by L. A. Fiore
“Broderick?” The sadness in his eyes prompts me to ask, “What?”
“I’ve been settling Logan’s estate.”
“Oh. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, he was incredibly organized and everything is completely in order. Do you realize that you are Logan’s sole heir?”
I stop walking. “What?”
“He left it all to you, everything.”
“No.”
“Yes. He even stipulated in the will that when you refuse your inheritance I am to tell you to stop being a brat.”
That is such a Logan thing to say. “I miss him so much.”
“Me too.” Broderick takes my hand as we start walking again and then he asks, “Are you curious?”
“What? About how much money he left me? I can’t even begin to imagine.”
And then he tells me a number that has my eyes rolling into the back of my head. I don’t even think I can count that high. His penthouse is worth seventy-five million dollars and apparently that is only one of his properties.
“I can’t think about it right now. Some of that will be put aside for the little one, but it’s so large a sum that I can’t even begin to imagine what to do with it. As a family we’ll have to discuss it, but I’m just not there yet.”
“I understand.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sealed letter and hands it to me. “This was also among his papers.”
I look down at my name and run my fingers over his handwriting. I wipe at the tears threatening and look at Broderick. “Thank you.”
Broderick stays for dinner before we go to Tucker’s to play some pool with Tommy and Dante. Later, when I’m in my bed, I pull Logan’s letter from my drawer and, after a few deep breaths, I open the seal and start to read.
Hey, beautiful. This isn’t an easy letter to write knowing that if you ever read it I’ll be gone. I suppose that my death is a far better scenario than you leaving me. Sorry that I am not there with you and sorry that our happily ever after didn’t come to be. I am changing my will, dearest Saffron, and am leaving you everything. I know you don’t want it, but it’s the sum total of my life’s work and there isn’t anyone else I want to have it but you, and hopefully our children.
I realize as I’m working on this that if there ever comes a time when we are parted there are things I need for you to know.
1. I love you. I love everything about you. I love your smile, your heart, your love for all things. I love that you can sit and watch a movie once and then adopt the dialogue to use in your everyday speech. (Yes, I am very much aware that most of what you say comes from movies). You have the rare gift of making everyone around you feel better for having known you. You are the finest person I have ever known.
2. I respect you. I respect that you follow your heart even if the road is difficult; even if the path is painful, you listen to your heart and you follow it. That is a strength of self that not many possess.
3. I want you to move on. If I am gone, grieve me, mourn me, and then live your life. You have so much love to give, so I’ll understand if you give your heart to another, as long as it isn’t Brad Pitt, because then I will have to haunt you.
4. Lastly, I agree with you. Predators are infinitely cooler than Aliens.
P.S. Promise me you will keep your mind open because sometimes things are not what they seem, sometimes the illusion is so real it feels true. Let your heart guide you and look into the crowd because if there was ever a man to defy death to be with the one he loves, I would be that man.
Yours always and forever,
Logan
Sitting outside thinking about Logan’s letter to me, I notice the small box on my stoop. There’s no postage or return address. Carrying it to the kitchen, I open it to see a small wooden figure—a swordfish. It’s beautiful and the detail is so fine: unmistakably carved by Logan’s hand. Where did it come from? Hope, like a small pinpoint of light, shimmers to life inside me. Is it possible that Logan left this? Is he really alive? Letting that hope grow, I hold the figure to my heart, knowing somehow that Logan’s hands were the last to touch it. The shrill ring of the phone ruins the moment; I’m irritated already, but when I see who’s calling, I’m pissed. But there’s a healthy dose of confusion too.
“Darla? What the hell do you want?” I bark.
She stutters and I feel bad so I add, “You got me at a bad time.”
“I’m sorry to just call, but . . . I can’t believe he’s gone.” Silence falls over the line and then sniffling ensues. “I didn’t want to call sooner, since I know I’m the last person you want to hear from. I can’t even begin to imagine how you’re dealing with all of this.”
“It’s been unimaginably hard,” I say.
“He loved you. It was so obvious. He was really in love with you. I’m sorry he’s gone. I wanted to apologize for the calls and sending you that package. It was stupid, cruel, and in light of everything, so . . . thank you for not pressing charges and for being so incredibly cool with it.”
“Considering the enticement was David, I get what motivated you. I don’t agree with it and would never do the same myself, but I do get it.”
“When Elise mentioned the idea, I knew it was stupid, but I wanted him so badly I didn’t really think very clearly about what happened after I made the threats.”
“Wait, Elise Grant, she’s the one who gave you the idea?”
“Yeah. I thought it was creepy, but she said it would make you leave him and when he realized no one else would stick he’d come back to me, but I suspect now she wasn’t talking about me at all. She’s the one who gave me the bird’s head.”
Elise. Jesus, why the hell didn’t I see that? And then rage fills me. Fucking Elise.
“I’m having a case of déjà vu,” Darla says, pulling me from my dark thoughts.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because right before David died he came to see me and we discussed just this.”
As soon as I hang up, I grab the closest thing to me and hurl it at the wall. She moved right after Logan left. Why the hell didn’t I make the connection? But I wasn’t the only one. Logan would have never left me if the one stalking him were so close. And when I think about it, he never had any reaction at all to Elise when we’d see her in town. He didn’t know her, outside of being Darla’s friend, and yet she was the one stalking him, the one he intended to confront. How is that possible? Rage so primal I’ve never felt the likes of it before burns through me. That bitch killed my man, maybe not with her own hands, but her craziness led to Logan acting recklessly, which led to his death. As far as I’m concerned, she fucking killed him. If I ever see her, I’ll be arrested for murder because choking the living shit out of her is now top on my list of to-dos.
Sheriff Dwight visits a few days later and, though I’m still steaming about Elise, the reality is I have a baby on the way and he or she needs a mother. Killing Elise, however enjoyable that sounds, will take me from the last piece of Logan I have.
I’m outside sweeping leaves from my front step when I see his police cruiser pull up and stop in front of my house. I call a greeting to him when he starts up my front path.
“Hello, Sheriff, how are you?”
“I’m good. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. Can I get you some coffee?”
“That would be great if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all. I like people drinking coffee in front of me, so I can smell it, since I’m not drinking the leaded stuff these days.”
“Congratulations.” And then I watch as his eyes turn sad. “I’m really sorry that Logan won’t be here to see the little one.”
“Me too. Come inside and let’s make that coffee.”
He follows me and settles at the kitchen island while I start to grind some beans.
“Have you had any other problems? Threatening mail or phone calls?”
“No.” I turn to look at him. “Not since Logan—”
I can’t finish the sentence, so I grab the carafe and fill it with water.
He seems to understand what I didn’t say and we’re silent for a moment. “The reason I’m here . . . Logan contacted me before he died. Told me he knew the one responsible for the attacks on you. Said he was dealing with it, but he wanted me to be on the lookout, just in case. Anyway, after he died I started keeping tabs on this individual, wanting to make sure I knew her location. I didn’t want her to surprise us with a visit. Saffron, she’s dead. I’ve been waiting for confirmation before I came to see you and I received it just the other day.”
Relief mingles with anger because I really wanted to see her one last time, not to kill her, but to get my closure by seeing her hauled off to jail. “Was it Elise?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
I need to sit down. Grabbing a stool, I drop myself onto it. “I got a phone call that pretty much put it all into focus. She’s dead?”
“Yeah. Apparently after hearing the news of David’s death, she drove her car into a tree.”
“Oh my God.”
“Her next of kin, her aunt and uncle, called me earlier. They wanted to contact you directly but thought it better to filter their request through me.”
“What do they want?”
“They want to talk with you.”
“Talk to me? What the hell could they possibly have to say that I’d want to hear?”
“I don’t know, something about Logan. You want me to tell them you’re not interested?”
“No. It might be interesting to hear them out.”
“Their name is Martinelli and they live in Marlton, New Jersey. I’ll write down their number and address for you. Do you want me to come with you?”
“I think someone in Logan’s family should come with me.”
“Okay. You need anything, you let me know.”
“I will, thanks. Coffee’s done.”
The following day I walk to the lighthouse. As soon as Broderick opens the door, he knows something is off. “What happened?”
I tell him about my phone call from Darla and my visit with Sheriff Dwight and am surprised at his response. He curses like a sailor and hurls the closest object clear across the room. I completely understand that reaction.
“The Martinellis are the assholes Logan stayed with when he was younger.”
My stomach tightens at that news. “Well, they want to talk with me about him. Will you come with me?”
“You sure as hell aren’t going alone.”
“There’s something else.” I hesitate a moment before I say, “I think Logan attempted to fake his own death.”
I see the same emotions I myself have been battling: shock, hope, and anger. “What makes you say that?”
“Before he died, Logan kept making cryptic comments to me about doing anything to ensure I was safe and that nothing would keep him from me. And then I went through his things and he had a journal with markings: water temperatures, depth readings, current and tide schedules. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but then flowers arrived for me a month after his death, flowers sent by him. They were arranged a week before his death, the day of the fire, to start on the month anniversary of his death.”
Broderick rakes a hand through his hair. “Jesus.”
“And then there’s this. Arrived on my front porch, no postage.” I pull the satin pouch from my purse, open it, and remove the small wooden swordfish figure before handing it to Broderick.
He studies it for a while before his eyes find mine and his voice has a touch of wonder in it.
“Logan made this.”
“That’s what I think too.”
“No, I know he made it.”
“How?”
He turns it over and on the bottom is a small little crescent moon shape. “That’s on everything he makes. He paints it into his paintings and carves it into his sculptures.”
Hope, that little pinpoint, bursts big and bright. “I want to hear what the Martinellis have to say.”
“Okay. Let’s call Dante, fill him in, and then give those bastards a call.”
If the Martinellis once lived the glamorous life, they no longer do. Their house is a rancher in a not very nice area. The yard is mostly weeds, the black paint on the shutters and front door needs a good sanding and repainting. The cars in the driveway are at least ten years old and it’s crazy to think it’s because of Logan that they now live like this. I don’t blame him for what he did. They deserve far worse in my opinion.
We walk up the front path and Broderick knocks on the door. The woman who answers doesn’t look at all like I expected. Her blond hair is mostly gray and her blue eyes look very tired. She’s dressed in black pants and a pale-pink sweater, probably purchased from Target or Kohl’s, which is a far cry from what she probably wore once upon a time. She recognizes Broderick immediately, but what surprises me is she seems to know who I am too.
“We didn’t think you’d come.”
Patricia holds the door wider. Harold Martinelli looks as tired as his wife. His brown hair is mostly gone and what’s left is liberally laced with gray. His tall figure is carrying extra weight in the middle and when he starts over to us, I notice he has a slight limp. When my eyes meet his brown ones I see resignation in them.
He shows us into a living room that is tastefully done. The furnishings are attractive, but not of good quality, and though the walls feature works from the greats, they aren’t originals. Harold gestures toward the sofa and, once we settle in, he takes the chair opposite us.
“We’re so sorry for your loss. Logan was a good man.”
“Why did you call us here?” I don’t want their sympathy.
“Elisabet was our niece. We knew she was unstable but we didn’t realize how unstable she had become until after her death.”
“Elisabet?” I ask.
“Her name was Elisabet. We were unaware that she had shortened it to Elise, but considering her byline on the paper was ‘E. Grant’ and Grant wasn’t even her real last name, we can’t say it was a surprise. Writers use different names for anonymity all the time, and with some of the stuff she wrote, we understand why she wanted to be anonymous.”
“Is it true she drove her car into a tree?” Broderick asks.
“Yes. Distraught over David’s death.”
“Did Logan know her?” I ask.
“Yes, for a time before she went away for a little mental health vacation. When we moved here after she was released, she came to stay with us until she got back on her feet. Her parents, my sister, died in a car crash not long before Logan came to stay with us. She didn’t take their deaths well, so we placed her elsewhere to help her adjust.”
“Logan was with you for almost six years. How long did she live with you before she went away?” Broderick asks.
“A year.”
“Her fixation with him started when she was just a kid?” A knot forms in my stomach at the thought.
“Clearly she had issues even before her parents died for her to react as strongly as she did to their deaths. But the doctors think her obsession with Logan stemmed from that trauma and the timing of him coming into her life.”
“Logan didn’t seem to recognize Elise when she was staying in Harrington,” I say.
“She was twelve when she was sent away, and she used to be blond. It’s not surprising he didn’t recognize her.”
“It was a ridiculously long mental health vacation,” Broderick says.
“Like I said, she wasn’t well to begin with and the doctors felt she needed it.”
“When did you realize she was fixated on Logan?” Broderick asks.
“I knew something wasn’t right when she learned of his engagement to Darla and she started acting oddly: angry and aggressive. Raging one minute, crying the next. Her interest went from infatuation to obsession. With her unstable to begin with, it was a disaster waiting to happen. We didn’t realize—until Logan came to see us—that Elise had act
ually befriended Darla, sought her out.”
“What are you saying?”
“I was the one to call Logan to tell him about her and to warn him. She was growing more and more unstable, but she refused to go in for treatment. I feared what she would do to him and you.”
“But you warned him about Elisabet, not Elise. And you didn’t tell him anything that could have clarified that Elisabet was Elise?” I was outraged because this could have all been avoided if we had known who Elise really was.
“We didn’t know about her relationship with Darla, and we didn’t even know Elise was in Harrington. When we spoke, she told us that she was in the city. My heads-up to Logan was really just that: a heads-up. I had no idea she was actually acting out against you.”
“When was this?” Broderick asks.
“Probably about six or so months before he died. But he came here, shortly before he died, thinking a face-to-face meeting would have more impact than the countless phone calls he had made. The look on his face when he realized who Elise was . . . I’ve never seen anyone look so terrifying. And even so, with everything she had done, he still tried to reason with her. He had even convinced her to go back to the hospital. I really thought he had gotten through to her, but then . . .”
“She tried to kill me.” It was probably after that phone call from Harold when I found Logan trashing his studio. Some mistakes you never stop paying for. That was what he had said. His time with these people was definitely a mistake. And once he learned his stalker’s true identity, he called Sheriff Dwight so he’d keep his eyes out for Elise. It really was all he wanted, to keep me safe, even if that meant we had to be apart. In that moment the ache in my heart from missing him steals my breath.
“We know what we allowed to go on with him when he was younger was inexcusable, and, when he bought our gallery out from under us, we understood that too. Later, he offered us that life back. He said he realized he had been too quick to judge and though we had turned blind eyes to what our friends were doing all those years ago, it wasn’t for him to take away our livelihood. The fact that he came here and tried to help Elise, knowing that she was unstable and could possibly bring harm to himself and you, after everything we had done to him, well, he turned into a very fine man.”