by Addison Fox
Stewey had owned the neighborhood diner long before Park Heights had become part of Brooklyn’s revitalization. She and the boys had gone there regularly when they were young for Louisa’s weekly reprieve from cooking. But those evenings out had given the four of them something else besides a break in routine. They signaled to the neighborhood that they were a family.
She still remembered those first months, scared out of her mind at what she was doing, yet a million percent positive it was the right thing. From the very first day she’d seen her boys—a small trio on the playground who’d run over after she’d dropped an armful of dry cleaning and promptly burst into tears—they’d been meant for each other.
She’d known it on a level she still couldn’t fully explain to herself, yet understood without question.
Fender had asked her once, a few years before, why she’d picked them. Not as a wounded child but as an adult who understood the impact of taking on three children. Old eyes, she’d told him. As she’d looked at each of them, she’d seen their pasts in gazes that didn’t look as if they belonged to children.
And in the looking she’d found her future.
She’d called the school later that day, asking about all of them and scheduling an appointment with child welfare. In a matter of weeks she’d fostered each of them, and over the ensuing two years had adopted them one by one. In that time and all the years since, her past had slowly faded, paling in comparison to her present. To the life she’d determinedly made for herself and her children. And then, in a matter of a few weeks, that past had returned with a vengeance, not fully done with her.
Nick and Fender had taken the news of her indiscretion with Kincade Reynolds nearly a quarter century before in stride, but Landon hadn’t taken it quite so well. And where she’d accepted his initial reaction as the way he was comfortable processing the details, his continued lack of response to her had begun to strain.
No, she amended to herself. It hurt.
Patting her bag, she headed toward the block that contained Landon’s office. Stewey’s cracktastic brownies were one of Landon’s few weaknesses, and she wasn’t above exploiting that.
The events of the prior month had lingered long enough. It was time they addressed them, and found a way to move forward.
And they would move past them.
They had to.
Daphne settled behind her desk, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and contemplated the phone. She had a lead fresher than her coffee, and a hell of a lot hotter.
So why couldn’t she quite let go of Landon’s birth mother as part of the mix?
Was it simply convenient? The odds of a woman who’d been out of his life for decades suddenly showing back up were slim to none. Or was curiosity a factor? Daphne had run the woman’s rap sheet and while nothing had popped for many years, there was a time early on in Amber McGee’s life when she’d been picked up a lot. Petty shit that didn’t amount to much but hadn’t gone unnoticed, either.
Gretchen Reynolds needed investigating, too, even if it was just to gauge the woman’s capacity for making trouble and determine her whereabouts early Wednesday morning. Both lines needed tugging, and it was abundantly clear Landon wasn’t keen on discussing either of them. And why would he?
For all her mother’s haranguing, her father’s flat-faced stoicism and her brothers’ obsessive protecting, Daphne had a great life. Yes, she had frustrations with the people who loved her—and she knew without question she frustrated them in return—but they were hers. The Rossi family had a place in the community, carved out of years of being a part of the neighborhood, and no one whispered about them or looked for proof of their problems.
What would it be like to have none of that in your most formative years?
By the time she was ten, she knew all her neighbors, knew who she could go to in an emergency and how to wrangle her older brothers into doing pretty much whatever she wanted. She’d owned her childhood in a way she’d never appreciated or understood until this case fell squarely in her lap.
And now that she did understand? It was impossible to walk away or to leave those lines untapped.
Although she’d already searched them one by one, Daphne pulled up the files again—all nine that named minor McGee, Landon—and flipped through images on her computer.
It was like something out of Hollywood’s version of drug use and addiction. Nearly every photo was taken in an old apartment on the eastern end of Park Heights. The small rooms were visibly dirty, with drug paraphernalia present in most pictures. She stilled over one where needles and an ashtray littered the end table next to the couch. A TV sat in the corner and she could just make out what looked like a nest of blankets beside the TV, against the corner of the room.
Had he slept there?
Something hard and tight settled in her chest, igniting a spark of fury she was unable to quell, despite the advanced age of the image.
Would someone who lived like that—and who’d given up the child who’d been practically discarded—see him as an opportunity once he’d made good?
On a resigned sigh, she flipped to a new program and began a search for the current whereabouts of Amber McGee.
“L! You’ve got a visitor!”
The summons flew across the open office, pulling Landon from the brooding feeling he hadn’t managed to shake since returning from his lunch with Daphne. He was interested in her and he looked forward to seeing her again. Hell, he wanted to see her again.
But was he willing to discuss his past?
While he would bet his zombie program as a total flop against Amber McGee being the one who broke into the office, he had to see it from Daphne’s perspective. She was looking at all angles, trying to identify who would go after him but leave his suitemates alone. And, if he were honest with himself, he had to acknowledge that pokering up about his birthmother was likely a big, fat, red flag to a detective trained to look for answers.
If this attraction goes anywhere, she’s going to seek those answers, cop or not.
The raw, unpleasant reality of that thought twisted him up in knots. Had always twisted him up, in every relationship he’d ever had. He’d never gotten serious enough to share the truth of his first ten years, but sooner or later, that was going to change.
Like it could with Daphne Rossi.
Since there was nothing to be done for it at the moment, he turned toward the interruption, grateful for the respite from his thoughts, until he saw who waited.
His mother.
He’d been the dutiful son, calling her about the break-in so she wouldn’t worry or hear it from six different people before he could give her the real details. He’d even taken the two subsequent calls when she’d both fretted over him and played amateur detective on who might have been responsible.
But he’d still avoided seeing her face to face.
Doing that meant he had to find a way past the barrier he’d built for the past month and, damn it, that just wasn’t possible yet. He wasn’t ready, and he had no idea what to do about that.
Louisa didn’t wait for permission but headed in his direction, the large bag that perpetually hung from her arm banging against her hip.
“Hello, sweetie.”
“Hey.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek and ignored the small twitch that registered on the back of his neck when the action felt perfunctory.
Required.
If she noticed she didn’t say, instead gesturing toward a small walled-off area that functioned as the office’s conference room. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“Of course.”
He followed her to the conference room, their walk largely ignored by his suite-mates. Most had earbuds in, and even the few who were talking to each other were so focused on whatever they discussed over on their computer screens that he and his mother offered little distraction.
“It’s busy in here.”
“Always.”
“You can feel the energy.” His mother’s smile wa
s distracted, but bright. “I remember that feeling. It’s a good one. That sense of productivity.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, a blatant reference to her earlier life wasn’t it. “You miss those days?”
“No.” She stilled. “Sometimes. Not the place, per se. But that sense of productivity, of collaborating with others. I think of it sometimes and remember the enjoyment. I have managed to block the irritating clients, the office tantrums, and the strings of late nights, so I’ve no doubt my memories have a sheen on them that’s not fully accurate.”
What about the other memories? The ones that had risen from the dead and were even now haunting her?
Haunting all of them.
“I guess I get that.”
Her distracted smile faded as she fully focused on him. “Of course, the more I think about those late nights, maybe I really don’t miss it after all.”
She’d already settled her large bag on the conference table and began digging around the bottom. When a small striped box and handful of napkins emerged from the worn leather, Landon knew he was in trouble.
His mother had gotten serious.
A midafternoon visit and a box of Stewey’s brownies—albeit a small one—were clear signs of a surprise attack. Their rich, chocolate scent wafted toward him when she opened the box. He was helpless to resist. “You don’t play fair.”
Louisa assessed the open box before pulling a corner piece with extra frosting for herself. “I could say the same about you.”
“Is that supposed to be guilt?”
“I meant it as truth. Unvarnished, but not unkind.”
Landon took a brownie of his own, one of the middle ones without crust and with heaps of frosting weighing down the center. “I know I’ve hurt you. With my reaction. With my silence. And I’m sorry for that part.”
He hated having this conversation at work but was honest enough with himself to know it was his own behavior that had finally forced her visit. “Truly sorry for that part.”
“Yet you won’t change your mind? Won’t see things from my point of view or acknowledge that was a different time in my life?”
“That’s the part I’m working on.” He took a bite of brownie and chewed, allowing the sweetness to register for a moment. “Or working through, more like.”
“I know that. And I’ve tried to give you the space to work through it. But enough is enough, Landon. I won’t see our relationship ruined over something that happened so long ago it doesn’t matter anymore.”
And there was the real rub. On one level, she was absolutely right. Something that happened decades ago—with a man who wasn’t even alive any longer—shouldn’t still matter. But it did. His mother’s choices were a reflection of her. And it was those choices he didn’t agree with that had brought them all together.
The end of her relationship with Kincade Reynolds had brought her back to Park Heights and directly into Landon’s life, along with Fender’s and Nick’s. How did you reconcile something good from the bad like that? Or, worse, did you use the good as a way to excuse the bad?
He hated the judgment that gripped him over this. Hated how it had caused such a rift between them. Worse, he hated that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fully shake it off.
Yet every time he tried to push past it, he was forced to see the truth of her actions. That the woman who’d saved him was as flawed as the one she’d saved him from.
“But it does matter.”
“For a long time I’d have agreed with you. And then at some point it stopped mattering so much. I got involved with my children, got wrapped up in a new life, and the old one seemed so far away. And far less appealing.”
They sat there for a few moments, each focused on their dessert, both hovering on the precipice of the canyon that divided them.
“Why did you do it? Why would you think it was acceptable to sleep with another woman’s husband?” The words spilled out, accusation layered over every syllable, and even the lingering sweetness of the brownie couldn’t erase the bitter, acidic flavor of his questions.
If he upset her with his honesty, she didn’t let on. Instead, she set her half-eaten brownie down on a napkin she’d already spread out and gave him her full attention.
“I’ve asked myself that many times. At first I thought it was because things between us were meant to be. That marriage and commitment to another wasn’t big enough to stop the feelings Kincade and I had for each other. I believed those feelings and my own desire were more powerful than any preexisting commitment or the illusion of family he was playing at.”
“He told you that? That his family was an illusion?”
“Some of it was what he said. Some was what I’d already observed of the two of them at office events. A bit more was what I heard as office gossip. Kincade had been a longstanding member of the firm, along with his father before him. People talk regardless of who you are, but when you’re the top brass, everyone has something to say.”
“And you believed them?”
“I believed it all. Because I wanted to. Because it was heady to be the object of his attention. And because it felt good.”
“He had a family.”
“Yes, he did.”
Landon pushed his brownie aside, the peace offering as unappealing as their conversation. “His children. You honestly felt it was alright for him to leave your bed and go home to his children?”
The question was wrong—it was raw and terrible and even as he regretted the words, he knew it was a lie to keep them from her. His mother wanted him to open up to her and wanted to put this behind them. But if he held this back—this raw, unfocused anger that was so deeply rooted in his past he couldn’t escape it—then he’d be the liar.
He’d had a parent once who’d disregarded him in favor of her own whims. Her own desires and addictions. He’d lain in the darkness of their small one-bedroom apartment, praying for whatever happened in the bedroom not to spill over to him in the living room, even as he knew it was possible at any moment. Worse, he’d lived through enough moments to know that it would happen again.
He’d lived with someone who was supposed to protect him and instead chose what felt good. And it was devastating to find that the one woman he’d believed was above that sort of thing had as much of a past as anyone else.
“I’m not her.”
Louisa’s quiet punch hit him with the force of an atomic bomb.
“I’m not suggesting you are.”
“Aren’t you? Isn’t that what this is really all about?”
He said nothing, just continued to trace an abstract pattern with his eyes over one of the coasters that lined the conference room table.
Louisa Mills wasn’t Amber McGee. There was no choice in her past—nothing she could ever have done—that would make them the same.
But fuck it all if that small, huddled boy he’d buried way down deep inside could accept that.
Louisa’s hand covered his, clenched tight on the table’s scarred wood surface. “You have a right to ask me questions, Landon. You even have a right to your feelings. But you don’t have a right to judge me. And you certainly don’t have a right to vilify me with her memory.”
Six
“Garbage as art?”
Daphne tried to hide her skepticism as she stared at the canvas covered in discarded yogurt containers, aluminum cans, and was that—oh God—an empty tampon wrapper?
“Perhaps a modern-day treatise on the recycling movement?” Landon asked.
His head was bent toward hers, their quiet conversation meant for the two of them. There was little chance of being overheard—the artist was surrounded by a gaggle of well-wishers on the opposite side of the gallery, and everyone else milling around had taken full advantage of the open bar—but it paid to be quiet all the same.
“I think you’re on to something. We’ll go with that interpretation.”
He smiled, as he had all evening, but the expression didn’t meet his eyes
. Although she normally chalked up her observation skills to her profession, it didn’t take a cop’s training to see the man was in pain. While she normally would assuage her curiosity and ask the reason why, something held her back tonight.
Perhaps it was the cold, bleakness that seemed to have settled in his dark gaze. Or worse, the sudden, irrational fear that he’d flip out if he knew the files she’d reviewed and the calls she’d placed since yesterday. She hadn’t gotten far, and the two brief voice-mails she’d left hadn’t been returned. But still, that steady swirl of sticky remorse lingered.
It was her job, damn it. She hadn’t crossed any lines, nor made any inquiries she shouldn’t in the pursuit of the case. And she’d been more than honest with him about her intentions.
So why did it feel so much like a betrayal?
Maybe it was the simple acknowledgement that she was already in deeper than she’d expected to be. Like sand vanishing beneath her feet, the waters had grown deeper with every interaction she’d had with Landon, until they threatened to pull her under.
Did she want that undertow? And what had happened to going out on a nice, casual Friday night date with an attractive man whose company she enjoyed?
When had it begun to matter so much?
She’d been sucked into the vortex once before. That heady, mind-altering state that produced a mix of clarity of thought and sheer, utter madness. She hadn’t survived the last one unscathed, and Mike had far fewer depths than Landon.
Was she actually thinking of abandoning her good sense and solid judgment to do it again?
They moved on to the next piece, a rusty sink suspended from the ceiling at an angle, so the contents of the tub were visible. She scanned the items, which included a can of motor oil, a dirty rag, and a tire iron, suspended in what looked like a tub full of motor oil.
“I hate to be an unrefined ass, but your friend’s really into garbage and waste.”