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She didn’t care if they were weeds. He was back. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
He grinned. “Well, you see, there’s a girl on Mariners that I just couldn’t leave behind.”
He was saying exactly what she wanted to hear. But she still had one question she had to ask him. “Did you shoot your father, Bo?”
He shook his head. “No.”
She knew that subject would require a longer conversation, but not when Jack was around and not tonight, when she was happier than she’d ever been. She put his flowers on her seat before throwing her arms around him. “I knew it,” she breathed into his ear.
Then he kissed her, and everyone in the restaurant started to clap, including Jack.
Annabelle stood on the patio of the apartment they’d recently bought in Hudson Yards, staring down at the lights of the busy Manhattan street far below her. Everything looked so tiny from her perspective—the people and cars were almost like ants as they zipped about. She knew what was happening on Mariners and that she should be rushing around, throwing clothes in a suitcase and catching a flight to the island as soon as possible. But she hadn’t moved from the patio for hours, since she’d received Bastian’s call. She hadn’t even gone in to get a coat, despite the fact that it was growing colder and colder as the night wore on.
Mort wasn’t home from work yet. She’d tried to call him so she could tell him that Bastian had been arrested. She needed his advice, his support. But these days there was none of that to be found. She’d only been able to reach his voice mail. When he finally came home—ifhe came home—he’d say he’d been intent on whatever he was working on at the office. But it was almost midnight. She knew the truth, knew he was seeing someone else—maybe a string of women. He hardly bothered to hide it anymore. She’d probably be looking at a divorce soon, she realized, and what a mess that would be.
Regardless, she couldn’t continue to dwell on the sad state of her marriage. She had a bigger decision to make. Did she allow Bastian to take the fall for Remy? Or did she tell the truth?
She tried to imagine the future if she came forward—the difficulty she’d continue to have with her “no good” son. Even if she got Bastian out of jail, he wouldn’t change. He’d still be far too self-indulgent, wouldn’t take hold and work, wouldn’t thrive.
And if she didn’t come forward? If she let him take the punishment Remy deserved? Remy had the intelligence and drive to make such a difference in the world—make her proud to call him her son. He could go on and become a doctor. And why not? Bastian would only have to serve a couple of years, if he got prison time at all. With a good lawyer, he might not get much more than a few months in the county jail.
But she knew that duffel bag didn’t belong to Bastian. Just hearing about it had told her Remy hadn’t stopped the behavior for which Bastian had almost been charged last time. And he’d just turned on his brotheragain. That he had no compunction about doing that, even at this age, was an alarm she couldn’t ignore.
Annabelle closed her eyes as an errant tear wandered down her cheek. She should’ve come forward years ago. Set things right. Maybe, had they sought counseling, Remy could’ve changed. Instead, she’d stepped in to erase that whole Peeping Tom incident, hoping against hope that it was just a phase, an aberration from his regular behavior that he would conquer with a second chance—or at the very least, he’d learn his lesson from what had almost happened to Bastian. He had so damn much promise!
But that wasn’t all of it. There was what she’d heard Bastian scream at Remy several years ago. He’d insisted Remy had shoved Lyssa into the bathroom so hard she’d fallen and hit her head on the tub, and that was the reason they’d started to fight. It was also the reason Lyssa hadn’t gotten out of the house alive.
Annabelle had chosen not to believe what she’d heard that night. The boys always said terrible things to each other. But she knew, deep in her gut, that it was true.
Her cell phone rang. She looked down to see her husband’s picture on the screen, but she ignored his call. She knew he’d want her to sweep it all under the rug again. He was largely the reason she’d done that last time. Appearances were all that mattered to him. They had to protect their name, his legacy. But she’d been better than that—once.
She pushed the button that would send his call to voice mail. Then she looked up the number for the Mariners Police Department, and when someone answered, she asked for Detective Livingston.
Ismay sat at The Charles W. Morgan, a restaurant that served fresh seafood in the evenings but also offered a weekend brunch. It was a fancy place, an expensive place, just the kind Remy liked. But she wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat anything. She was too nervous.
She’d spent last night at the hotel with Bo, since he’d already prepaid for his stay, and she wanted to get back together with him as soon as possible. He didn’t like that she was meeting Remy, said he didn’t trust him and tried to talk her out of going. But she felt she owed it to her ex-fiancé to meet with him and tell him how she felt, so he’d know there was no chance of a reconciliation and could move on without looking back.
It was a courtesy she would’ve appreciated if the tables were turned. But he was running late, and he wasn’t answering her texts.
The waitress stopped by her table. “Can I get you another mimosa?”
“No, thank you. My, um, friend will be here soon.”
She smiled as she walked away, but Ismay knew she had to be growing impatient and checked the time on her phone. Remy was usually punctual. So where was he?
He there?That text came from Bo.
Not yet. Maybe he’s not coming, after all.
I’d like that. Then you’ve done your part by giving him the opportunity and it can be over. This is the jerk who almost ran you down. Even if it was Bastian who pulled the wheel, he should’ve reacted differently afterward.
Bo had a point. But he didn’t understand how moody Remy could be.
I’ll wait five more minutes and then leave, she wrote back, but when she glanced up, she saw Detective Livingston crossing the restaurant, coming toward her.
Putting down her phone, she shifted in her seat. “Hello, Detective.”
He gestured at the chair across from her. “Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?”
