry, John. Why is that?”
He takes a long drag and puffs out smoke in the shape of little doughnuts. “Perhaps I have new friends in high places. Look, as much as I appreciate the Get Outta Jail Free card, I don’t answer to anyone.”
“See, you’re wrong there, John. This is my prison. I operate it. So I say what goes. By extension, I own you. You answer to me now.”
“And yet you don’t know jack shit.”
“I know you look good on paper. Ivy League doctorate? Check. Private practice? Check. Loving family? Check. Awards and achievements? Check and check. I gotta hand it to you, John. You’re squeaky clean. Not even a speeding ticket. But I know someone broke you out of jail.”
“Would you bet your life on that?”
Gordon chuckles. “I’m no idiot. You didn’t escape through the vent. Anyone who believes that is a fucking moron. I also happen to know you have a thing for serial killers. You work closely with them.”
“I have in my possession a piece of Joe Joe Heathcliff’s brain. He was known as The Karma Killer before being put in the electric chair for his atrocities. What I have, Gordon, is a fascination.”
“Frankly, to each his own. I’m an investor in the incarceration industry, John. And I do what’s best for business. About a month ago, two men in suits approached me as I was walking out of my office building. They ushered me into a Black SUV and drove around. You want to know what they said? They said, ‘Let’s make a deal.’ They said, ‘Make him comfortable.’ They were talking about you.”
“Is that what they said? Because I could use fresh fruit and underfloor heating.”
“The deal was that if I kept you somewhere safe, offered you premium accommodations, they wouldn’t kill me.”
“Sounds like a hell of a deal.”
“I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. You want to know what the good part is? This happened while you were a fugitive, John. Which makes me wonder, either the Suits are psychics, or they knew you would turn yourself in.”
“Uh huh…”
“Which begs the questions: how did they know? Did someone tell them? Or did someone make a deal with you? Turn yourself in, because yeah…it looks better to the judge, you want to help your case, blah blah, and the prosecutor puts a criminal behind bars. Everyone wins. The media makes their money. Things return to normal. But what did they promise you, huh? What deal did you make with them?”
“Phew, a lot of someone’s, don’t you think?”
“You bet. Someone is paying a lot of money for you to be here. You just have to give me a name.”
John tilts his head a little, studying him.
“You know, I really like your style, John. You’re a risk-taker, and you keep an open mind. Just like me. You and I, we can do business. I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine. I can give you even more power. I don’t know about you, but I don’t care for rules or law.
“I don’t care about power.”
“I can make your life miserable, kid. Don’t be stupid.”
“You can’t scare me. I invented fear.”
“I’m going to ask you again. Who are you working with?” Gordon’s voice is full of anger and frustration.
Giving a straight answer would be boring, and not like him. “Yes” and “no” don’t promote conversation. John is full of mischief; likes to make one guess, play on emotions, and fool around with others’ minds. Psychopathy isn’t a crime, and while he particularly enjoys hearing the sound of his own voice, right now his ego is telling him to stay quiet rather than admit he doesn’t know the answer. There evidently is an answer. He figures, if someone is behind everything, protecting him, then said someone will show himself sooner or later. Because John’s weakness is precisely his ego, he puts on a strong face and says, “and why would I tell you?” even though he hasn’t the faintest idea.
Gordon gives the order with his head, and Number One punches John senseless.
S I X T E E N
* * *
’Tis the Season to Have Awkward Dinners
MACY’S THANKSGIVING DAY parade. Rockettes at Radio City. Nutcracker Ballet. The Chocolate Show.
This can only mean one thing.
Fall/Winter Social Season is in full swing. It can be compared to the devil on PMS.
Tides of tourists flock to NYC to do all kinds of tourist-y things. They ride carriages in Central Park, gape at skyscrapers, and stop in the middle of the sidewalk for photos with a horde of people behind them. Native Manhattanites carry on with their lives, not having time for New York extravaganza. They walk, eat, talk on the phone, hail a cab, and rush to sample sales, all at the same time. Meanwhile, on the other side of the financial spectrum, it’s the time of year when New York City’s crème de la crème gears up for a bevy of dinner parties, debutante balls, galas, charity events, and other such activities. For the very rich, it’s a very unreal world. And a seriously social one.
Sophie yells while running into her bedroom. “Oliver! Quick, get up!”
He’s lounging on the sofa, gazing out at the view of Manhattan. “Are you dying?”
“What? No.”
“Is the house on fire?”
“No.”
“Is there a flood?”
“No.”
“Then whatever it is can wait.” He takes a sip of his Cabernet. “I’m resting.”
“You don’t understand. So I was in the kitchen dissecting the turkey, and then out of nowhere, an army of people appears,” she says, and slumps on the sofa next to him. “Anyway, they’re cleaning the chandeliers and setting the table. Which, if you ask me, no one should need a ruler to precisely place the silverware next to the plates. How absurd is that?”
Oliver sees her red suede heels, sighs, and says, “Take your shoes off.”
She grumbles, but does as he says.
“Your clothes too.”
“Did you listen to what I just said?”
“Take your pants off, Sophie.”
“God, fine. You’re so bossy.” She unzips her skintight leather leggings and flings them onto the ground.
“And everything else.”
Red knit cardigan off. Cap sleeve top off. “Well? Now what?”
“Now come sit on my lap.” He places his glass of wine on the coffee table.
“Okay, I see where this is going, but I have to—”
Becoming impatient, he grabs her and sits her down sideways on his thigh. “There. Isn’t that better?”
“What?”
“How can you possibly wear so many uncomfortable things?” he says. He has his hands on her stomach, and hers rest on top of his. “I did you a favor. You seemed in pain.”
Heaving out a breath, Sophie realizes all he wanted her to do was relax with him. “Now can I know what is happening upstairs?”
“Thanksgiving dinner preparations.”
“No, really?” She acts surprised. “That’s today?”
“Ah, sarcasm. Part of a complete holiday,” he says, amused. He scratches his chin. “My stepmother sent her team of professional caterers to take care of everything.”
She raises an eyebrow at him. “But I’m making the turkey.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s already in the oven.”
“Then we’ll have more food now, won’t we?”
“I thought it was going to be a quiet family dinner affair.”
“It will be. It’s just you and I, our sisters, your aunt and uncle, their kids, my stepmother, and her new boy-toy. Fifteen people at most. Oh, and Countess Wilshire.”
Sophie gives him a puzzled look. “Who?”
“She’s a good friend of the family. Countess Wilshire claims she married a British aristocrat, but in reality, she married a wealthy antiquarian who lived in Engl
and. She’s a cranky old lady who makes her own will.”
“Wow. Delusions of grandeur much?”
Sophie lets her head fall back against his neck, snuggling like a cat ready to purr. She absently draws circles on his arm with her finger.
“How is our guest?”
“Hmm?” she says, her breath slowing.
“Sarah.”
Just when she was starting to enjoy sitting there with him, not talking. “Well, no problems so far, but the other day she wanted me to put her to bed. So creepy. I don’t know how to act around her, what to say. I feel like she’s a bomb that’s going to detonate if we don’t figure out what her plan is.”
“She hasn’t tried to escape, has she?”
“Escape? No way. She loves it here.” That’s what worries her the most. “She’s getting too comfortable, Oliver. And I don’t trust her any more than before. She just rubs me the wrong way.”
“What about her condition?”
“Physically, she has the stomach of a baby dinosaur. Mentally, who knows?”
Oliver nods in agreement. “You look so great right now,” he says, smelling her hair. “I missed you.”
“What?”
He hugs her a little closer. “Sarah follows you around everywhere. I hardly see you like I want to.”
“Yeah, well, don’t blame me. You started this whole thing by inviting her to stay, Mr. Good Samaritan.”
“What do you want me to do? Lock her out?”
“Good idea.”
“Be real, Soph.”
“Yeah, you’re right. She probably has a key by now.”
“Are you listening to yourself? This is insane. You’re looking for a problem where there isn’t one.”
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