WE ARE US

by Leigh, Tara

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know where Tucker is. What I do know is that the FBI is investigating Tucker’s money laundering. And they asked about you, too. I might not know exactly how you were involved, but they’re going to figure out your part in his scheme.”

  “You’re lying,” she says, but I can see that I’ve struck a nerve.

  “Fine. Don’t believe me. You’ll find out the truth soon enough.”

  “The truth?” A humorless cackle spills from her bloodless lips. “You inserted yourself between Tucker and me freshman year, launching yourself at him with pathetic desperation, and now look what’s happened. He’s gone, and it’s all your fault.”

  Half of what she’s saying is true. From practically the first minute we met, Wren flat out told me that Tucker was off-limits. He was hers. But what did I do the second she looked away? I discounted her completely. I grew to want Tucker, too.

  And I got him.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  “I have nothing to do with Tucker’s business and you know it. Can you say the same?” A long beat passes as Wren weighs her options, a muscle in her jaw twitching as she looks between me and my sister. I add, “If you’re here, trying to make me think that you weren’t in on it with him every step of the way, you’re wasting your time.”

  Wren’s expression changes, as if she pulled a shade to hide her emotions. Without another word, she straightens her spine and walks out of Tucker’s office, paper crinkling under her feet.

  When the front door closes, Sadie turns to me with wide eyes. “Has she always been this crazy?”

  “Probably.” I shrug, glancing around Tucker’s office and resigning myself to cleaning up the mess before going to bed. Another time, I would have stewed over Wren’s performance, trying to analyze her motivation and intent. But right now, I can’t be bothered. I have enough problems of my own without borrowing hers.

  I kneel down and start gathering file folders.

  “Why don’t I do that?” Sadie offers. “It’s my fault for letting her in.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I wave her off, forcing my mouth into what I hope is a reassuring smile. “It won’t take long. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Whatever Wren left behind can’t be very important, but I still want to look through it. I pick up the scattered pieces of paper one by one, sorting everything into its appropriate file. There are the purchase documents and deed for this apartment, his parents wills, our wedding certificate, medical records from my mother’s various rehab stays, legal documents related to her arrest, and a few other innocuous looking contracts.

  I’m about to put them all back in the safe when I realize I don’t have the code to unlock it once I close the door.

  Just before I turn away to drop everything onto the desk, my eye snags on something at the very back of the safe. Something almost indistinguishable from the steel enclosure. My nerves are already clanging in warning as I reach for it.

  But the second my fingertips brush against the delicate silver chain, I know.

  I know with a searing certainty that rips into me like a bolt of lightning.

  The stack of papers I just organized into neat files once again flutter to the ground as I slide down the wall… clutching Gavin’s moonstone pendant in my palm.

  Chapter 49

  New York City

  Outside the windows of my bedroom, the setting sun plays peekaboo with New York City’s most iconic landmarks. In the building across the street, there is a little boy stretched out on a rug, playing with LEGOs. One floor above, an older couple is seated at a small table, eating dinner. And one floor below, a woman about my age is laughing. Really laughing. Head thrown back, hair bouncing on her shoulders, her mouth open and smiling. I don’t know if she’s watching a comedy or having a conversation with someone beyond my line of vision. But I wish I did. I wish I could crawl inside her window, inside her body even.

  When was the last time I’d let loose with even an exuberant giggle? When hadn’t I been focused on pleasing someone—my mother, Tucker, a professor, Wren, Tucker’s parents. On not making a mistake that would prove I was just an imposter hiding among them.

  Even Sadie. As kids, we played together, but I was always taking care of her, reminding her of the rules, or keeping score.

  Only with Gavin had I just let myself be.

  I ignore Sadie’s knocks, checking on me. And, even though I am desperate to hear Gavin’s voice, I ignore his calls, too.

  I spend half the night tossing and turning, trying to understand why Tucker had taken the necklace Gavin gave to me, lied about it, and kept it all these years.

  Did Tucker purposely target me that night? Was my necklace a souvenir? A trophy?

  Or had he merely viewed Gavin as competition and hoped that I’d forget about him without a constant reminder on my skin.

  I spend the other half of the night mourning. Not my marriage, which has been over for a long time and had clearly been a mistake from the very beginning.

  I grieve the days and weeks and months and years that I’ll never get back.

  Heartache that cuts so deep, the scars throb in tune with my pulse.

  And the memories that shred a little more of my soul with every look back into the past.

  I’ve wasted so much time, made so many wrong choices.

  My entire life is up in the air right now, but there is one thing I know for certain. If I get through this, if I didn’t commit the ultimate sin and wind up behind bars, I want to spend the rest of my life with Gavin. If he’ll have me.

  But first… First, I need to become my own hero.

  I don’t want to be rescued. I will never again hand over the reins of my life to anyone else.

  Which is why, even though I’m operating on next to no sleep, I don’t even consider postponing my meeting with Reese Reynolds. Every hero needs a sidekick, and in my case, the kind I need is a kick-ass lawyer.

  I evade the reporters camped out in front of my apartment by leaving through the underground parting exit. Beneath my shirt, I am wearing Gavin’s necklace. The clasp is broken, probably from where Tucker ripped it off my neck, but I used a safety pin to link the chain. I’ll have to take it to a jeweler eventually, but right now I can’t bear the thought of being without it again.

  I’ve only been waiting in Reese Reynold’s conference room a few minutes when she bursts through the door. Short and curvy, her lipstick is the exact same shade as her red suit, her blond hair cut and styled into a camera-ready bob. She is a familiar face on the evening news, a defender of high-profile, scorned, shamed women. Preferably attractive, high-profile, scorned, shamed women in the Forbes 400.

  I am her perfect client.

  She sits down and gets right to the point. “I’ve been following press coverage of your husband’s disappearance very closely. I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to contact me.”

  On TV, Reese looks like she could be a news anchor, with a wide, square jaw and unblinking hazel eyes. In person, it is obvious the blond comes from a bottle, her careful application of makeup hiding more years than she is willing to admit.

  “You haven’t just been following the case, you’ve had quite a bit to say.” I haven’t hired Reese based solely on Douglas Keene’s recommendation. During the hours and hours of news coverage I devoured, she’d been the only lawyer who hadn’t insinuated that I either knew where Tucker was or had something to do with his disappearance. The. Only. One.

  “I can’t say the same for you. You’re allowing the press to tell your story, Mrs. Stockton.”

  “Please, call me Poppy. And that’s because I have nothing to say.”

  “But you’ve spoken with the police and the FBI, correct?” At my nod of agreement, she says, “Tell me what you told them.”

  I do. Reese doesn’t take notes or record me, and interrupts only occasionally to ask a question. When I’m finally through my throat is hoarse, and she stands up to pour me a glass of
water from the carafe on the sideboard. I take it gratefully.

  “It certainly sounds like you have a lot to say.”

  “Nothing that has helped to find him.”

  Reese’s fingers curve over the back of the chair she’d been sitting in. “Let’s talk this through a bit. Your husband went missing on trip to celebrate your five-year anniversary, yes?”

  I sigh, about to explain that celebrate isn’t exactly the right word to use, but she jumps in with more questions. “Your marriage, was it as happy as it appears? Champagne kisses and caviar dreams?”

  “No,” I admit, wiping a drop of condensation from the edge of my glass. “Not at all.”

  She remains unfazed. “Okay. Let me try to recap this situation from the perspective of law enforcement. We have two unhappily married people in a small boat, supposedly exploring an uninhabited island. Later that night, the wife is discovered in the boat, unconscious and with non-fatal injuries. The husband, a very wealthy man soon to be arrested for shady business dealings, is nowhere to be found. There is broken glass and a bloody knife. The wife’s fingerprints are on the handle, and blood on the blade from the husband. Do I have my facts straight?”

  I can’t speak around the knot in my throat so I merely nod.

  “Good. Now, let’s try to solve the mystery. Scenario one, the husband fell or jumped overboard, either an accident or suicide. The blood on the knife came from the wife trying to reach for him, to save him. Unsuccessful, she falls and injures herself. Scenario two, husband attacks wife, she kills him in self-defense and is injured in the struggle. Scenario three, wife kills husband because she’s furious that he’s about to be arrested—”

  “But I had no idea—”

  “Fine. Then you kill him for some other reason,” she concedes easily. “Scenario four, husband planned the whole thing and wife was in on it. The injuries, the knife, the blood—they’re just to make it look like he’s dead so he can escape arrest. Scenario five, husband planned the whole thing, likely with an accomplice, and wife was none the wiser. She’s hurt when she tries to stop him. And scenario six, the mystery man.”

  “Who is the mystery man?”

  “Exactly. Could be anyone. Actually, I’m being sexist. Mystery person. Someone, or group of people, murdered or kidnapped your husband. You were collateral damage.” Reese finally pulls her chair out and sits back down, her unblinking eyes boring into me. “Six potential outcomes, and you are criminally liable in three of them. Are you willing to trust your fate to the toss of a coin?”

  I definitely picked the right sidekick.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Good.” She slaps the table with the flat of her palm. “First things first, I require a one-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer. I assume that won’t be a problem.”

  “My husband handles the—” As soon as I realize where the rest of my sentence was going, I stop, my mouth still open. I haven’t written a check or paid a bill in years. I have no idea how to access our accounts. But I’ll figure it out. “It won’t be a problem.”

  Reese reaches out a hand, covering one of mine. “This has been a shock, I know. You will have to face things—questions, doubts, accusations, realities—you never could have anticipated just a few days ago. I’ll get you through it, but you’re going to have to trust me. Can you do that?”

  I agree, and she flashes a set of teeth so straight and white they look like Chiclets. “Good. Now, it’s time to take control of the narrative. Of the three options where you aren’t at fault, number one isn’t interesting enough for the press to run with, and number six has too many unknowns to be interesting. Number five is your narrative. Your husband planned the whole thing, likely with an accomplice, and you were none the wiser. You were injured trying to stop him.”

  I’m still reeling from how quickly Reese broke down my case and came up with a solution. “How do we do that?”

  “Sex.”

  I blink at her, wondering if I misheard. “Sex?”

  “Clichés are clichés because they’re true. Sex sells, Poppy. For our purposes, that means sex brings in the highest ratings. If we give the press a juicy story, they’ll run with it.”

  “But, Tucker and I haven’t had s—”

  “Oh no,” Reese interrupts. “This isn’t about you. We need a woman to pitch as Tucker’s accomplice and his mistress. Give me a name.”

  Chapter 50

  New York City

  I hadn’t intended to call Gavin, or to walk to Central Park, but I couldn’t bear to spend the rest of the day trapped inside. Taking advantage of the unseasonably mild winter day, I headed instead for one of my favorite spots, calling him on the way.

  I extend the small bag of red, ripe raspberries I bought after leaving Reese’s office. “It’s not quite the same as picking it ourselves, but it’s the best I could do.”

  He accepts it with an almost rueful grin, tossing a few berries into his mouth. “I guess you do still owe me.”

  The Ramble has always reminded me of the Sackett Preserve. At thirty-six acres, it’s about the same size. And unlike most of the Park, its narrow, winding paths aren’t meticulously tended and landscaped. The natural forest is allowed to grow wild here. All my favorite trees are present, plus several non-native and exotic species. It’s a haven for birds, too. I’ve spent many afternoons wandering these woods, getting lost in my memories.

  Especially on the days my old nemesis, bulimia, would beckon me. Tempting me with false promises of indulgence and then emptiness. Cramming myself so full that, for a few, fleeting moments, even the most hollow, aching, barren places inside me were stuffed and sated.

  “Consider it a debt repaid,” I reply, smiling back. My chest feels lighter already, the stress and worry that has built up inside me dissipating with each passing minute I spend beside Gavin. I’ve forgotten how freeing it is just to take a deep breath.

  “Now all we have to do is find a cave to hide out in and we’ll feel right at home.”

  “We’re almost a century too late for that, I’m afraid.” At Gavin’s interested look, I explain. “The original developers of Central Park found a cave as they excavated the site. It wasn’t part of their plans, but they decided to line the entrance with boulders, and build a stone staircase leading into it. For years, it was a popular attraction. A play area for kids and a romantic spot for couples.”

  With his free hand, Gavin reaches for one of mine, our fingers naturally intertwining. “Yeah, caves are good for that.”

  Whispers of memory rush at me as we meander along the wooded pathways, afternoon sun slanting unevenly through the sparse leafy canopy overhead. “It didn’t last though. By the turn of the century, the Cave had become a seedy, scary place. There was a suicide, several robberies, and an increasing number of homeless were using it as a shelter. The final straw came when over three hundred men were arrested for,” I use air quotes, “annoying women.”

  “Annoying women… that’s against the law?”

  I nudge him with my elbow. “I think they meant harassing. But yes, I think annoying women should definitely be a crime. What do you think, G-man?”

  He laughs and I want to wrap myself up in the warm, husky sound, make a cloak of it and keep it around my shoulders forever. “I think we’d need to build a few more prisons.”

  “Well, back in the nineteen thirties, New York decided to solve the problem by sealing off the Cave.”

  “Leaving men free to annoy women all over the city instead, I guess.”

  “Maybe the cops should do another sweep of construction zones.”

  “There’s got to be a suggestion box somewhere. I’m sure they’ll get right on it.”

  We fall silent for a few minutes, and when we come to a waterfall, Gavin points to a spot sheltered by an enormous weeping willow. “How about here?”

  I nod, and we sit down like we used to, side by side, our feet outstretched in front of us. I take a raspberry from the bag and put it into my mouth, the tart
juice flooding my tongue.

  “So, how are you holding up?” Gavin asks.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I realize I’m a complete disaster right now, but can we please talk about you? Not because I need a distraction, but—” I break off, feeling out of breath for no reason other than I’m choking on a sudden rush of my own emotions. “I’ve really missed you, Gavin. But I don’t know anything about who you are now, and what you’ve been doing for the past five years.”

  “Only the past five? It’s been longer than that since we’ve spent any length of time together.”

  “True. But at least your messages allowed me small peeks into your life.”

  He frowns. “You never responded. I wasn’t sure you ever got them.”

  “I did. Every single one.” I sigh, tilting my head to rest it on his shoulder and squeezing my eyes closed as pain twists through me. I can see the hurt I inflicted on Gavin that day so clearly, his reluctance to believe the awful words I spewed. He stood there, giving me every chance to take them back, to take him back. But I hadn’t. I’d been too convinced I was right. That the time for second chances had passed. That we were over. “I understand why you stopped though. I was really awful to you that day at my apartment. Really, really awful.”

  “Well, I did just show up out of the blue, the week before your wedding. I should have known better.”

  “No.” My heart aches with regret. “I should have known better. I should have done better. And, I want you to know, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it. The things I said about you, about us, I didn’t mean any of it.”

  Gavin swears beneath his breath and curves his arm around my waist, his hand slipping beneath my coat, his thumb sweeping across the sliver of skin between my sweater and slacks. “You don’t know how good it feels to hear you say that.”

  His touch sends a scatter of goose bumps over my arms, the tiny hairs standing on end. “I’m so sorry.”