Beautiful Disaster

by Laura Spinella

  Flynn nodded, not feeling particularly surprised. “Makes sense. His DNA wouldn’t have been on file twelve years ago when I asked them to test mine.”

  “What? Why would you request that kind of test if you knew—”

  “I didn’t know, not for sure. It’s why I left the letter, left Mia, left Athens in such a goddamn hurry.” He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. “Fine, you want to hear it. It was the day I left; I was at your apartment—alone. Mia had gone to turn in her final design project. I was looking for something to read. I found a little more than I was bargaining for. I found the news clippings in your room. It was quite a jolt, your neatly compiled day-in-the-life-of-a-serial-killer. But it only served to speed up a plan I already had in place to turn myself in.” She seemed confused; it was an odd look for Roxanne. “It’s complicated—things from my past that are still none of your business. But I will tell you that back then I lived with some seriously scary demons. Scarier than you. There were blocks of time I couldn’t account for: random, inexplicable—and, yes, violent. I don’t know that I would have ever come up with your theory. But when I read the accounts of those murders, how each girl died, and saw the map—well, it scared the living hell out of me. The timeline was . . .”

  “Remarkable?”

  “And then some. Because of those missing hours—days, in some cases, I couldn’t dismiss or deny the facts. I just couldn’t be sure. If there was even the slightest chance . . . Well, I couldn’t spend one more night anywhere near Mia. The rest played out like you figured. Except, of course, the part about the DNA not being a match. Afterward, when Mia didn’t come, I assumed that was her choice. I’m sure you’re clear on what I’d asked her to do in the letter if she wasn’t coming.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I am.” And for the first time Flynn heard remorse, some admonition that Roxanne had stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong. “Turning yourself in, it was . . .”

  “It was the only way out. The only thing I could do if I wanted a future with Mia—someday. And it’s still not something I have to justify to you.” He turned away, reshuffling his things around the duffel bag. A heart-to-heart with Roxanne was too bizarre, not to mention pointless.

  “Interesting, I’ve recently had that pointed out to me.” With their business finished, Flynn figured she’d go. But the white lab coat didn’t disappear from his peripheral vision, and he was compelled to look. It seemed she’d been waiting for eye contact. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Flynn.”

  “You’re sor—” He laughed. “A lot of good that does me now.” He shook his head, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. A lot of things didn’t turn out the way I would have liked. Not all of them are your fault.” He stared for a second, wondering if absolution was within him. “I’ve recently had it pointed out to me that Mia’s happiness was your only intent.” The line of her mouth turned to a frown as she nodded. “Anyway, at first I’d hoped for a new trial; it didn’t happen. When Mia didn’t come, I figured, what difference did it make? Prison, roaming the earth . . . Without her, I really didn’t give a damn about my address.”

  “So you came back because . . .”

  They were words Flynn imagined he’d say to Mia. “Because if nothing else I wanted to tell her that I loved her—out loud. It was the one thing she wanted to hear and the only thing I couldn’t say. If I had given her that back then . . . Well, we’d still be running. No matter what you think of me, it wasn’t the life I wanted to give her. I would have never done that to her.” I still won’t. “But now, even if she found fucking happy-ever-after with somebody else, I earned the right to say it. She should know that what we had got me through the last twelve years.” Sucking in a weathered sigh, Flynn zipped the bag shut. “I found a lot of peace there, knowing we were under the same sky.”

  “So you came back for a second chance.”

  He glanced at her. “If that’s how you want to look at it, I guess I did.”

  “Mia’s good at that, second chances. She always had a heart too big; an ability to overlook a person’s flaws, no matter how unyielding. She even managed to understand mine, that I only wanted what was best for her—that I wanted her to be safe, happy . . . to have a whole life.”

  “But she’ll never understand—or forgive this.”

  Roxanne smiled, a tear trickling down her face. “No, I don’t expect she will.” He watched as she tossed the dirty lavender envelope onto the bed. “I won’t be getting a second chance. And you don’t need one. You never did.”

  Flynn touched the edge of the envelope, but he didn’t pick it up. “I’d love nothing more than to find out if that’s true. It just isn’t the right thing to do.”

  The vintage brick rehab provided the canvas for Mia’s ground-breaking effort. Aaron Hough was the puppet for opportunity while her husband pulled all the strings. Circumstance had managed to totally screw up the rest.

  Expecting complacent and apologetic, Aaron was caught off guard when Mia came through the door of the mock office demanding an explanation. It gave her an unlikely upper hand after establishing what she’d discovered, wanting to know why her husband was paying for a project that the wealthy investor was supposed to be financing. After a few sentences of double-talk, he confessed that Michael’s bank was providing the financing for his latest business venture while her husband personally picked up the tab for the office. It seemed that Hough’s portfolio had taken an economic hit in recent years, and Michael had offered some creative financial aid. The two of them had struck a deal, which involved a few extraneous clauses centering on Mia’s holistic designs.

  “Mia, I’m having a difficult time understanding why you’re upset. If you think about it, the gesture was quite benevolent on Michael’s part. He took a sizable professional risk to arrange everything, in addition to agreeing to pay for this,” Aaron said with a wave of his hand, taking a seat in the mock office. “Perhaps his methods were unorthodox, but he only wanted you to have the chance to pursue a dream.”

  Mia shook her head. “Believe me, I understand Michael’s motivation. It’s yours that has me bewildered. In the long term, it doesn’t make sense. No matter what the financing, even if Michael got you zero interest and a forgiveness clause if you default, why would you agree to holistic design for all your commercial holdings? My guess is you’re not any more sold on it than he is.”

  “That’s not true; I think it’s a commendable idea,” he insisted, arms widening as he gestured toward the space. “What you’ve accomplished here, it’s, um, bold, cutting edge . . . colorful,” he said, toying with the phone wire desk accessories. “Why, I’m willing to bet the EPA would give you a gold star for your effort.”

  Mia snickered, scrunching her brow. “You don’t have the first clue what I’ve done here, do you?”

  “That’s not really my job, is it, Mia? You’re the decorator.”

  “Designer,” she said, as if he didn’t comprehend English. “I design holistic, eco-friendly commercial interiors; that’s why you hired me.” She stopped, arms leaning on the desktop, almost nose to nose with Aaron Hough. “You had no intention of going through with it, did you? Somehow, some way, after the mock office, you were going to pull the plug on the entire design effort.”

  His gaze never averted from hers, even smiling a bit. “All right, if we must. I’ve nothing to gain by perpetuating this—there are lots of talented, willing designers out there. Yes, the mock office was going to be a one-of-a-kind proposition. Your husband offered me a financial aid package that I couldn’t refuse. While Michael was under the impression that other offices would follow, there was to be a small addendum in your contract. If at any time I rejected your eco-friendly designs, I reserved the right to revert to a design of my choosing. It was to be a fine-print, nominal risk I assumed you’d take. Especially if you thought I was sold on holistic design.”

  “That’s . . . that’s horrible,” she said, backing up, at a loss for big business words that conveyed her disgust. “N
ot only did you disrespect my time and expertise, you totally misrepresented yourself to Michael. That makes you nothing more than a con artist!”

  “That’s savvy business, Mia. Grow up. It’s not like you would have lost the contract or lost any money. On the contrary; your standard designs are exceptional. I know that. I would have leased or sold those office suites for a fortune, and you would have made a tidy profit. It hardly makes me a monster. It’s, um, commendable, albeit odd, what you’ve done here,” he said, glancing around. “But what’s the point of five hundred or a thousand holistically designed offices if they’re empty? I’m a businessman, not a magician. Your holistic designs might be everything you said and then some, but you can’t force your ideals on people. Cherrywood conference rooms are sure sellers, and unfiltered air is free.”

  Mia closed her eyes, shaking her head. “So your plan was to dupe both Michael and me.”

  “Granted, he wouldn’t have liked it when things didn’t go your way. But other than an unpleasant phone call, he has no recourse. My dealings with Michael are ironclad, and over. Besides, I doubt he’d want to draw attention to higher-ups with the deal he made me. But I’ll tell you what, just to appease all parties involved, I’m willing to compromise. You design my suites in traditional decorator methodology, and for every . . . let’s say hundred you complete, I’ll let you have one that caters to your cause. It does give me something munificent to chat up with the press.” He stood, buttoning his jacket, smoothing his tie. “I assume this,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “falls under some government-sponsored, tax-deductible program?”

  “You know, Aaron, I might be willing to take you up on that if it wasn’t for one small problem.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, looking as if the entire conversation was boring him.

  “I don’t think I could stand in the same room with you and not be physically ill.”

  He tipped his chin and walked to the exit, where he stopped. “I’ll give you a week to get your, um, furnishings out of my building. Then I can tear up the floor, turn this into something practical.” Mia nodded, taking a disheartened look around her masterpiece, about to be crated off to a warehouse. She watched him go, the door swinging shut behind him. It was mind-boggling. The time she’d invested, the hours Michael watched her slave over the tiniest of details, knowing it was nothing but false hope and manufactured success. It made her stomach sick to think about it. It was humiliating at best, a sobering insight to the respect Michael had for Mia and her designs. Her fingertips trailed over a mosaic partition, the light catching the glass just right. It was beautiful, reminding Mia that it was only half a dream gone.

  Chapter 30

  The same cab driver thought he’d hit passenger pay dirt when Mia tossed another twenty onto the seat, racing for the hospital. Though she was familiar with the internal route to the ICU, it took her a few minutes to gain her bearings. The hallways leading to the hospital’s general populace were a maze. Frustration mounted as Mia took a wrong turn on the fourth floor, which wasn’t as direct or compact as intensive care. It reinforced a gut feeling that she was on a downward spiral. She disregarded it. Flynn was right there, only steps away. But the omen didn’t ease, some yellow caution tape providing a last roadblock. A hazmat crew had sectioned off the corridor that supposedly led to his room. What might have been the ultimate environmental irony brought Mia to the verge of tears. She rounded another corner, running headlong into Dr. Logan.

  “Mia, I’m so glad you’re here—for a couple of reasons. I was going to call you.”

  “Is Flynn okay?” she demanded, her heart instantly thrashing. “You wouldn’t have moved him out of the ICU if he wasn’t better.”

  “Calm down. He’s all right,” he said, patting her shoulder. “But against every piece of advice that I could offer, he signed himself out of this hospital.”

  “He did what?” she said, her eyes pulsing wide. “He just . . . He can’t, he wouldn’t!” She searched the corridor, whipping her head in every direction. “Where, what room?”

  “That way, 4412,” he said, physically spinning her in the opposite direction. “But I think he’s already . . .”

  She ran. Plowing through the door, Mia stopped short, braking hard into a bed stripped of sheets and a body. The emptiness crashed down on her. That same raping, ripping sense of abandonment she felt all those years ago. The tears stung, her breath jerking in and out as she prayed for a last one. She could feel her mouth twitch. But there wasn’t a word, not even a sound that could convey what she felt. It all screeched to a halt, pivoting sharply, like a well-trained soldier, a deep voice coming from the doorway.

  “Thanks for the help—Suzie, was it? Have them send the bills to that address. It’s where I’ll be until everything heals.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. McDermott—Flynn,” Suzie purred in a voice that was a bit too helpful. “If there’s anything else I can do before you go, just buzz me.”

  Mia turned, several sights adding to her disbelief, not the least of which was a perky red-haired nurse with her hand clamped on his arm. It was an adolescent, off-the-radar assumption. Some backlog of instinct, a claim that affirmed she had never let go. The urge to assert herself—right in between them—was automatic. And she might have if Flynn had offered a glance of encouragement. But as the nurse left, he only stepped aside, ending one visual as others kicked in. He was standing upright, wearing clothes, not connected to tubes or wires, or anything else apparently.

  Reaching for a small duffel bag, he tucked some papers inside. Finally, he looked in her direction. “You’re back.”

  “You’re going?” she eked out. Her head and heart pounded so violently, Mia guessed that the hospital services might prove useful.

  “Yeah, I was just waiting for you to come by.”

  “Waiting for me to—” She inched closer, dumbfounded by his dismissive demeanor. Even his voice was different, that penetrating timbre gone. “Where . . . Why are you leaving?” Twelve years later and she was still asking the same question.

  And still, he didn’t answer.

  “I called for a cab a while ago. I appreciate what you did, Mia, sticking around here while I—”

  “Whoa! Just wait,” she said, a hand tearing through her hair, trying to decipher whatever code he was speaking in. “Stop talking to me like I’m less important than that candy-coated nurse who just slinked out of here!”

  “The what?” he asked, his eyes jerking fast to hers.

  “If you think for one second that I’m letting you walk out of here without an explanation—” Mia’s throat went numb, her voice catching on the past. She walked to the door and shut it, gathering her composure on the way. “If you think that, then you seriously underestimate what you left behind. We have a few things to talk about.” Flynn focused on the duffel bag. They stood no more than a body length apart in that tiny room. Still, he managed to avoid eye contact. The lack of response ignited in Mia a well of emotions, a bottomless mix of dormant energy. “I’d like a reason, Flynn. I think I deserve that much.” He seemed at an inexplicable loss for words, as if the answer completely escaped him. “Will you just say it? It can’t be worse than anything I’ve imagined.” That registered some solid eye contact, and it was Mia who looked away. Bracing for the revelation, the possibilities spilled from her mouth. “You were taken hostage by some Hells Angels? You hit your head, had amnesia?” When he didn’t jump at those, Mia’s gaze ticked back and she was forced to move on to less forgivable theories. “You got bored. You found someone else,” she said, the bitterness rising with each suggestion. “You decided that you loved me, but not in a forever sort of way. Damn it, Flynn! Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Because it’s not going to be anything you’ll want to hear.”

  “Try me. I’m tougher than you think—thanks to you.”

  “I’ll just bet,” came his hard, husky reply. And for a split second she heard it, that undeniable tone. She wanted to grab it,
hang on to it, but it was gone. “You were about to graduate, move on. I figured I would too. I . . . I didn’t want a scene. It’s not like I planned it—not so different from the way I turned up. Remember what I was running from, Mia.” He paused, as if to let the dark little reminder sink in. “Did you really think walking out on you was so beyond me?”

  She backed up half a step. “Yes, I did.” She stared, unsure who she was looking at. Never, not even the night he confessed everything about Alena, could Mia recall seeing Flynn so uncomfortable in his own skin.

  “Well,” he said dully, “that’s where you’re wrong. If it gives you some long-overdue closure for me to say I’m sorry, then fine. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”

  “Hurt me?” she stammered, wide-eyed and incredulous. “You didn’t mean to—”

  “You shouldn’t have gotten involved with me in the first place. You should have listened to Roxanne. Letting it happen was my mistake, Mia, not leaving you like I did.”

  She couldn’t get past the incidental apology, as if he’d stepped on her toe. “Hurt me?” She came toward him, only an arm’s length between them. “You didn’t hurt me. Do you have the slightest idea what you did to me?” He remained a shadowy rendering of himself, silent and removed. “Look at me!” she demanded. His head ticked around, his throat bobbing with a tremendous swallow.

  “If you’ve got a minute, I’ll tell you the beginning. It underscores the years. At first I didn’t even cry, couldn’t get any tears out. I was just weird,” she said, her voice bearing every frayed nerve. “But then it started raining, poured all through that first night and I thought, ‘Oh, there they are.’” Flynn looked at her, unaffected, until an almost undetectable shudder crossed the solid line of his chin. “I didn’t hope because you didn’t leave any. It was like you were dead or never existed—and I had no idea which was worse.” Mia pushed past the tightness in her throat. It was like a needle under her skin and she had to get it out, reliving the most pointed moment. “I slept—” Her voice pinched and she started again. “I slept on the same damn dirty sheets for months because they smelled like you. Then my mother came to visit. I nearly killed her when I caught her washing them—she thought I’d gone insane. I managed to grab the pillowcase. I slept with it for the next four years and I still haven’t washed it! Nothing’s allowed to touch it. It sits on a top shelf in my closet, preserved like some bloody shroud, a testament to your existence. Does that give you the slightest clue about how you hurt me?”