by James Conway
In some regards he’s doing this as an experiment, a deliberate act of will, but in others he’s doing it out of necessity, to show Miranda that he’s capable of change. That he will do whatever it takes to keep them together and in love.
Once the government debriefs ended and they told him how it was going to go down, what the agreed upon narrative would be for the press and the trials to come, he disappeared, taking a self-imposed sabbatical, refusing to talk to the press or anyone who had anything to do with his old life. Just Miranda.
She suggested they take a trip. St. Bart’s or Fiji or Kauai. Some place far, to get away. But he didn’t want to do anything lavish or remotely excessive. He wanted to stay in one place only: her rented apartment in Katonah.
In the mornings they walk around the corner for coffee at NoKa Joe’s. Some days they set out for a hike through the trails at the Pound Ridge Reservation or points farther north. Some days she runs errands and he hangs around the house. Once, while Miranda was out, he inquired about the house they almost bought when Erin was alive, and the Realtor told him she’d look into it.
They talk a lot, more than ever. But they don’t talk about Erin, the past, or the future. They just do what feels right, moment by moment, and hope it lasts.
They’re stretched out on the couch, watching a movie about a man whose job is to predict the future, when the phone rings. Miranda rises to answer it. Havens eavesdrops for a second, then loses interest and goes back to watching the movie.
After she hangs up, Miranda sits back down and takes his head in her lap. She strokes his hair several times and then says, “Don’t you want to know what that was about?”
He thinks about it. “Not really.”
“Even if it’s from Johannesburg?”
He opens his eyes. “Sawa Luhabe?”
“Uh-huh. Sobieski gave her the number, though I imagine she could have found it on her own.”
“What’d she say?”
“Well, we have a place to stay if we ever find ourselves in Johannesburg.”
“Sweet.”
After a moment, Miranda continues. “She also said to thank you. That you are a brave and decent man. And if not for you, she, and probably her daughter, wouldn’t be alive.”
Havens looks away from the TV and out the window and lets the words register. He wants to look up at Miranda but doesn’t. To do so would make too much of the obvious, and still that might never be enough. Finally, he simply says it again:
“Sweet.”
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my agent and friend, David Gernert. Thanks to everyone at the Gernert Company, including Erika Storella, Will Roberts, Anna Worrall, Seth Fishman, and Chris Parris-Lamb. Thanks to Ben Sevier and everyone at Dutton. Thanks also to the numerous hardworking and good-hearted people in law enforcement, counter-terrorism, and the financial services industry who took the time to share their own stories and stories about others not quite as hardworking and kind-hearted. Finally, thanks and love to Judy, Isabel, and Jamie.
About the Author
James Conway is the pseudonym for a hedge fund insider and a global strategy director at a major advertising firm. The Last Trade is Conway’s first thriller.