OLIVER IS SITTING in bed reading The Structure of Scientific Revolutions when Sophie breezes in and blurts, “I’m not pregnant. I took a test.”
Oliver says, “Oh.”
That was my reaction, Sophie tells herself. Maybe it’s his turn to feel surprise, disappointment, confusion, or maybe he doesn’t know what to say. Sophie stands in the middle of the room suddenly not knowing how to open her mouth.
“Did you want to be pregnant?” he asks quietly, observing the distress in her eyes.
She doesn’t look at him, just shrugs.
Sophie and Oliver can each come up with a million reasons why not being pregnant is a good thing for both of them, but all in all, neither is nearly as glad as they thought they’d be.
T W E N T Y - S E V E N
* * *
What You Don’t Know CAN Hurt You
SATURDAY IS BITINGLY frigid. A low fire is burning in the fireplace. Christmas is coming and Sophie is out of sync with the mood of the city, but Oliver and Sarah are ready to bring in the holiday cheer. Icing, candy sprinkles, and piping bags occupy Sarah at the kitchen island; she is making surprisingly cute snowman cookies. Oliver has been out since morning, and Sophie sits on a stool at the island waiting for her phone to ring.
“Sophie.”
Any minute now, the phone will ring. She bites into a reindeer-shaped pineapple on a skewer.
“Sophie…hello?”
She looks up. “What?”
“I asked green or red.” Sarah holds up an unfrosted snowman. “For the scarf.”
“I don’t know. Yellow.”
“I didn’t say yellow.”
“Huh?”
“Are you worried about something?”
“No, why?”
“You eat when you’re worried.”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “It’s an edible arrangement, all right? It has fruit on it.”
“You’re only eating the chocolate reindeers.”
“Oh, so now you’re going to start psychoanalyzing my diet?”
“I’m just saying.”
“You see that white out there?” She points to the window. “That’s December. People eat whatever they want.”
“Is it always December on your calendar?”
Patience, Sophie reminds herself. “So,” she begins with a hint of caution in her voice. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, who did you think it was at the cemetery the other day? You said someone had been there.”
Sarah’s face clouds over. “I shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what? Tell me?”
“If I tell you, they’re not going to like it.” Then, in a whisper, “No one is supposed to know about them.” She can’t get her or anyone else involved. The less she knows, the better it is for everyone.
Sophie runs her hands through her hair. There has to be a way to get through to her without her mental illness distorting her thinking. “Okay,” she says coolly. “I understand. Does John know?”
“Sophie, please.”
“Does Billy?”
Her body tensing and her brain going nuts, Sarah bangs on the countertop with both her palms. “Sophie!”
The phone rings and Sophie springs from the stool and disappears around the corner. “Talk to me, Reed. What were you able to dig up?”
“Ironport is an old corrections facility that was recently purchased by the Lundberg Group. It’s run for profit and overseen by the Corrections Commission of America.”
“Okay, what’s the Lundberg Group?”
“According to its corporate structure, a multinational firm that manages detention facilities to house high-security inmates. They design, build, operate, everything.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. John is their only prisoner.”
“Sophie, it’s a very elaborate front. The company doesn’t exist.”
“Are you sure? How do you know?” She can hear him breathing irregularly into the telephone. “Reed?”
“Because I’m inside the office building. It’s empty. Unless they packed their bags and are no longer in business, it looks like the Lundberg Group is a dummy corporation that’s trying to sweep things under the carpet.”
Sophie frowns. “What’s it a front for?”
“Illegal activities, I’d say.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “You would say or you do say?”
“The Lundberg Group is registered to a Post Office box, nothing I could find on the owner. It’s close to impossible to trace back to a name, but something stood out.”
“What did?”
“Here’s where it gets interesting. A payout by Black International. I’m thinking embezzlement, stock manipulation—”
The news hits her like a baseball to the head.
Questions form and peel back like onion layers, revealing more and more questions. Why? How? When? What is Oliver doing? What kind of dealings is he involved in? Is he in cahoots with John? What if John was right? What if she’s been looking at it wrong?
“You think Oliver is behind this?”
“Hard to say. I’ve worked closely with him before. Mr. Black’s no perp. He’s a bit of a fish, but he’s good people, boss.”
Sophie flinches at the sound of the elevator ding. Her heart races too hard, too fast. Admittedly, she’s panicky, like when the teacher calls on you to read in class, but you don’t even know what page they’re on. “I gotta go. I’ll call you back.”
Oliver comes in leading a crew of ten men carrying a gigantic Christmas tree into the living room.
Sarah rushes from the kitchen, takes one look at the tree, and squeals, “My God, it’s so big!”
“That’s what she said,” Oliver teases.
“Oliver.” An amused smile touches the corners of Sophie’s mouth.
“It looks great. I love it!” Sarah goes on.
He puts his hands on hips. “Well, well, well. Where have I heard that before?”
Sarah examines the tree from top to bottom. “Is there enough room for it?”
Sophie points a menacing finger at Oliver, a grin in the offing. “Don’t say a word.”
“What? No humor today?” He flops on the sofa with a whoosh and pulls Sophie to sit down next to him, wasting no time in slipping a hand in between her crossed thighs to warm them. She can feel his cold against her fleece-lined leggings.
“Jesus, your hands are like ice.”
“It’s an 18 foot tall fresh-cut Fraser Fir,” he says, as the men continue to hustle the tree to a standing position. “What do you think?”
“It smells like a forest in here. I can’t believe you were out all day looking for a tree,” Sophie says, chuckling.
“What baby wants, baby gets.”
“Baby said something normal and real with branches to get into the Christmas spirit, not the Champagne of trees.”
“I’m glad you like it. I ransacked six tree lots.”
“You would.”
“You know I like a challenge. I found this one in a tree farm in a village in Steuben County. The owner hated me because I made him chop it down at the last minute, but loved me when I paid him extra.”
He gets up from the sofa and walks around admiring the tree. He says something about a train he’s going to build and place beneath it.
Sophie has to smile at how much effort Oliver is putting into all of this. That gorgeous man and his adorableness. It is going to be their first Christmas together, and truly, Oliver wants it to be special. Sophie isn’t a very Christmas-y person, but was won over when he announced he was going to look for a tree. She asks him what ornaments they’re going to use and learns he doesn’t have any because he’s never put up a tree in the penthouse before. Sophie doesn’t have to be told twice. Barely keeping her emotions firmly held, she and Sarah head out to buy ornaments.
“ALL RIGHT, LET’S decorate this bad boy,” she says enthusiastically. Sarah merrily sets up shop at the dining table and begins to unbox the new ornaments. They’re glittery red a
nd gold. “But first, I have something I want you to put on the tree.”
She walks to the coffee table and from her purse, digs out a Ninja Turtle ornament—Leonardo in a Santa suit. “It’s vintage, and I also got Donatello, Raphael, Michelangelo, Splinter…the whole gang.”
“It’s perfect,” he says with the widest, most honest smile.
The girls giggle and tease while Oliver hangs the whole ninja turtle gang in a row about eye level on the tree. A Christmas tree with Ninja Turtle ornaments might not land Sophie and Oliver a spot in a design or style magazine, but to them, it is the best tree in the world.
“I figured out which one’s your favorite turtle,” Sophie says.
“Oh, baby. Amuse me.”
“Are you ready? I did legit research.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, at first I thought it was Donnie. He’s the brain of the team. That’s you. And you know how to work a bo staff. I said to myself, ‘Nuh-uh, too easy.’ It has to be Raphael. He’s the badass of the bunch and doesn’t take shit from anyone. Then I was like okay, but you have a thing for comics, you’re laidback, and you joke a lot like Mikey. And you’re always there to cheer me up, also like Mikey with his brothers. But then I learned Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles came out in 1987. You were a kid. And kids love superheroes because they make the world a better place.
“If I had to go with a close favorite, I would say Leo, because he wears the blue bandana and your favorite color is blue. Plus, he’s the leader. He’s courageous, calm, self-controlled. He’s the one going ‘we need a plan!’ while everyone is running around losing their minds. He’s the turtle you looked up to when you were a kid. I could probably ask you on different days and the answer wouldn’t be the same, because you don’t have a favorite turtle. You grew up watching TMNT, so each turtle has a different part of your personality. You love them all the same. They’re all legends in their own right.” She blows out a breath. “Phew, that was long. So what do you think, huh?”
Oliver looks at her as if she just performed one of those magic tricks that makes you rub your eyes in disbelief and there is no possible explanation for such an incredible feat in this world. Like Michelangelo, it makes him want to shout through the roof, “Cowabunga!”
ON MONDAY MORNING, Oliver is doing his tie in the closet and watching the news when Sophie comes in.
“Sarah has to go.”
“If that’s what you want,” he says, adjusting the collar. “What happened?”
“Did you know Anna Summers was stabbed twenty-seven times?”
“I did.”
“Did you know the upstairs maid found four knives in Sarah’s bedroom, two of which were from the kitchen? One under the pillow. Two behind the bed. And a pocket knife in the drawer.”
“I think it’s safe to say that if she wanted to kill us, she would have already done so.”
“For a bright guy, you sure can be pretty naïve. How do you know she won’t try? We know she’s patient. She has followed me around for God knows how long. She stalks. She premeditates. Do you honestly think a couple of days is going to get in the way of her trying to put me or you out? I mean, come on. Did you just hear what I said? Don’t you want to know why she’s hoarding knives in her room?”
“Sophie, we already know Sarah has paranoid schizophrenia. She feels threatened. Doesn’t trust anyone. I would not be surprised if she had more than knives in her room. She could just feel the need to have weapons around her.”
She utters a ragged sigh of resignation. “You’re doing it again. You’re defending her. Why do you defend her all the time?”
He makes a face. “I’m not going to do this right now.” He woke up with a headache and no energy, again.
“No, no. Really. I want to know. It’s always her getting into trouble, me against her, and you coming to the rescue. Why is that, Oliver?”
“I don’t want to fight, Sophie.”
“What is it about her that makes you want to protect her, huh? Is it an unbreakable pattern of yours? Why, Oliver? Tell me why.”
He looks at her and shouts, “Because I know what it’s like!”
There is a long moment of silence.
“What what’s like?”
“To feel alone. Misunderstood. Broken. To have someone look at you and think you’re an outcast. To have things to say, but no one who will listen. I know what it’s like to be at war with your own mind. To hide from yourself. I have walked into the depths of hell and back out. I know what it’s like to be at the bottom of a dirty well, staring up, wishing someone could climb down into it with you and get you out. I can show people like me how it’s done. More importantly, that it can be done.”
“I understand,” Sophie says in a less aggressive and more empathetic tone. “Believe me, I understand what you’re saying. But she tried to have me killed. How do you move on from that? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“It’s not her fault she’s mentally ill, Sophie. It’s not her fault she was born in prison. It’s not her fault she’s an orphan. And it sure isn’t her fault she was sucked into the likes of John.”
Quiet follows.
“Is this really about Sarah?” he asks.
“What else would it be about?”
“You’re getting better every day. At least, that’s what I tell people. ‘Sophie doesn’t carry a Taser around the house.’ ‘Sophie doesn’t shout in her sleep.’ ‘Sophie doesn’t have panic attacks whenever she has flashes that remind her of that week—a song, a smell, or the way the air falls in a room just so.’ But that’s not the truth is it? You sleep with a light on. You don’t go out after dark. And every creak makes you jump.”
She frowns. “So that’s it, huh? You have me all figured out?”
“Babe, something terrible happened to you and we don’t talk about it because you don’t want to give it power, and I think I fucked up. I’ve been telling myself that you’re okay. You’re fine. You’re moving on with your life. Half the time, I believe it. You’re distracted. But the problem with distraction is that it’s a temporary fix. Sooner or later, you come back to yourself.”
“Please, don’t Psych 101 me. And don’t talk to me like I’m broken. Like I’m a sad dog with three legs. Maybe I am. But you know what? I’ve seen some pretty happy three-legged dogs. So my guess is, I’m going to be all right.”
Oliver’s ringing phone interrupts the emotionally charged moment. He answers the call.
Sophie examines his face for clues as to who it could be. “Everything okay?” she asks, when he hangs up.
“Reed is dead.”
EVERYTHING HAPPENS IN slow motion. Sophie getting out of the car. Sophie rushing past the yellow crime-scene duct tape strung across the front of the house.
She freezes at the doorway, first in disbelief, and finally guilt ridden.
“Excuse me,” a police officer calls out to her, but Sophie is unresponsive from shock. “Excuse me, Miss? Who are you?”
“Oliver Black.” He walks up next to Sophie and shakes hands with the officer while steadying her against him. “I’m Mr. Darren Reed’s employer. And this is Sophia Cavall. His client.”
“How do you do? I’m Detective Larson. We spoke on the phone. Thank you for coming. Mrs. Reed is down at the precinct with her son. She says her husband told her he was going to be at work.”
“He wasn’t.”
“Darren didn’t work Mondays?” The officer leads the couple inside the front room of the residence.
“Yes, but his services weren’t required until two, which is when he would drive my girlfriend to a benefit luncheon.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“December first. The park opening. It was a Sunday.”
Sophie listens to the exchange, recovering enough to slip past them and down the hallway.
“Mr. Black, why do you suppose Darren hung himself?”
It was…suicide?
A specialist collecting ev
idence shouts, “Lady, you can’t go back there!”
Outside the bathroom, Sophie covers her mouth in horror.
In a flurry, Oliver dashes the few steps to the bathroom doorway, picks her up by the waist, and whisks her away. She struggles in his arms. He puts her down, but then she clings to him and buries her face in his chest.
“This can’t be happening,” she says over and over, her voice muffled by his coat.
“Ma’am,” says Detective Larson. “You’re justifiably upset, but I’m going to ask you to calm down and stay where you are. This is a police investigation into a suicide. You don’t wander around, use the phone, go into the kitchen. You don’t move or touch things. Do you understand?”
Sophie’s brain is full of static like a television that’s lost signal. All she hears is, “suicide.” Her lower lip trembles. “No, no. Reed didn’t kill himself.”
“Sophie,” Oliver protests.
“I have a dead body in the bathroom and a suicide note that says otherwise.”
“Oh, please. I watch TV. Anyone can write a suicide note. That proves nothing.”
“Sophie. Don’t say another word,” again Oliver.
“You seem quite sure about what you’re stating, Miss Cavall.”
“Absolutely sure. He had a wife and son. He…he loved them. They were his whole life. He wasn’t a man who wanted to take his own life! I talked to him yesterday, for God’s sake!”
“Sophie!” Oliver yells.
“Stop Sophie-ing me!”
“Sidebar.” He glares at her and starts toward the door. Oliver walks down the steps of the porch and across the lawn.
Sophie follows. “Okay, you don’t understand. The cops have it all wrong!”
“Then make me understand.” His voice comes out like a big thunderclap. “Tell me the truth right now.”
Sophie gives quick acknowledging nods, incapacitated with worry. “A couple of weeks ago, Reed drove me to Ironport. It’s the facility where John is being held. He arranged a visit. Don’t ask me how. I needed to get answers from John; he was the only one who could tell me what’s wrong with Sarah. But then, while I was there, I got the feeling that there was more going on. The prison is owned by some mysterious power broker, John’s alleged escape, just…just things he said didn’t add up. I had so many questions, I asked Reed to look into it. The last time we spoke, he said something about a dummy corporation called the Lundberg Group. And I-I got him killed for it.” Her voice breaks. “Oliver, they got to him! What have I done?” she yells, tears streaming down her cheeks.
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