Set Me Free

by London Setterby

  “I found a gallery locally,” I said. “So, I think I’ll stick with that for now.”

  His smile faltered. The slightest hint of sadness appeared in his eyes. “Of course,” he said, waving a hand airily, his composure restored. “You have my card if you change your mind. Enjoy the sake.” He nodded politely at Kaye and swept out of the restaurant, his companion trotting behind him.

  “What was that about?” Kaye asked, setting her chopsticks down. “What about your art?”

  “He says he wants to introduce me to people in the art scene in New York,” I told her. “I guess he owns some kind of auction house.”

  “Like a Sotheby’s?”

  “That’s what it sounds like.”

  “And the problem with that is what, exactly?”

  I made a face. “What do you think?”

  “Hmm, yeah, I see it now,” Kaye said. “You think it’s a dastardly ruse to get into your pants.”

  “Exactly.” We paid our check, and as we left the restaurant, Kaye asked me about the local gallery that had taken an interest in my art. I told her about Mrs. Gautier, and how she had been the one to tell me about Owen.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear it from her,” Kaye said.

  I shrugged, because I didn’t know what else to do.

  My phone beeped, and I froze in place, the hair on the back of my neck prickling. It couldn’t be Owen. Could it?

  “Do you want me to get it?” Kaye asked.

  I nodded and handed her my purse. She pulled out my phone, her expression determined, but when she read the message, her fair skin turned ghostly.

  “What?” I asked. “What did he say?”

  She glanced at me, her eyes wide with worry. “Who’s Rhys?”

  “Oh, God.” I grabbed the phone out of her hand and read: I can find you.

  “What does that mean, M.? Who is he?”

  “He’s my ex.” My tone was flat and shuttered, but inside my mind, Rhys’ threat echoed and echoed: I can find you. I can find you.

  “But what did he mean?” Kaye asked. “Didn’t he already know you were here?”

  I shook my head. He hadn’t texted or called me since before I’d spoken to Rosa, but I no longer had any idea what that meant. For all I knew, he could be back in New Haven, moving on with his life. Or he could still be in Florida, hunting for me.

  He’d pleaded with me at first to tell him where I was, and once or twice he’d told me that if I didn’t, I’d be sorry. But this was the first time he’d said he could find me.

  Could he find me? I couldn’t imagine how. I’d cut all my ties with people in New Haven. I’d been so careful not to leave a paper trail. My own father couldn’t have told Rhys where I was, because even he didn’t know.

  “Didn’t you break up months ago?” Kaye asked.

  “He’s still mad about it.”

  “If he’s been texting you like this the whole time, maybe you should talk to the police?”

  “I know.” They would side with Rhys. They would think I was exaggerating. All the bruises had faded, and they had never been bad enough, anyway—not bad enough for someone to take my side. “I know,” I said again.

  Chapter 18

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jean-Pierre, one of our chefs, on his way through the kitchen.

  I pointed at the schedule tacked up on the wall.

  Jean-Pierre made a face. “That queen B.”

  I had to work an entire double shift with Margot, the painter, who hated me. And Kaye and Andy both had the day off, which meant I’d be stuck with her alone. As if things weren’t already bad enough.

  “Who’s a queen bee?” Margot stepped into the kitchen, twining her long brown hair into a low side chignon. “Ugh,” she added, looking at me, “what have I told you about your jewelry?”

  “For the last time, Margot, you are not my boss.” I crossed into the dining room, determined to ignore her.

  Behind me, Margot called out: “It’s a dress code violation! I’m going to tell Bill!”

  “What’s she going to tell me now?” Bill appeared at my side, smiling gently in that way of his, like a hippie Benjamin Franklin.

  “My jewelry is a dress code violation.”

  “Is it?” He looked nonplussed. “Listen, Miranda,” he added, while I angrily filled salt shakers, “don’t mind Margot. She…I don’t know…tends to be jealous.”

  “Jealous of what?” I couldn’t do anything right—I still hadn’t gotten up the courage to ask Bill for time off so I could go to the police station. I still hadn’t spoken to Owen.

  Emily tapped me on the shoulder. “Table for you.”

  “Thanks, Em.” I was both annoyed and relieved to be interrupted. I excused myself from Bill and went to my table, wearing my biggest waitress smile. “Hi, I’m Miranda, I’ll be your server to—”

  “You’re the new girl, aren’t you?” A woman with a blonde blowout smiled at me over the top of her menu. “My friend Ellie Gautier mentioned you the other day.”

  The last thing I wanted was to think about that day in the graveyard. “We only met once, but she seemed lovely,” I said, trying to keep my voice normal.

  “She said you’re a true talent,” the woman continued. “She said you painted a portrait of our dear Suzanna, and it was just wonderful.”

  The second woman at the table peered at me over her multicolored reading glasses, then frowned doubtfully at her friend. “But isn’t this the girl who—”

  “Why don’t I grab you guys some water?” I swept off towards the bar before they could say anything else. I didn’t want to know what anyone was saying about me. I didn’t want to talk about Owen. I already couldn’t stop thinking about him, and what he’d said: It was just so tempting to imagine that you and I could be together.

  At the bar, Margot glared at me. “‘A true talent?’” she hissed. “What did you do, knock on the door of the Graveside Gallery and give Mrs. Gautier your portfolio?”

  “Leave me alone, Margot.”

  “I can’t believe you would bother Ellie Gautier with your work!”

  “I did not bother her. She approached me.” I picked up some drink napkins and walked back to the table, hoping they hadn’t noticed our whispered argument. But the two women at my table were having a whispered argument of their own.

  “I’m telling you, it’s rude,” said the woman who was friends with Mrs. Gautier.

  “I don’t care! If it’s true, she has it coming,” the second woman snapped.

  I set the water glasses down on their table, watching them with increasing discomfort.

  The second woman frowned up at me, her dark eyebrows accusatory. “You are her, aren’t you? You’ve been at Claire’s café with him, and he came to see you here. You can’t hide it, you know. You’ve been hanging around with Owen Larsen.”

  At Owen’s name, every single person in the restaurant stared at me. I held my back so straight it hurt. I refused to let them shame me for being with Owen. They didn’t know the first thing about him, or me, or what we’d had together.

  “Don’t you know what he did?” the woman demanded.

  “I know what he was accused of.” I was too angry to stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth.

  The woman stared at me. “You surely can’t think… Just because he got away with it…”

  “He was acquitted,” I said. “So, no, I don’t know what happened. But you know what I do know? That it’s none of your damned business.”

  She stared at me in shock. I stalked off into the kitchen, shaking with rage, and let the door swing shut behind me. I’d stood up for Owen. I hadn’t meant to—it had just sort of happened. I’d also just been rude to a customer while Bill was on the floor. And now—

  I put my face in my hands, groaning out loud. What would I do if Bill fired me? How could I leave Fall Island now?

  The door opened, bumping into my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Bill,” I began, turning.

  �
�You are a piece of work,” Margot snapped. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s bad enough you harass Mrs. Gautier, but I can’t believe that you—even you—would go out with Owen Larsen!” Her face was flushed, but her eyes were frigid, dark, and frightening. I backed away from her, knocking into the prep counter. Margot had always been bitchy and mean, but not like this.

  “Who do you think you are?” she shouted. “You can’t just come here and try to replace Suzanna! Nobody else can be her! Nobody!” Her face shading darker red, she clenched her fists.

  At that moment, the door swung open, and Bill stepped inside. His gaze settled on Margot. He didn’t look angry, exactly, just stern. Margot glared at him, but he held her gaze impassively. Without another word, she left the kitchen.

  I didn’t dare look at him. I stared at the floor, waiting to be fired.

  “I’m sorry, Miranda.” Bill cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to Margot. She shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  “What?” I gaped at him. “You aren’t mad at me?”

  “I can’t have people coming in here and harassing my staff about their personal lives.” He smoothed his long, thinning ponytail, seemingly lost in thought. “Anyway, I’m sick of people obsessing over Owen Larsen. It’s been five years since his trial. Time to leave the man alone.”

  “You don’t think he did it?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Bill said. “I guess I’ve always thought he was probably innocent. I don’t see how Claire could’ve raised a bad son. And then there’s Andy, who’s been Owen’s friend for years, and he never thought Owen could hurt a fly.”

  “But Kaye doesn’t think he’s innocent.”

  “That’s what’s so hard about all this,” Bill replied. “It divided the town. And the thing is, we never found out what really happened. Owen was acquitted, but if he didn’t do it, who did? No one wants to think there’s a killer out there—someone we don’t know about.”

  “So people just assume it was him, so he can be the scapegoat?” I demanded. “That’s not fair!”

  Bill smiled sadly at me. “Maybe not, but he’s already been acquitted. What else can you do?”

  When I got home, Kaye and Andy were watching a movie in the living room.

  “How was work?” Kaye asked, as I hung up my coat.

  “Ugh,” I said. “That girl!”

  “Margot?”

  “Of course.” I sat down on the arm of the couch with a sigh.

  “She’s not that bad.” Andy was sprawled on the opposite side of the couch, eating an entire bag of popcorn with his usual single-minded determination.

  “She is too that bad,” Kaye told him. “She was doing okay for a while, but now she’s getting all crazy again.”

  “It’s me,” I said. “She hates me.”

  “Yeah,” Andy said, looking up from his popcorn. “Why is that? You’d think you two would get along, since you both like art.”

  “Maybe she’s jealous,” Kaye suggested. “Miranda is wicked talented.”

  “I’m really not.” I tapped my fingertips on my leg, thinking. “What’s Margot’s art like, anyway?”

  Andy shrugged. “She used to be one of the kids always trying to paint like Suze. But maybe her style’s changed since then.”

  Or maybe not. I couldn’t help thinking about what Margot had screamed at me: Nobody else can be her. Nobody.

  I shuddered. “Think I’m off to bed. See you tomorrow.”

  I went upstairs. As always, I waved at Scott when I walked by his room. His TV was on, playing something creepy, judging by the music. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, reading a large, heavy book.

  Glancing up, Scott motioned for me to come over. “Miranda.”

  I shuffled towards his door. “How was your day?”

  Setting the book aside, Scott slid off the bed and came up close to me. “You’re not…friendly with Owen Larsen, are you, Miranda? There are rumors going around town… And you were asking about him the other night.”

  His baby face very serious in the darkness, he touched the cuff of my sleeve.

  I drew back. “No—no, it’s nothing.”

  “Good,” Scott murmured. “I’d hate to see him hurt you, Miranda. I’d really hate that.”

  “Okay,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. “I should go. It’s past my bedtime.”

  I made an attempt at smiling, but he didn’t smile back. “Good night.”

  I felt his eyes on me as I turned and walked down the hallway to my hatch door. I was glad I hadn’t taken Rusty’s old room, which was right next to Scott’s. I climbed into my attic, turned on my little pink lamp, and felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

  No wonder Owen had never wanted to go out for lunch, if all it took to get the gossip going was to be seen together twice.

  But he’d come to the Widow’s Walk, anyway. Because he’d wanted to tell me what he’d done. Or had been accused of. He’d wanted to be honest with me, even if he hadn’t quite managed it at first.

  I had to talk to someone about this—someone besides Kaye or Andy. On impulse, I sat down on my futon and dialed Rosa.

  She answered on the first ring. “Miranda? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry I’m calling you so late… I just wanted to talk.”

  “You scared me! Are you sure you’re okay? Where’s Rhys?”

  “He’s not here, don’t worry.”

  “Then what’s going on with you? It’s like you left Rhys in the dead of night or something.”

  “I kind of did.”

  “You did?”

  I could sense her listening, truly listening, so I told her everything: about how, almost immediately, it all went wrong with Rhys, and then it was already too late; about planning my escape for months, until I left and drove all night; about how beautiful my new home was, and how much I loved Kaye and Andy, Claire and her dogs, and the Widow’s Walk; and, finally, I told her about Owen. “I didn’t want to meet anyone—not so soon. But I couldn’t help it. He’s just so…wonderful. Except that he isn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s sweet and funny, he’s nice to his mom, and he makes violins in his spare time. He is just…perfect. Except that everybody thinks he murdered his girlfriend.”

  “What?” Rosa exclaimed. “What do you mean, he murdered his girlfriend?”

  “No, that’s the thing, he didn’t. Or—I don’t know. It was seven years ago. He was acquitted, but practically everyone thinks that he did it.” I told her how he’d been the only one with a motive, and how he’d had no alibi.

  “I don’t know, honey,” she said. “He sounds sort of guilty… But if you believe him, then I trust you.”

  “You do?” I said in surprise. “Why? I went out with Rhys. I moved to Connecticut with Rhys.”

  She sighed. “You moved to Connecticut because it was the only way for you to get out of your dad’s hair.”

  “I didn’t…” I hesitated. I’d never thought about it like that before—but she was right. “My dad kept talking about moving back to London the whole time he was sick. Once he got better…it was a miracle. I couldn’t ask him to stay in the States because of me, and I knew he wouldn’t go if I was on my own.”

  “I know, sweetie. Although,” she added with a touch of her trademark acidity, “you would have had me. Anyway, the point is, with Rhys, you made a bad decision. It happens. You can’t let it ruin the rest of your life.”

  “Yeah,” I said thickly. “You’re right.”

  My phone beeped in my ear. My heart skipping a beat, I glanced at the screen. It read: MISSED CALL—OWEN LARSEN.

  “He just called me.”

  “Who, Rhys?”

  “No, Owen.”

  “Call him back and ask him if he murdered his girlfriend.”

  I stifled a hapless laugh. “It’s not funny, Rosa. Anyway, he says he didn’t.” I ran a han
d through my hair. “I feel so betrayed,” I admitted finally. “It’s so awful when everyone else knows something but you.”

  “I know, sweetie.”

  We talked for a few more minutes, but eventually Rosa started to sound tired. I let her go so she could sleep, since she had class in the morning. After we hung up, I felt lonelier than ever.

  Owen had left me a voicemail.

  Hugging my knees to my chest, I pressed play.

  “Hey. I’m sorry I’m calling you. I know I promised I wouldn’t. I just wanted to let you know that I’m flying back tomorrow, so I’ll be back in Fall Island late afternoon. I didn’t want to freak you out if we ran into each other at the shop.” He paused. “There is one other thing that I, um, wasn’t totally honest about. I lied to you when I said I couldn’t play piano. I can play it, I’m just not very good. I had a lot of time to practice this week, though, and I came across a certain artist… Here, you’ll see, hold on.”

  I heard the sound of hinges creaking, then a clunk as Owen set his phone down. He began to play a Tom Waits song—the same ballad I’d played for him that day in his workshop. Despite what he’d said, he was good. Not perfect, but obviously talented. It made me wonder what he’d been like on the cello. Amazing, if I had to guess.

  Owen fumbled a note in the ballad, and with a soft laugh he switched to another song. He didn’t sing the words, but I recognized it as The Piano Has Been Drinking. As the song went on, he began subtly shifting the melody, mixing the song about a drunk piano and a sleeping necktie into a different Tom Waits song that I couldn’t quite place. I’d thought I’d known all of Tom Waits’ albums inside and out.

  Owen picked the phone up off the piano. “So now you know everything about me.” The hinges creaked again as he closed the piano cover. “Goodbye, Miranda.”

  Chapter 19

  The next day, the song Owen had played for me reverberated in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about him: getting off the plane, finding his bag, driving home. I wanted to see him.

  After my lunch shift ended, I returned to an empty house. I had no idea where Scott was, but then again, I rarely did. Kaye and Andy were both working the dinner shift. I would have hung around at the bar with them, but Margot was working tonight, too.