Love Me Later

by Libby Rice

  Sure enough, she found the notice of Gerard’s impending release sandwiched between a message from “teens with sexy bodies” and another from an errant government official in Ghana. He needed her savings account number to distribute her $2.8 million in African lottery winnings.

  Thinking on it, the post office had held her snail mail during her stay in Denmark. Most of the buildup had been trash—credit card offers, coupons, sweepstakes entries, mail-order catalogues. Rather like her e-mail, she’d carelessly tossed the pile and lost the most important communications of her life.

  The day wore on in silence, the stillness growing more oppressive with each moment she didn’t hear from the cops or Gerard’s parole officer. Inch by inch, the walls of her spacious apartment contracted until they compressed against a handwritten list clutched between her fingers—a name, social security number, age, and date of birth. She also knew Gerard Chamber had been born and raised in New York City.

  She swallowed audibly. Not an impressive sum total.

  The authorities had offered little—scratch that, nothing—in the way of protection. Gerard had made contact, sure, but talking to her wasn’t an overt threat. While his breaking parole justified an arrest warrant, a national emergency he was not.

  Scarlet shuddered at the memory of his quiet rage pinning her to the steps, of his knowing tone when he’d called her “Empress.” No matter the consensus of the powers that be, his presence was a big fucking deal. A warning she couldn’t fail to heed.

  At trial, the prosecutor had painted motives of greed and revenge. Gerard hadn’t bothered to contradict the theory that he’d imploded under the weight of his damaged pride and a dependence on illegal hormones his wallet couldn’t withstand. Back then, they’d assumed he’d worked over Ethan’s wealthy new toy, solving all his problems while punishing his primary competitor.

  But after ten years, why?

  A long shot, but she pulled up Google and typed in “Gerard Chamber.” The search resulted in over two-thousand hits, and when she scrolled through the results, most of the links pointed to sites or articles she could easily discount. Several people named Gerard apparently made chamber music. They popped up repeatedly since Amazon and other sites sold their CDs as “So-and-so Gerard—Chamber Music.” Another guy named Gerard maintained a Facebook page for his store, “Chamber of Secrets.”

  At the bottom of the fourth page of results, she found a link that at least related to New York City. According to the synopsis visible on the search page, a teenager named Anna Chamber had died after a stabbing in a Chelsea city shelter about fifteen years ago.

  The article originally ran in the regional section of the New York Times. It didn’t take long to locate the full story in the digital archives. The piece highlighted a murder and pointed to the plight of victims of gentrification throughout various up-and-coming neighborhoods spread across the city’s five boroughs.

  Anna Chamber, 14, was found dead Friday night from apparent stab wounds inflicted while staying at the Good Hands Homeless Shelter in Hell’s Kitchen. Cory Lossor, 39, is currently being held in conjunction with the attack and bond is set at $10,000. Diane Sutter, the shelter’s manager, said “Lossor (had) suffered from substance abuse and mental illness for years.”

  Anna’s mother, Donna Chamber, claims her daughter’s homicide is the result of the family’s recent eviction from a rent controlled apartment in Chelsea after the city’s Landmarks Preservation Commission neglected to stop construction of the Cora Tower Condominium Complex.

  Experts point to this as yet another example of the city’s gentrification and displacement policy. Politicians have long sought to resolve residential displacement as a result of housing demolition, conversion of rental units, increased housing costs in rent and taxes, and/or evictions.

  “Those displaced without access to alternative housing in areas like Park Slope, Fort Greene, and Harlem often turn to the city’s shelter system,” says Antony Vavichie, Manager of the Urban Housing Authority. “Events like the Chamber homicide only highlight the severity of the city’s affordable housing crisis.”

  Cora. The word flared on the screen. Her own middle name, taken from her mother—Cora and Scarlet Cora Leore. After her mom’s death, her father had developed a habit of naming things after his “beloved” wife and daughter, a clever PR stunt designed to make him appear the sentimental family man. Scarlet and her mother served as namesakes for Tripp Leore’s Yacht, a golf course in Florida, a cattle ranch in Montana, and in the city, the Cora Tower.

  Like Scarlet after her, Cora had been her father’s possession, a woman to dress in fancy clothes, escort to fast cars, and trot to events like a show pony. Her beautiful mother had loved, but her generous gift hadn’t been returned.

  Scarlet closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the couch. The year of the Cora’s construction lived fresh in her mind. She’d been young—about the same age as poor Anna—and had dubbed the tower hers, telling teachers at boarding school, “The Cora’s mine. For my mother and me.” No matter the distance or death that separated her from her parents, the fact that her dad was building the city’s preeminent high-rise in her mother’s name had been pretty damn cool at the time.

  The blanket slid from Scarlet’s lap when she stood with sudden, jerky movements. Exiting through the glass door, she perched against the rails of her expansive balcony. For once, she didn’t appreciate the city lights or her view of the Hudson, silent and sparking under a handful of burgeoning stars. Gerard waited out there, possibly watched her from below.

  Her grip tightened on the railing, its metallic chill seeping into her skin. Scarlet didn’t symbolize the Cora. She lived in it. When her dad had sold the building, she’d jumped at the chance to move into a complex with meaning, however small, and a connection to the mother she’d missed so dearly.

  The choice had served her well. Until now.

  Nauseated and trembling, the need to escape welled with a vengeance. If Anna Chamber was linked to Gerard, then his attack that night in Brooklyn had been bigger than a play for drug money, her Maserati, or petty revenge against Ethan. He’d done it to get to her father, retribution for the eviction of a vulnerable mother and child.

  The railing slipped against her sweating palm, and this time she clutched it to keep from falling down.

  He’ll come.

  But the Cora was the safest place for her. The building had served as her haven for years. Solid and faithful and guarded, it’d proven worthy. She couldn’t leave now, costs be damned.

  She pictured Ethan, secure in his world—probably sipping a glass of scotch over dinner with an underwear model—and wanted to scream over her endangered checkbook. Instead, she superimposed happy images of him over her spiraling reality. She saw him plying her with chocolate truffles in bed and kneeling before her on the bathroom rug in easy—more like eager—acceptance of her strange showering habits. She heard him suggest adoption and relived his distress in the moment he’d seen Susan exit that Danish warehouse, worried that his longtime friend had betrayed his trust.

  She’d never forget the horror carved in his granite features after he’d caused her to cut herself with that steak knife. “Let me tend to you,” he’d said. And, oh, how he had.

  God, Ethan, why did you go?

  As if in a trance, Scarlet drifted backward until her shoulders bumped the glass of the French doors. Enough dreaming. The sudden solidness jarred her into action. She’d prayed this day wouldn’t come, had gone to great lengths to avoid it. But she couldn’t buy time with money she didn’t have.

  Eyes stinging, she deliberately retreated inside, compressing the door handle with a bone-white hand. The security backs of her mother’s earrings came loose with a harsh twist. One by one she laid them upon the bare kitchen table with shaking fingers. The diamonds followed suit. Fighting the urge to give up, she made low sounds of distress as she reached for her phone and punched in ten numbers.

  Two rings brought a gentri
fied inflection.

  “Christie’s auction house, how may I direct your call?”

  Chapter 24

  Pink was the new black for men. Even Ethan knew that much after his mom’s most recent gift—a fuchsia golf shirt. But Brian’s mauve cufflinks matched his tie. And his belt. As Ethan had come to expect, his new attorney brought valuable business insights, advice he’d do well to heed. So the irritating clothes didn’t justify Ethan’s lack of focus.

  That prize went to Scarlet, who sat precisely six doors down from the conference room where he and Brian sat discussing Korean optics. The second he’d crossed the threshold of JTS’s posh offices on the thirty-sixth floor, all thoughts of business had fled.

  “…reasonable opportunity for a solid relationship… One thing Atavos might want to consider…”

  He refocused on his lawyer with a harsh shake of his head. “Is Scarlet here?”

  A slow grin spread across Brian’s face. “Now why would you care about that? Might upset me if I thought you hired me to get to her and not for my unparalleled legal prowess.”

  “Fuck off. I hired you for both.”

  “What a relief.” On a low laugh, Brian sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know whether she’s here or not. She hasn’t had a lot of work lately, so her hours have been sporadic.”

  So much for chalking her silence up to being swamped. “Good. She needed to slow down.”

  “I don’t think she’d characterize her status as ‘good,’ but hey, you’re the expert.” Brian’s voice thinned to a low mutter he aimed at the table. “Fuck’em and fire’em, right?”

  She’d practically demanded it. “This is what I get for six-hundred bucks an hour?”

  Brian merely blinked, not even mustering the grace to look affronted. “Yup.”

  Ethan opened his mouth to spread the firing around when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a fall of blond hair sweep into view beyond the glass door.

  Scarlet stopped at the lobby’s reception desk. To compensate for her tiny frame, she heaved herself on top of the raised counter, feet dangling below, and swept her arm out until her fingers clasped… ah, a stapler. As she slid back to the floor, the receptionist returned from parts unknown and rushed to help.

  Her body stood in the lobby chatting with the assistant, but her mind obviously dwelled elsewhere, someplace sinister and threatening. His girl had lost weight, too, though not enough to justify how small she appeared. Her tailored skirt hung low on her hips. Beautiful, but he missed the juicy curves that had filled out her clothes only weeks ago.

  “What happened to her?” he asked through clenched teeth. Scarlet smiled at the woman—obviously explaining her successful pilfering of the stapler—and Ethan’s breath caught at the sadness in the gesture.

  Brian glanced over his shoulder at Scarlet. “Happened? Oh, you know, the usual. Hunting for a shitty apartment since she won’t be able to afford her place at the Cora after she loses her job. Dodging violen—”

  “She’s not losing her job.” He’d let her go to ensure it.

  “Not now. Everybody around here knows your call back had her name written all over it. But before…” Brian trailed off, and Ethan’s fingers curled into the table.

  “Nice touch for your man Ron Michael to declare the project wasn’t to tread near Scarlet’s ground. It hasn’t. She has no clue you’re back on the roster.” The smug bastard raised his hand and flapped it at Ethan, pulling his attention away from Scarlet. “Maybe you should wave.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you think this is funny.”

  “Because I think it’s totally fucking funny. Not her situation, mind you, yours. For one of New York’s most documented Casanovas, you haven’t got a clue.” Pointing a thumb over his shoulder in Scarlet’s direction, he added, “Now, did you want to talk supplier agreements, or do you want to me leave so you can lick the window?”

  Scarlet disappeared down the hall. Once she receded from sight, Ethan stood. “We need finished goods at our manufacturing facility in Singapore in two months. You’ve got the numbers. Handle it.”

  On his way out, he added, “I’m not paying for this hour.”

  Mr. Six-hundred didn’t bother to turn around. Instead, his flat answer followed Ethan down the hall. “Did you know lawyers can fire clients? We call it ‘inviting them to find new counsel.’ Nothing is more freeing. I’ve had orgasms that were less enjoyable. So, yes, Mr. Blake, you will pay for every fucking second.”

  ******

  To onlookers, Scarlet would appear engaged in the bogus Word document on her screen. After all, she sat at her desk, back to the door, fingers on the keyboard. Inside, her thoughts tumbled like clothes in a dryer.

  No more delaying the inevitable.

  With an unsteady hand, she reached for her office phone and dialed Gerard’s parole officer. When she was about to hang up, Ralston King answered, sounding harried. Part of her had hoped the ringing would drone on forever.

  At her request, Ralston reluctantly dug into Gerard’s official file. The sound of shuffling papers drowned out the scratchy radio she heard in the background. As the seconds ticked on, she clung to the threadbare hope that Anna and Gerard Chamber weren’t connected.

  “I don’t see a record of a younger female relation,” he said.

  Her chin dropped to her chest with the beginnings of relief. Unhinged stalking seemed preferable to the wrath of a man who’d plotted bloody revenge for nearly half his life. “What about his mother or some type of maternal-figure, maybe an aunt?”

  Ralston fell silent, and the rustle of pages began anew. “His mom’s alive. It looks like she was his only regular visitor in the pen.”

  “Can you tell me her name?”

  “Looks like… Donna. Donna Chamber, now in her mid-fifties.”

  Chills skated outward from the nape of her neck. No. Despite a stern self-admonition, she felt herself sway in her chair. Donna Chamber. The woman who’d publically blamed Tripp Leore for the untimely death of her daughter in a homeless shelter fifteen years ago. The crossover couldn’t be a coincidence. That woman was Gerard’s mother.

  Scarlet squeezed her eyes closed. Sister. The dead girl, Anna Chamber, had been Gerard’s baby sister, a fourteen-year-old with her whole life ahead of her. At the time of her death, Gerard would have been nineteen.

  The computer screen blurred. About fifty people walked by her office each day. In her precarious position, she couldn’t afford a mid-morning breakdown. Regardless of Brian’s reassurances, her behavior had to inspire confidence, not shred it. Pressing the receiver between her shoulder and her ear, her fingers randomly flew over the keys in an instinctive imitation of a normal client call.

  Nothing happened when she opened her mouth to speak. After three tries, she forced out the crucial question. “And still no word on Gerard?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut. They wouldn’t find him. So long as I breathe he has a vested interest in remaining at large.

  She offered a feeble thank-you and hung up, wanting nothing more than a few moments of numbness. But the facts crashed through her mind with ruthless clarity. Tripp Leore didn’t have a baby sister. He had something better—an only child who served as the namesake for the building that had displaced Gerard’s family, the precursor to Anna Chamber’s stabbing. A daughter Anna’s age, who now lived a pampered existence in that same damn building.

  Eye for an eye.

  Bile rose to the back of Scarlet’s throat. She swallowed hard, breathing in and out through her nose.

  Focus.

  She reached up and combed her fingers through her hair, scalp to tip in an outward motion, pulling slightly too hard. The strokes probably did nothing but frizz the curls, but they calmed her mind until, eventually, she could think straight.

  The Times article revealed more than a familial link between a long-dead girl and Scarlet’s tormentor. When interviewed, Donna Chamber had insisted that the city’s
Landmarks Preservation Commission shouldn’t have approved construction of the Cora Tower. Like the Chamber family’s rent-controlled building before it, the Cora sat in the Chelsea Historical District.

  Her father’s property empire hadn’t been her only real-estate rodeo. Before narrowing her practice to corporate mergers, she’d worked a few big real estate deals—enough to know a building in a historic district was protected under the Landmarks Law and subject to the Commission’s approval before any type of work could begin. Minor alterations were often rejected in the interest of historical preservation. Permission to demolish a historic building in its entirety? Almost unheard of.

  An unwelcome dizziness returned as the chips began to stack. Gerard’s mother had publically denounced the validity of Tripp Leore’s demolition and building permits, an extraordinary focal point in the hours following the violent killing of her teenage child. She must have felt, and quite strongly, that Scarlet’s father had done something wrong in his quest to build the Cora.

  One explanation tumbled over another, beating against the inside of her skull when her office door clicked shut behind her.

  ******

  “Can I help you?”

  Ethan stood frozen in the doorway to Scarlet’s office and, for once, unsure. Scarlet’s question had started strong but faded to a budding quiver, like a violinist who’d saved the vibrato for the end of the note. She obviously didn’t want her visitor to suspect a problem. After spying her in the lobby, he already knew she had one.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  The busy tap, tap, tap against her keyboard went quiet at sound of his voice. After a few seconds, her chair began to turn. New emotions surfaced as each inch of her face was revealed. He’d expected the surprise and fury. But her sadness settled in his chest. The terror brought him up short.

  “How did you get in?”

  Definitely not happy to see him. “I’m back in the fold,” he answered. Without awaiting an invitation, he took a seat in front of an L-shaped portion her desk. Studying her with care, he took stock of the purplish smudges below her eyes. They spoke of too many nights without rest.