Page 13 of My Fallen Saint

I swirl my glass as I swallow the nut, watching the single ice cube go round and round. “I saw him watching me when I was leaving. At least, I think I did.”

“You mean he blew you off? He didn’t have a conflict at all?”

“I don’t know. I’m probably imagining things.”

She shakes her head. “No way. Cop instincts, right? You’re supposed to act on the evidence but trust your gut. Lamar’s always telling me that.”

Detective Lamar Gage and I were in uniform together in Irvine. About the time I quit to go to New York, he quit to join the force in Laguna Cortez. I introduced him to Brandy and we’ve formed a friendship trifecta.

“I’m not a cop anymore,” I remind her.

“Bullshit. It’s in your blood.”

I shrug. “He probably was in his office but doing some big deal thing. Like a conference call with the Pope.”

“When’s it rescheduled for?”

“Supposedly Monday, but I’m not waiting that long. I’m going to tomorrow night’s gala. Hopefully, I’ll corner him there.”

“Look at you being all Woodward and Bernie.”

“Bernstein,” I correct, and she rolls her eyes.

“I know. I was being amusing. Changing subjects,” she continues firmly. “Why are you here?”

“Because you said we should get drinks.”

“Forget journalism. Standup comedy. That’s your true calling.”

I scoff, then see the concern on her face and turn serious. “You think I should have stayed in New York.”

Her expression is a study in sadness so evocative it should hang in a gallery. Girl: Profoundly Sad. “I want you back,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re here right now, and I feel so guilty about being happy. Because you left for a reason, Ellie. Hell, you left for a lot of reasons.”

“I’m not back to stay.” She knows that. We’ve had long calls and text conversations. “I’m here for Peter and the DSF article, and then I’m gone.”

“That is such bullshit. We both know it’s just going to end up being a nice little profile piece, and big fucking deal. You’ve been telling me you want bigger and meatier. Not some fluff piece about a foundation that’s doing good work.”

“You don’t—”

She holds up her hand, her fierce expression forcing me into silence. “And as for your uncle, as hard as the reality is, after ten years it’s probably going to stay unsolved. Mercado’s dead. Which means you’ve hit a wall before you’ve even begun.”

I wince but say nothing. Because, of course, she’s right.

“What happened to following in your father’s footsteps with a pen instead of a badge? Investigating horrible things and then exposing them on the page? All those things you say drive you. Don’t you know that’s what I love most about you? I mean, come on. I’m driven to make handbags. And I’m good at it, sure. But it’s not like I’m doing life-changing work.”

I open my mouth, but she tosses up a hand to silence me.

“I’m not,” she says firmly. “But you are. Or you should be. You never wanted to simply write about people who’ve made a difference. You wanted to be that person and make a difference with your words. And no matter how you spin it, that’s not why you’re here. Bullshit me if you want, but don’t bullshit yourself.”

“Wow,” I say.

She winces. “Sorry. I know. I’m a bitch. I shouldn’t—”

“I think I’m looking for closure.” I blurt the words out so fast they sound like gibberish.

“Alex,” she says, and I nod. Brandy’s the one person who knows that I slept with Alex—and that he bolted. It’s a secret she swore she’d take to the grave. Even Lamar, who knows about Alex and the way he left doesn’t know that he took my virginity. Only that a boy I’d fallen for blew me off on one of the worst nights of my life.

“I honestly do want to know what happened to Uncle Peter,” I say slowly. “I swear I’m going to do everything I can to dig out the truth. And I’m going to write a kickass, in-depth profile that finally tells the public something real about Devlin Saint and about the horror of that Nevada trafficking ring. But, yeah…”