“Wow.” This time there’s no enthusiasm in her voice. “What a dick. But still, that was a great outing for you. Well done. He was hot.”
“Are you hearing me? The little party you’re having is not what I feel over here.”
“What do you want me to say?” she asks. “I’m not going to throw you a pity party for fucking your frustration out.”
“Jesus, Nora.”
“What? You said you feel used, so what? You used him too, didn’t you?”
“No,” I blurt, surprising even myself at how offended I sound.
“Uh-huh,” she hums. “Whatever you say.”
“How, Nora? Tell me how I managed to use Noah and also got myself dumped.”
“You’re kidding right? You needed a distraction from your suspension, which was exactly why we went out in the first place.” There’s a short pause before she adds, “And you didn’t get dumped, by the way. You guys did the deed and then went your separate ways. That’s how it goes.”
“That’s not how my relationships go.”
“Come on, Sophia. I know it can suck, but it’s your choice to be upset about it. Honestly, this whole affair seems mutually balanced to me. You both used each other, for different reasons I’m sure, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“But I wanted him, Nora.” Again I’m surprised at the way it comes out. “I still do. I really liked him. I mean genuinely liked him. He was so easy to talk to, it’s like I’ve known him forever.” Nora starts to speak but I talk over her. “Knew him, I should say. It’s over now.”
“I get that, but it might’ve been over from the beginning,” she says. “I worded that weirdly, but all I’m saying is that was probably all he ever had in mind.”
“He took me to dinner at Giovanni’s,” I say as if in defense.
“Oh wow. That’s the nicest asshole I’ve ever heard of.”
“And we didn’t even have sex afterwards. But I came over last night and made him dinner, and—” I hesitate, debate, than decide to say it anyway. “—and it felt like the beginning of something special.”
“And then you had sex, and then he decided the appeal was gone,” she says. “Not a coincidence.”
“I know.” My body deflates as I say the words. “It’s just, I really thought…”
“I know,” Nora says, even echoing my tone of voice. “I don’t want you to think I’m being a bitch about this, but I am giving you some tough love because it doesn’t do you any good to linger over him. It really doesn’t.”
“What’s wrong with me, Nora? This is embarrassing,” I say, feeling a little lighter as I give in. “Why did I get so damn attached?”
“It happens. I’ve met a few guys I thought were truly special. They weren’t,” she says. “Eventually you forget all about them.”
Yeah—not happening.
The thought settles so firmly that I want to say it out loud, but that would only move this conversation three steps—and ten minutes—backwards.
“It sucks,” I say instead.
“It does. But you’ve already survived a week away from work! That’s miraculous for you. Just try to find something to keep your mind off him for seven more days and than everything will go back to normal.”
For the first time all day, my bitterness slowly begins to wane. She’s right. If I were at work right now, I wouldn’t even be thinking about Noah.
That’s a lie.
I would be thinking about him, but not so dismally.
“Yeah,” I concede. “I think you’re right.”
“Whoa—I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say those words.”
I can’t help but giggle at that. “Don’t ruin your luck already,” I say, and she echoes a similar lighthearted giggle.
“But honestly, you know I don’t sugar coat things—” I interrupt with a sarcastic laugh. “Hey now. Don’t ruin your luck either,” she says. “But in all seriousness, it was a very brief affair in the scope of everything. You don’t need him.”
I feel a defiant churn in my stomach.
Nora picks up on my hesitation. “Sophia. You really don’t, all right?”
“Okay,” I say. “You’re right. I don’t.”
Chapter Eighteen
Noah
The road to Owen’s house is rugged and bumpy. He lives in a small place he bought for next to nothing despite having enough cash to move downtown, which is an idea I’ve pushed more than once.
But today the loose gravel feels worse than usual, if that’s even possible. The potholes are bigger though, that’s for damn sure.
Why do people live on private roads anyway?
I understand the desire for seclusion, but I live away from visible neighbors and it doesn’t require a road out of the middle ages. The human species learned how to pave for a reason.
My eyes flick down to the newspaper sitting on the passenger seat, reviving the anger that’s been brewing in my gut all morning.
It’s Wednesday—my day to work the gallery, but I got Ben to cover for me. It’s been four days since my conversation with Cliff and I’ve intentionally avoided calling Owen. But it’s time to talk.
As my eyes trace the paper’s headline, my foot presses harder into the pedal and I twist my clammy palms on the steering wheel. There’s a sudden blare of a car horn and I lift my eyes just in time to swerve out of the way of an oncoming sedan.
An arm with a raised middle finger extends out the window, but I don’t have the urge to respond. I tap my brake instead. The road is really only big enough for one-and-a-half cars and I’m driving fast enough to tear the dirt behind me into thick clouds of dust. But I have bigger things on my mind.
This situation is getting out of control.
We’ve never had a mishap like Thursday. And Thursday wasn’t our fault, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’ve gathered an unworkable level of attention from the Feds. Add that to Cliff’s insistent greed, and we’re about to crash and burn.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t include Sophia in the mix. I have absolutely no desire to bring her to Owen’s attention, but she’s still a factor in this. Over the last five days I’ve thought more about her than Thursday’s incident.
She’s a slice of heaven, but she’s also a cop. And as much as it should—that doesn’t make me want her any less.
She may be a cop, but she’s also the first person to fill the emptiness that’s enveloped me for over a decade. The dark void that’s grown in my chest over the last year. She’s the first authentic connection I’ve ever felt. And severing that connection might’ve been necessary for our operation, but it’s starting to feel like I’m severing the only thing that can pull me out of the void.
I’ve regained my speed when I drift into Owen’s driveway. It’s been awhile, but his house looks unchanged. It has the same peeling blue paint and leftward lean to it. The setting looks like something pulled straight out of a nineties horror flick, all except for the fire red ’69 Mustang parked out-front.
It’s not until I’m parked that Owen gets up from under the car. I roll down my window.
“Hey man, you caught me under my axel,” he says, punctuating it with a boy-like grin.
“Is there anything left to do to her anymore?”
“Oh, plenty.” He rests his arm in my open windowsill. “I haven’t actually done much at all. She’s almost all stock. I don’t touch her unless she asks me.”
Again with the young-boy smile.
I nod in agreement and open my door. “Well kiss her goodbye for awhile. We need to talk.”
“You should have called, I would’ve met you in town.”
“I thought I’d make the trip,” I say, stepping out and handing him the newspaper. “Take a look at the second page.”
It takes him a second to scan it over, his mouth gradually gaping open.
“You ever made the paper before?” I ask.
Without making a sound, he turns it to show me t
he words I’ve already read a hundred times.
MARVEL COUNTY BANK THIEVES NEARLY CAUGHT
“Armed robbers strike again, adding yet another bank to their list of successful heists,” he reads out loud. “However, the duo’s most recent raid was not without a challenging escape. Federal Authorities have been cooperating with local law enforcement, and believe they are narrowing in on…” He trails off and his eyes find mine. “How do they know it’s us?”
“Because it’s always us.”
Silently, his eyes run down the next few lines. He flicks the middle of the page where we’re captured on a black and white security picture entering Independence Bank in our masks.
“Picture doesn’t give us away.”
“That means nothing,” I say. “They don’t need our identities. All they need to do is wait, and that’s exactly what they’re doing.”
Owen has on a blank stare but I can see the wheels turning in his eyes. I let a moment pass before suggesting that we go inside. He nods, quietly leading the way to his kitchen table.
“Has Cliff seen the paper?” he asks after taking a seat.
“Probably. He sees everything, it’s his job.” I pause. “And that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“About Cliff?” His question is laced with relief and it irks my stomach. “You think he’ll be able to shove this under the rug?” he asks.
“No.” I flick the paper. “Not with this.”
“Why not? He’s got—”
“We’re done relying on him.”
That catches him by surprise. “Did something happen?”
“You mean outside of almost going to prison last Thursday?”
Owen cocks his head in acknowledgment. “Without Cliff, we might’ve,” he says. Which isn’t true.
Even if Cliff did manage to delay the Feds’ response, we’d be in prison if we hadn’t left when we did.
I rub the back of my neck and draw in a long breath.
“The walls are closing in, Owen.” I pause for emphasis, looking up at him. “Don’t you ever feel trapped in all of this? The path we’re on doesn’t end with a finish line. It ends in flames. I can’t do this forever, neither of us can.”
“No, but that’s not our plan, is it?” Owen leans back in his chair. “We’ll get what we can and get out before the path ends.”
“When?”
His chest inflates and he shrugs as he exhales. “I don’t think that’s my place to say.” He leans forward. “I haven’t forgotten why you’re doing this. It’s not the same for me. It doesn’t hurt me any if you and Cliff were to end all this today. But I’m also committed to hitting as many more spots as we can. Or as you need.”
I nod, letting a long moment pass in silence.
“I’ll never stop helping that kid,” I say. “But I’m not going to let you go down because of Grayson. He’s my nephew, my responsibility, and what I risk for him should be my risk. No one else’s.”
“Well I’m here.” He shrugs again. “I’m in it. And I’m also not doing this for free. My choices are my choices too. Hell knows what else I’d be doing right now.”
“I know. And I’ll never be able to repay you for this last year, you know that. But listen.” Now I’m the one holding Owen in a stare. I shake my head. “This situation is an hourglass and I’m worried that nothing’s going to change until the sand runs out and we’re both fucked.”
“That’s where Cliff is our advantage.” He picks up the newspaper and holds it in the air. “I know he’s an asshole, but he’s the reason we aren’t already fucked. And if we ever got caught than he’d be fucked too. He knows that,” he says, dropping the paper.
“That’s not how he thinks.”
Owen’s lips purse but flatten again in silence.
“He’ll pull the strings for us as long as he’s getting a cut of the profit,” I say. “But believe me, the fucking second that shit hits the fan, he’s gone and any chance of us getting out of this is gone with him.”
Owen’s eyebrows rise into his forehead. “You really think so?” he asks with noticeable uncertainty in his voice. “I mean, you guys have a history. At least in your family. How could he do that?”
“Cliff’s never had out best intentions in mind, Owen,” I say soberly. “Neither of us. He has money in mind. Money and control. First it was my brother, now it’s us. We’re disposable puppets to him. He’ll pull the strings as long as the money’s coming in, but as soon as that’s done, we are too.”
Owen nods, no longer wearing the lighthearted demeanor he’d had on outside. He’s always seemed to me like two different people: Owen, and the guy that robs banks. When we put on our masks it’s like he also puts on a mask of focused intensity. But that same focus is in his eyes now, and I’m not going to waste it.
“Let me ask you a question,” I say. “What’s the headline going to say next time? Dangerous Bank Thieves Finally Apprehended? Infamous Bank Thieves Now in Prison? You know how they think. They have our scent and they’re not going to let it go until we’re on the front page.”
He removes his hat, raking his fingers through his hair before putting it back on. “Okay,” he says, fixing me in an earnest stare. “I want you to know that I believe in our system enough to go on. But I came into this with you and I’m going to leave with you. When you’re done, then so am I.”
There’s a beat of silence as fervent determination swells in my chest.
“All right,” I say, “we’re done.”
Owen’s expression perks. I pause to give him a chance to speak, but he doesn’t.
“Our control over this is slipping away and I’m not going to let it slip any further,” I add. “We’re done.”
Owen still doesn’t answer at first, just nods. “And what about Cliff?” he asks.
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll handle him as long as you and I are on the same page. We’re done.”
Owen nods again. Not his young-boy nod, but his intently focused bank-robber nod.
“Absolutely.” He reaches to for a handshake and I take his hand firmly in mine.
“I’ll handle Cliff,” I repeat in a whisper.
Chapter Nineteen
Sophia
It’s 10:30. Holy shit.
I want to say I haven’t slept this late in years, but that implies remembering the last time it happened, which I don’t. Even on off-days from the department I can hardly push myself past nine. But off-days feel much different than suspension-days.
God I want to hear the sound of my alarm clock. It’s been so long since I’ve woken up with a purpose. The only thing that’s pulled me out of the bed lately is the pencil hanging from my calendar across the room. I drag my feet over and scratch an X in today’s box under Thursday.
Only three more days.
Just have to make it through another weekend.
And that’s my agenda for the day. Time to go back to bed.
Sherlock hops onto the bed and I crumble into the sheets beside him. He’s not in the mood to cuddle, he’s in the mood for breakfast. But that’s too bad.
It’s eleven by the time he finally gets his Fancy Feast.
I push a bagel into the toasted after setting his dish down, and my eyes settle on a picture hanging above the fridge. A black and white photograph of a dock with a little sailboat tied to its edge. It looks a lot like the style of the photos hanging in Noah’s house, and it fills me with an uneasy warmth.
This is a perfectly fine photo, one that I used to adore, but it’s nothing compared to Noah’s work.
All of a sudden, I’m standing back in his dimly lit gallery, the walls around me filled with different photos of all sizes. Noah is by my side and the unpleasant warmth in my limbs turns to a soothing tenderness. I imagine taking his hand and touring the room once more, but the moment’s already gone.
I’m back standing in my own kitchen, the ding of the toaster serving as a sobering reminder.
I’m not even hungry.
Only three more days.
Three more days and I’ll be able to put him behind me for good.
Three more days and I’ll be back in my uniform, working a new case, purpose pumping through my veins. I’ll be too busy to think of anything but catching the next perp.
But it’s been nearly a week since I last saw Noah, and he’s occupied my mind more and more every day. I pour myself a cup of coffee and return my gaze to the sailboat picture. It’s a piece I got while shopping with my mom and my aunt Phyllis when they came to visit my new place. Back when it actually was new.
It was Phyllis who bought the picture for me. All it took was one tour of my place for her to remark about its need for some ‘decorative taste.’ Funny though—if any of Noah’s photos been for sale in the shop, she would’ve never settled on a piece like this.
What a feeling it would be to show her Noah’s personally gallery. I haven’t been to her house in upstate New York since fifth grade, but I’ll always remember it as being more museum than house. And yet—Noah’s small personal setup outdoes anything she has to boast about.
Phyllis’s face would light up walking around that room. Even better, though, would be the look on her face if she saw Noah’s hand in mine…
My bagel is mostly gone, my coffee cold, when I decide to go for a run. And I think I’ll go for several runs today, reserve ninety minutes of rest in between. There’s no way I can spend the whole day moping around. Not again.
A morning run has always been part of my normal routine—a routine that was effectively disrupted by my suspension. Although that’s a pitiful excuse. Lately, I’ve had more time than ever to run and I’ve still been terribly lazy.
Stepping into the morning sun feels even better than I expected. It’s seventy, partly cloudy, but still sunny in a way that fills the air. I tuck my ear buds in and scan for something fast-paced and upbeat. The music cuts as I take my first stride.
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