by Merry Jones
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Oh God. Ivy was right. I was selfish and insensitive. How could I forget about Susan’s trial?
“It’s okay; don’t worry. Look, I’m done today or tomorrow. The jury won’t take long on this one. And then, I’m at your service. I’ll help you with the kids, the wedding, the triplets. Whatever you need. Okay?”
Susan needed to get back to work. I needed to let her. “Susan, do you think she’s right? Am I spoiled?”
Susan exhaled, impatient to get going. I pictured her, pushing a lock of hair off her face. “Spoiled? Compared to what? Compared to most of the world, yes, of course you are. But so is everyone else in this country.”
“But that’s not what Ivy meant. She said I think I’m better than other people.”
“Only someone who thinks you’re better than she is would say that. The problem is about her, not you.”
What? I couldn’t untangle that thought, but I thanked Susan for it and let her get back to work.
And, alone again with Luke and Oliver, I faced the rest of the day.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE GOOD NEWS, OBVIOUSLY, was that Ivy was gone. The bad news, though, was that Ivy was gone. Once again, I had no help.
So what? I told myself. Without her there, I felt lighter. Relieved. Nick and the brothers were out; I had my house to myself. I double locked the door and, seeing that Luke was sleeping, I hurried back upstairs to examine my dress. I held it up, found no stretches or damage and carefully replaced it in the closet, humming. I was in charge—not Ivy, not Anna. I alone was deciding what had to be done. No cops were wandering through the hall to the patio. No brothers were in my office or pestering me to invest in a time-share or scattering used dishes or clothes or bottles or towels wherever they fell.
Oliver wasn’t over-stimulated, freaking out at newcomers and commotion. In fact, he was unusually calm, and so was Luke. The house was quiet. Peaceful. And, for a change, so was I. I picked Luke up and carried him in his sling, and together we went from room to room, as I reorganized my kitchen, rearranged pillows, folded afghans in the living room. But somewhere in the process, my lightness evaporated. The fact was that my home felt altered. Violated. The patio was no longer a crime scene, but ribbons of yellow tape and the bloodstains remained. And though the brothers weren’t there, their presence, even their smells, lingered.
I tried to reclaim my private space, but it was no use. Even after I straightened up, the place seemed sullied, off-kilter, and it occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t that the house had changed; maybe it was that I had. I sat on a kitchen stool, replaying Ivy’s angry words, seeing her acid gaze. Where had all that bitterness come from? Despite Susan’s reassurance, I wondered if there weren’t a kernel of truth to Ivy’s accusations. Did I take my life, my relationships, for granted? Was I insensitive and spoiled?
The answer hit me hard, right in the gut. Yes, I was. Spoiled and self-absorbed. In the last few days, a woman had been slaughtered at my door and Bryce Edmond had almost lost his life trying to save me and my child. But this morning, I’d been outraged, not because of the murder or the hit-and-run but because my babysitter had tried on my dress. Because of a stitched-up bundle of cloth. What was wrong with me? I’d lost my perspective. Who cared, really, about a dress, any dress, when life was fleeting and fragile and relationships so precious?
I had to get over myself, focus on others. With Luke draped to my body, I went to the phone, called the hospital to check on Bryce. I called the Institute and talked to his secretary about his condition. I returned phone calls to friends, even checked in with Anna to find out what she’d decided about the flowers and the wine. I focused on others, caught up on their news and lives. I’d been locked in my own cloud and needed to come back down to Earth and put my feet back on the ground. But when I did, I was too rash. Climbing off the stool, I stepped into a pile Oliver had deposited, probably while I’d been immersed in conversations on the phone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
WHEN NICK CAME HOME, he was preoccupied with the events of his day. While Sam had luxuriated at the Four Seasons Spa, Nick had gone to the Roundhouse, trying to find out what was going on in the murdered jogger case. Tony had insisted on going with him, and Nick worried that Tony was too invested in the case not just because of his natural sensitivities but also because of his early encounter with the victim.
When I finally got a chance to tell Nick about Ivy trying on my wedding dress, he didn’t even blink. In fact, his biggest concern was what we were going to do about a sitter. “Christ, Anna’s not filling in again, is she? Why don’t we call your old sitter—what’s her name? Angelina?”
“Angela. And she doesn’t sit anymore. She has a baby of her own to take care of. But we don’t need anyone,” I assured him. “I’m fine; I can take care of my own kids.”
Nick blinked at me. “You’re not serious.”
“Why? You think I can’t?”
“Zoe. It’s only—what—five days until the wedding? You’re going to want to get your hair done and stuff, aren’t you? Who’s going to watch the kids?”
“I can manage.” I wanted to prove that I wasn’t really all that spoiled. I could do my own chores, take care of my own children.
Nick shook his head, but I was confident. That day, I’d already fed and bathed Luke, taken Oliver for his obedience practice and walk, run three loads of laundry, answered three days of phone calls, met Molly at the bus and, using a dusty old cookbook, prepared roast beef and baked potatoes for dinner. Molly and I had even baked. It was a packaged cake mix, but still, we’d baked it, just the two of us, while Luke cooed in his portable baby chair. When the brothers wandered in, I’d welcomed them with smiles and hugs.
Good work, I’d congratulated myself. All day, I had focused on others, not on myself. I was doing fine, taking care of my home and family. I put Luke to bed, took Oliver out, helped Molly with her bath, washed the dishes, read with Molly and tucked her in. And, finally, I was ready to relax with my soon-to-be-husband and brothers-in-law. I came downstairs, hearing their animated discussion in the living room.
“No, uh-uh.” I thought the voice was Tony’s. “It wasn’t like that—”
“But then, why?” Nick’s voice, pressing him “Give me another even remotely sensible explanation—”
Without interrupting, I popped my head in, and immediately the conversation stopped. It was a pattern. Whenever I walked in, the talking halted. Three almost identical faces adopted three almost innocent smiles and turned toward me, stumbling over each other to pretend they weren’t suddenly changing the subject.
“Zoe.” Nick half-grinned too cheerily. “So. Molly in bed?”
“Great dinner, Zoe. Where’d you learn to cook?”
“Anybody hear from Anna today?”
They sat there, smiling stupidly, as if I wouldn’t know that, seconds ago, they’d been talking about something else entirely. Why? What were they hiding? Information about the murder investigation? Details of Sam’s shady investment deals? Whatever it was, I was tired of being excluded, and I glared at Nick, resenting the forced levity crossing half his face, shutting me out. Without answering any of their silly questions, I turned and left the room.
“Zoe?” Nick stood as I turned.
“Uh-oh,” the brothers joined in. “She’s pissed.”
I didn’t hear the rest. I was heading upstairs, and Oliver was barking as he chased after me.
TWENTY-NINE
UPSTAIRS, I WENT INTO my room and closed the door. It opened almost immediately.
“What the hell, Zoe?” Nick was scowling, eyebrows furrowed. He looked different. Unfamiliar.
“You tell me.” I tried to sound aloof.
“You stomped out, pouting like a petulant child.”
Oh good. First I was spoiled, now petulant. “Clearly, I wasn’t welcome to join your conversation.”
“Of course you were.”
“Really? Then why did everyone clam up when I walked in
?”
“Christ, Zoe. Don’t start this again.”
“Christ, Nick,” I mocked him. “Don’t deny this again.”
I sat on the bed, arms stiffly folded. He sat beside me, watching me, blue eyes digging at mine. “We aren’t keeping anything from you, Zoe. We’re just talking. We’re brothers. We share history. We have private jokes, private issues. Tons of unresolved crap to talk about.” He took my hand. “You simply can’t relate, being an only child.”
“So, having history with them means you have to exclude me?”
“Of course not. No one’s excluding you.”
“Oh please.”
“Zoe. My brothers and I haven’t been together for years; you know that. We have a lot to talk about. Old times. Old gripes. Eli. Trust me, it would bore you.”
Trust him? I studied his eyes, trying to read them. How come I could never tell if he was telling the truth? “Shouldn’t I get to decide if I’m bored? Maybe if I heard some of those private jokes, I’d get to know you better. Maybe I’d become part of the family. But that can’t happen because the three of you shut me out.”
Nick sighed, half-shrugged. “Sorry, Zoe. Nobody’s trying to shut you out. But they’re my blood.”
His blood? “What?”
“Eli. Tony. Sam. They’re my blood.”
Oh. I got it. He meant that they were related by blood, but I wasn’t. And I never would be, even after we were married. Neither would Molly. In our little family, only Luke would actually be Nick’s blood. Did that mean Luke would be privy to family talks and Molly and I would be shut out? Would Nick favor Luke over Molly? I couldn’t imagine that. And what about me? I lived with Nick. I was about to marry him, become “flesh of his flesh,” or whatever the passage read, but even flesh wasn’t blood. And it occurred to me there were whole sides to Nick that I didn’t know. For example, his childhood, his youth, were blanks to me. And Nick the brother, Nick the blood relation—those guys were strangers. How many other unknown parts of Nick were there? And where did his loyalties lie? If Nick was ever put to the test, would bonds of “blood” trump those of marriage vows?
I needed to know. “So. Being ‘blood’ means what, exactly?”
“Oh, come on, Zoe.”
“I want to know.”
“You know what it means.”
“Tell me.”
He let go of my hand, annoyed. “It means we’re connected. For life. No matter what, we take care of each other, watch out for each other.”
“No matter what?”
“That’s right. We’re blood.”
I thought of Sam and his deals. “So, if one of your brothers was doing something wrong? You’d protect him?”
“What? Why would you even ask that?”
Why did he look so blank? He had to know that Sam was probably some kind of con artist. “Just hypothetically.”
“There is no hypothetical to discuss here, Zoe. Because none of my brothers is doing anything wrong.”
“Really. How can you be sure?”
“How? Because I know. Because they’re my brothers.”
I couldn’t believe that Nick, the homicide detective, could be that simpleminded. “That’s it?”
His gaze was flat and absolutely final. “That’s it.”
For a minute, neither of us said anything. Nick had drawn a line, ordered me not to cross it.
And so, I didn’t. Jealous of his loyalties to his brothers, afraid to challenge it, I didn’t say another word. Nick’s eyes had become steel, so I didn’t tell him that I suspected Sam was a crook, a con man. I held back my suspicions, knowing that if I were going to find out what Sam was up to, I’d have to do it on my own. I couldn’t rely on Nick.
After all, he wasn’t my blood.
THIRTY
AT FOUR IN THE morning, Luke and I were the only ones awake. Soon, I hoped, he wouldn’t need a middle-of-the-night meal and I could get a complete night’s sleep, something I only vaguely remembered. Eyes drooping, I rocked him, snug in the old caned rocking chair, not fully awake. Luke’s night-light glowed softly, projecting silhouettes onto the wall. The slats of the crib, the head of a bear. Cloaked in gentle shadows, I focused on Luke’s contented humming, trying to ignore the rhythmic thunder resonating from downstairs. Clearly, Sam had once again not made it back to his hotel room, had fallen asleep in the reclining chair. And the house trembled with his snores.
Covering Luke with kisses and his coverlet, I left him and, half- asleep, wandered back toward my bedroom, wondering how the noise of his own snoring didn’t awaken Sam, let alone Tony, presumably sleeping on the sofa in the same room. How had two women married Sam? Maybe they’d had separate bedrooms? Maybe it was why the marriages had ended? I climbed back into bed, closed my eyes and tried to drift off but couldn’t, so loud were the honks, snorts and howls emanating from downstairs. I tossed. I put a pillow over my head. Finally, I got up to close the door.
Standing, though, I remembered the cake Molly and I had baked. Half of it was still in the kitchen. Moist yellow cake with fudge icing, sprinkled with chopped pecans. If I had just a small slice of that with a glass of milk, I’d probably be able to sleep. So I went downstairs, not caring if I woke the brothers up, not minding if Sam stirred and stopped his trumpeting din, but no noise I made seemed significant by comparison. I turned on the lights and moved around the kitchen, cut myself a slab of buttery cake, licked the knife, poured myself a mug of fat-free. Sitting on a stool, stuffing my face, vibrating along with Sam, I glanced into the entrance- way, noting the clutter. On the floor, Molly’s book bag and a few pairs of shoes. On the hall table, a pile of unsorted mail. Underneath, Sam’s leather briefcase.
I sucked my finger to get the last bit of icing, swallowed the last gulp of milk. Leaving the dishes for the morning, I turned out the light and started for the steps. But I didn’t go upstairs. Instead, I stopped in the hall and put the light on, staring at the brothers’ trail of clutter. And, as Sam continued his serenade, I began to clean. I hung jackets, picked up laptops, a half-empty bag of tortilla chips, a wad of laundry. My arms were pretty full when I grabbed Sam’s briefcase, so I dropped it. And, apparently, it was unlocked, because when it hit the floor, something clattered and folders spilled everywhere.
The snores were regular and rattling, undisturbed. The noise hadn’t awakened anyone. Quietly, setting the pile I’d gathered on the floor, I knelt to replace the items into the case. The files were marked with names. Costa Rica. St. Martin. St. John’s. Taiwan. Albania. Albania?
Finally, I reached for the metal box, the thing that had made so much noise when it fell. What was in it, I wondered. Money? Coins? Diamonds? Maybe it would reveal what Sam really did for a living. I couldn’t resist. Looking around again to make sure that no one was watching, I opened the lid. And stopped breathing. It wasn’t money or diamonds; it was a gun.
THIRTY-ONE
A GUN. A BIG and cold, shiny, sinister-looking gun. I sat on the floor, staring at it. Why would Sam, a businessman, a guy who invested other people’s money in stocks and vacation real estate, need a gun? It wasn’t like he had to personally transport luxury condos or piles of cash. Or travel in dangerous neighborhoods at odd hours. No. Sam would have no apparent reason to carry a gun. Unless he wasn’t the person he claimed to be.
My mind began racing. Maybe Sam really was a criminal. Maybe he carried a gun because he used it for work. But would a con artist need a gun? Oh God. Maybe he wasn’t just a con artist. Maybe Sam was a killer. A hit man. The deals he discussed on the phone—were they covers? Were the conversations encoded to hide the identities of clients and victims?
Stop it, I told myself. It’s late. Your nerves are frayed. Your imagination is flying. But I couldn’t stop myself. I was on to Sam, and I needed to know what he was up to. His briefcase wouldn’t tell me anything else, but I knew another place I might look. Since he’d arrived, Sam had spent half his time on his computer.
I picked the thing up and took i
t into my office, aware that I didn’t know how I was going to search. I didn’t have Sam’s password, wouldn’t have a clue how to trace his correspondence. I tried to guess, realizing I didn’t know him well enough. Didn’t know his birthday or his ex-wives’ names. I tried the brothers’ names, though, and Molly and Luke. I tried the city Sam was born in. I tried his parents’ names. And I was about to try Dixon, the name of the elementary school where the boys had gone, when warm hands landed on my shoulders. I jumped, hit the keyboard and spun around.
Tony’s hands tightened, and he frowned. “What are you doing, Zoe? What’s going on?”
THIRTY-TWO
“NOTHING.” I TWISTED MY neck to look at him.
He didn’t release me. Not his hands, not his gaze.
“I couldn’t sleep. I decided to check my e-mail.” Why was I explaining myself? After all, this was my office, my house.
“But this is Sam’s computer.” Finally, Tony let go of my shoulders.
Damn. I couldn’t think of an excuse.
“What are you really doing?”
Don’t tell him, I told myself. He’ll get mad. Remember, Tony and Sam are blood.
“Are you trying to guess his password?”
Then again, I’d seen them almost rip each other’s eyes out, arguing over the newspaper. Tony and Sam had issues, even if they were brothers.
“Urn—” Brilliant answer, I congratulated myself. “I couldn’t sleep.” That made no sense, but I had to say something
Tony smirked. Scratched his head. “You want to read his e-mail? Why?”
“Sam has a gun.” Damn. Why had I said that?
Tony looked baffled. “What?”
“Sam has a gun. In his bag.”
“You looked in his bag?”