by Fiona Keane
I stood for a few moments, probably looking like a lost child, beneath the shade of a palm tree. It was incredibly lonely, standing along the sidewalk in isolation while its neighboring palms had been obliterated by the storm.
Once the bouncing nerves settled in my fingertips, I decided to turn back toward Jameson’s neighborhood. I did so while holding my breath, containing what courage I could deep in my core.
My eyes focused on the ground, mindful not to break my ankle while stepping over heaps of refuse along my path. I was numb to the rubbish and rubble destroying the picture perfect image of their neighborhood until I felt glass crunch beneath my shoe. Lifting my left foot, I glanced down at the damage and my heart quivered.
Kneeling to squat above the scattered mess of people’s lives, I lifted the shattered picture frame my foot had helped further destroy. I shook the shards of glass from the photograph and held it to my face, examining the happy image. It was black and white, but spoke vibrantly of a family’s joy. A woman sat on the beach, two young children in her arms, looking at the man on her left. He was smiling at her so intensely, with such longing and affection, that one couldn’t observe the children about to throw sand at one another, or even the smallest about to cry. The picture was of their love; a reminder of, after all they had been through, they had one another and that was the center of their life. After all that family had gone through, whatever it was, they were still smiling. They were still together.
Two thoughts screamed through my heart. I ran. I left Jameson when I should have been at his side and figured out my fear with him. We needed to be together. The second thought that filled my heart with familiar rage, protective anger about the life of the sweet boy from Chicago, was about Gabriel. I have to get his photographs. I folded this family’s photo and stuffed it into the bag of clothes. Determined to preserve what I could for Jameson, I marched toward his house.
I felt sick; the kind of sick you feel when you’re beyond guilty and entirely aware you broke someone. A dangerous part of me wondered if Jameson felt a fraction of this the first time Thomas told him to leave me, to keep me out of his life. I was beginning to hate Thomas more and more. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t accept me, accept Jameson, and understand that we were something.
He called me his girlfriend. He held me during the storm. He kept me safe. He promised he would…and I needed to run.
I knew I could leave because I was certain, unequivocally positive, he would follow. It was safe for me to run because Jameson would find me. I just needed space, a head start, and time to figure out my fear and comprehend just how absolutely, indescribably terrified I was.
The Kerry house was a haunting reminder of the last few days—beautifully damaged perfection. Damaged perfection…their home, my relationship with Jules and Simon…my hope of peace.
Carrying my bag, I walked along the winding driveway to the front door, startled that it was unlocked. Why would they bother to lock it when an entire wall was missing thanks to a palm tree? I didn’t waste time. I knew exactly what I needed and where to find it.
My fingers tapped along my knees while I sat in front of the safe, my weight balanced beneath my folded legs. If I were a password to the Kerry safe, what numbers would I be? I didn’t know anything about them and I was certain they would be smart enough to not use something predictable, like a wedding anniversary or birthday. Maybe Jameson’s birthday? Nope. Zip code? No.
I tried to run through all the important numbers I could think of, but…I knew none. I was growing more anxious, but still determined, looking around the room for something to pry open the safe. Birthdays. Samantha? Jameson’s sister and I shared a birthday, so I knew that date well enough.
Inhaling to steady my fingers, I pressed four significant numbers into the Kerry’s safe. 0801.
And waited.
Click.
Unlocked.
Holy shit. I didn’t have time to question why that date would have been used. Maybe because only Jameson would know it, should something have happened to Thomas or Elizabeth. You don’t have time to ask questions. Get the photos and get the heck out of there, Sophia!
I grabbed the envelope, tucking it close to my body, while quickly looking into the safe. My lungs were throbbing. I was a good girl. I was a kind, honest, terrified, introvert who would die before stealing. But when I saw the three envelopes stuffed with enough cash to take Jameson and I to Europe and back ten times, I shoved them into my bag. Moron. You can’t wander the streets carrying a shopping bag full of clothes and thousands of dollars.
I stood from the safe, pulling the swelling bag into my arms, and ran toward Jameson’s room. Despite the shattered windows and drywall dangling from the ceiling, his space brought me peace. It calmed me, knowing this was his solace during the turmoil and grief he suffered. I imagined Jameson sitting on his bed, thinking of me. I wouldn’t have ever imagined that until he opened my heart to the idea of him. I remembered the night I slept in his bed, not wanting him to leave me. I could smell the sea in his hair and feel the warmth of his body against mine, beneath the covers of that expensive bed. You’re hopeless, Sophia. Get a bag and get out of there.
I sifted through piles of his belongings on the floor, guilty that my feet were kicking things that belonged to Jameson or that I so disrespectfully tossed things aside. I quickly found his bag from school and dumped out what was inside, iPad, coins, notebook, and a printed photo. My heart. I took the photo from the pile, examining it and remembering the exact moment it captured, Simon’s Memorial Day party, Olivia, Michelle, and I on the beach. How did he get this? I pushed it back into Jameson’s bag and dumped the contents of my shopping bag, including the envelopes of money and his childhood photographs. I thought about grabbing clothes for him, but I figured I now had enough cash to do that once we were back together.
Together.
Eventually.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JAMESON
I anxiously sat against an arm of the couch, my arms tightly crossed while I watched Elizabeth walk toward their bedroom. My head was beginning to throb from clenching my jaw so tightly. I was waiting for what seemed like an eternity, pulling my hands against my face in exhaustion when Elizabeth and Thomas slowly stepped out from their room. He was wearing sweatpants and an undershirt. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
“Hello, Jameson,” he greeted me with a stern nod, quickly walking to the kitchen.
“Hello.” Ass.
“Jameson,” Elizabeth quickly whispered from Thomas’s shadow, “I haven’t told him about Sophia leaving yet. Nor have we discussed Celine.”
“What is there to discuss?” I asked, hopeful that Elizabeth might grow a conscience larger than Thomas’s…which isn’t a hard thing to do.
“I’d like to make a toast.” Thomas returned to the room, carrying a chilled bottle of white wine and handing one flute to Elizabeth, who hesitantly accepted it. She glanced at me, worried. He’s lost his mind.
“To my beautiful family on one of our last nights together,” Thomas continued, lifting his filled glass to the air. “Jameson, have a drink.”
“I don’t break the law.” Thomas shoved a filled glass into my elbow, forcing me to hold it.
He grinned at me, swigging his glass. “In due time, my boy.”…the hell?
“Wh-what?” Elizabeth stuttered, the flute shaking in her bony hands. I swallowed hard, forcing the lump of knotted nerves down my throat.
“My darling wife,” Thomas wrapped his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders and swiftly kissed her forehead, “thinks I’m not aware that Celine Pembroke phoned the hotel earlier. Elizabeth, Elizabeth…dear, I know everything.”
“You didn’t know about Bellini,” I snapped, watching him without expression. Thomas turned toward me, a knowing smile spreading along his lips.
“That’s true,” he agreed, “but I do now.”
Elizabeth broke from beneath his hold and placed her filled glass on the coffee
table before stepping away from us. Her hands locked against her hips, her posture steadying in preparation for battle.
“Thomas Kerry,” she snapped, “you need to tell us everything you know immediately. Enough with the chit chat and wine. What is it that you think you know?”
Thomas cowered slightly beneath Elizabeth’s pressing glare and sighed in defeat, his body going limp into one of the love-seats. He motioned for us to join him, as Elizabeth did, but I remained at a distance, holding the empty glass and watching him with confusion. I imagined Soph alone, somewhere, lost, and my heart snapped.
“Thomas?” Elizabeth pressed, her legs tightly crossing impatiently.
Thomas looked at me, sending a glance that a father might exchange with his son. At least that’s what I’d imagined, not having had my own dad for so many years. Despite his arrogance and lack of soul, he watched me wearily before continuing, passing on appreciation or sympathy toward me. It stung.
“Bellini hasn’t always been a criminal. He started out wanting to help, or at least that was his act. Who knows? He was working with the DOJ because his girlfriend’s sister was murdered.” He looked up at me, his eyes filled with defeat. “That’s not all.”
“Go on.”
“Bellini has connections from all over the country, Jameson. His mother is from Cleveland and his father grew up in Newark. It’s his brother, though, that’s the real issue.”
“Stop with these vague comments, Thomas,” I snarled, flying from the sofa, “Tell me what the hell you know already!”
“I’ve had Pembroke on this case since day one, Jameson. It wasn’t until the last week that she put the puzzle together for me. Bellini’s brother took a job in Gary, Indiana once he couldn’t find construction work in Cleveland. That led him to Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
Thomas nodded, his eyes glossing over as he studied me. “His brother fell in with the wrong crowd while on a job. Gambling debt. Drugs. You name it.”
“Jesus.” I fell to my knees, knowing exactly where Thomas’s story was going. There was no warning of the vomit that poured from my mouth, responding to the nerves deep within my heart.
“Go on,” Elizabeth whispered to Thomas, running to my side and stroking my back. I heaved until the tears started, crying for the second time that day. Once for Soph and once for Gabriel.
With a heavy, reluctant sigh, Thomas continued, “Bellini’s brother fell into debt with a gang. He even tapped Bellini out of money for a while because the sorry bastard lent his brother so much. This gang though, they took Bellini’s brother in and made him one of them for his debt. He was one of the cronies, the murderers. He was there, Jameson, that night, and he was one the police caught.”
“Where is he now?” The words struggled to form from my wet lips. I wanted to die, right then and there. This all felt too raw. Think of Soph.
“He was murdered in prison.”
“Lucky bastard,” Elizabeth scoffed, her hands still stroking my back.
“It doesn’t end there, darling,” Thomas groaned. “The gang couldn’t give a shit about Bellini’s brother. They don’t want revenge.”
“He does,” I realized.
“Wait,” Elizabeth stood up, her head shaking violently. “His girlfriend’s sister was murdered?”
I felt their eyes on me, burning into the bowels of my conscience as I hovered over the soiled rug.
“No,” I looked away, rubbing a hand over my mouth. “Not possible.”
I lifted from the sofa, stepping away and beginning to pace. Anything to stop this violent rage building inside of me. Anything to stop the nausea. I needed to find Sophia.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SOPHIA
“There!” I heard a squealing voice shout above the crunching, breaking sound of tires over shattered refuse in the street.
“Sophia!” the voice repeated its demand of my attention and I reluctantly spun around, clenching the strap of Jameson’s school bag across my chest.
“We’ve been freaking out about you.” Olivia barreled from the passenger side of her Mini, running toward me with open arms. “Oh, my god, Sophski. I was so beyond worried. Oh, my god. Owen, turn off the car!”
“Why are you so worried?”
“Because I hadn’t heard from you, about you, or anything.” She held my upper arms, as though she worried I might run away from her. “Each time I tried calling your phone, it went right to voicemail. What are you doing out here?”
“My phone broke.” I cleared my throat, remembering. “In the storm. It broke. I…I’m looking for my aunt. She wasn’t at her boyfriend’s.”
“I talked to Michelle. She said she saw you with your aunt and…” Olivia’s voice turned to a whisper, her face lowering to hide a secret, “…Jameson’s aunt. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. It wasn’t a lie, but more of a half-truth. She eyed me, entirely full of suspicion, and turned back to Owen.
“Owen,” she called, “Take Sophski and me back to my house.”
“Oh. No,” I waved my hands. “I…I’m sort of trying to avoid anyone and everyone right now.”
“Anyone?” Olivia was hurt.
I could tell by the furrowed brow, the trembling bottom lip. I sighed, dejectedly, approaching unfamiliar and uncomfortable ground. I was so over hiding secrets. Mine, Jameson’s…I couldn’t know one more thing and keep it from someone or I would snap from the inside out. My grasp on the strap tightened, my fingers fidgeting nervously. Olivia noticed and took my wiggling hands into her own.
“Never mind, Sophia.” Her smile was patient. “I’m never going to make you tell anything you don’t want to tell me. Can I at least take you somewhere?”
“Um…my house, I guess. I’ll keep looking for my aunt.”
“You’re sure she isn’t at her boyfriend’s?” Owen stepped closer, wrapping his arms around me in greeting.
His hold was refreshing, almost identically secure as Jameson’s, but without the promise. Whoever it was didn’t matter; I just needed to be held.
Generally speaking, I hated people. I liked Olivia, and Owen would have to do because he was kind to her, but I wasn’t looking forward to strolling around with them for however long they planned on being my shadow. The last time the three of us were together was in this exact spot just days prior. It felt like an eternity. It felt like years had passed from Jameson leaving me at Michelle’s to me leaving him this morning.
***
“I’m so sorry, Sophia,” Owen muttered as we pulled up to the dilapidated cottage.
It even looked soggy. Just like my granola. I hadn’t given much thought to how I would feel once returning here.
“Your aunt must be feeling just awful,” Olivia muttered as we wiggled from her car, taking my hand while guiding me onto the front lawn.
The sun was beginning its beautiful descent, meeting its daily death beyond the horizon. The bright blue had fused with pink and rust, sweeping a new hue across the landscape. I hate it here.
“What are your plans for dinner, Soph?” Owen inquired, climbing into the doorway of the damaged porch once Olivia and I were inside. I would think we were safely inside, but considering Elizabeth thought I was attempting to kill myself earlier, I couldn’t suggest I was safe anywhere.
“Owen,” Olivia whispered, “don’t push her.”
“No,” I politely pulled from Olivia’s hold, turning to both of them. “It’s really very kind of you two. Thank you for looking for me. I appreciate you both very much. Dinner?” I hadn’t thought about eating since the soggy granola, but just the thought of food now made my stomach burn with hunger.
“I’m not hungry,” I lied, shaking my head.
Owen’s brows met, studying me with caution. “I hate to ask this, Soph, but have you heard from Jamie?”
Olivia was quick to knee Owen in his groin and I think I fell in love with her right there. I couldn’t help the smile Owen’s distress brought to my face;
not because I enjoyed him being hurt, but because of Olivia’s attempt at protection. Protection. Yes. I had talked to Jameson. I’d slept next to, on top of, and spoken to Jameson. I had also run from him.
“Not really.” My second lie slipped, too naturally for my taste.
Olivia leaned up to Owen’s ear, whispering before his quick retreat. She then smiled at me, proud for her action toward his groin, but then with a soft sympathy. Her right arm reached out for my shoulders and she pulled me against her for a hug, resting her cheek against my face.
“Please tell me the truth.”
“Honestly,” I laughed at the irony, “I don’t even know what the truth is right now.”
“But you’ve talked to him?”
I nodded in response, rewarded with Oliva’s appreciative nod while she bit her bottom lip. Maybe she had to process everything as slowly as I. Maybe Olivia was overwhelmed and confused. Nope. That’s probably just me.
“What?” I regained consciousness, observing Owen standing on the remnant of Jules’s front yard.
She shrugged. “I’m really worried about you. I’d say I’m worried about Jameson too, but he built his coffin that night at Michelle’s.”
I grasped the strap of Jameson’s bag tightly, almost unconsciously as though I was trying to connect with him somehow.
“Yeah,” I sighed, turning away from her view and stepping further into the house.
I didn’t want or need to be there; that was all a show. There was nothing left for me there. There was nothing left. The realization struck me, deeply burning its scalding sensation into the depth of my heart. I had nowhere. I was a runaway, a nomad; someone left wandering aimlessly in search of peace. But I had found peace, despite the chaos surrounding its existence in the first place. Jameson.