She parked her six-year-old Honda Civic at the far space in the wide driveway and grabbed her bag from the passenger seat. It was a gray, overcast morning, and a harsh gust of wind lifted her hair from her shoulders and flung it into her face. With a grunt of annoyance, she rummaged through her bag for an elastic. Quickly, she pulled her long, dark blond hair back and secured it into a ponytail.
The early April air was still cold, with no hint of spring yet, and carried the salty scent of the nearby Long Island Sound. The Harrison property boasted a grand front yard and a wide, grassy backyard that sloped down directly onto a strip of sand and the water. On clear days, Connecticut was easily visible across the calm waters of the Sound.
This job had taken up most of her life. Amanda had never been with a home care patient for so long before Myles Harrison, and the boy had a hold on her heart. It wasn’t as if she had a family of her own, or a boyfriend. She hadn’t gone on any dates since she’d ended her last relationship ten months ago. Dating wasn’t even on her radar these days; the truth was, it’d been both a comfort and a necessity to drown in her work.
She knew she was lucky to have a job in such a lovely town, in a lovely home, with a genuinely lovely family. Sandy Point was one of the wealthiest communities in New York state, and the Harrison family—not just Charles and his clan, but his father, sister, and two brothers—was one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in the country. But all the money and power in the world wasn’t helping young Myles Harrison beat non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. So far, he’d held his own, but it had dug its terrifying claws into him and wouldn’t let go.
Amanda had been by his side as he’d gone through chemo and radiation, which unfortunately hadn’t worked. All of the Harrisons, from the older patriarch to the baby cousins, had been tested as viable bone marrow donors, to no avail. Not one of the clan had been a match. Desperate, Charles had recently taken the step of going to the national bone marrow registry. And then a miracle had happened: a viable match had been found, just a week ago. All Amanda knew was the donor lived in Florida, had agreed to the procedure, and would be flying to New York shortly to start pre-testing.
It was overwhelming, the hope that surged through her. If this worked, it would save Myles’s life. But if it didn’t work . . . Amanda’s heart skipped a beat and she swatted the thought away, a willful mental karate kick. To think of the alternative was just too devastating.
Head down against the wind, she rang the front doorbell and glanced at her watch. She was always on time, and it soothed her to see it was 12:57 PM. Her daily shift was every afternoon/evening, from one to nine. As she waited, she thought of them.
The Harrisons weren’t just courteous; they were generous. They paid her exceedingly well, which she suspected they did to keep her in their employ. They liked and trusted her. From a purely business standpoint, that was a smart move, and she knew Charles Harrison III was an excellent businessman. Amanda guessed he was willing to do whatever necessary to keep her with them for as long as they needed her. And if that meant paying top dollar, even on the days she did practically nothing, that’s what he’d decided to do.
She was grateful for the maximum wages, but she honestly took pleasure in caring for Myles. He was such a great kid, sweet and funny, and she liked the whole family too, which often wasn’t the case. They all showed her their gratitude and expressed their appreciation on a regular basis, more than any of her other patients ever had. That alone made them more than worth her time and efforts, and she was glad to be part of the team.
There were two other private nurses. Christine was there every weekday from 7 AM to 1 PM, and Alisha came on the weekends if Myles wasn’t feeling well. Amanda had wondered more than once if it was necessary, having private nurses there almost around the clock. But Charles and Lisette were worried out of their minds about their son and certainly had the funds, so they could do this, and why not? Their other kids needed them too: Ava, the oldest, was fifteen; Thomas was thirteen and a half; and little Charlotte was only five and a half. Myles and his two older siblings had been the products of Charles’s first marriage, while Charlotte was his and Lisette’s child.
Vanessa, Myles’s biological mother, lived in L.A. She came to visit once a month for two or three days, but apparently just couldn’t handle her son being so critically ill. She wasn’t around much; it was Lisette who’d stepped in and been the rock that boy needed. She was the one who now opened the heavy front door to let Amanda in, offering a small grin.
“Hi, it’s good to see you,” Lisette said, giving Amanda a light kiss on the cheek in greeting as always. She tried to smile, but Amanda noticed it didn’t reach her dark eyes. Lisette’s hands fluttered, fidgeting with the end of her thick, dark braid. “Myles is in his room. He’s tired today, and moody. . . . I think maybe he’s nervous about what’s coming, now that we found a donor. I’m not sure. I’m just glad you’re here.”
Amanda knew Lisette well enough by now to be able to hear what she hadn’t said. He’s tired and moody plus I’m glad you’re here equaled I’m worried because he seems off today.
“I’ll go right upstairs,” Amanda said.
“Thank you. I’ll bring you a drink. Would you like water, coffee, tea . . . ?”
“Water would be fine, thanks.” Amanda took a few steps across the polished hardwood floor of the foyer, headed for the grand spiral staircase. As she made her way up the stairs, she thought about what she might say to Myles to calm his fears and reassure him.
She sighed deeply. Nothing was guaranteed, and she knew that. A bone marrow transplant was no walk through the park, but this was Myles’s best shot at beating his illness.
* * *
Later that night, after a relaxing bubble bath, Amanda got into her softest pajamas, the turquoise fleece a comfort, and put on her fleece socks to shuffle around her small apartment. Her roommate wasn’t home, for which she was grateful. She liked Gretchen just fine; she just liked having the place to herself more. They were both nurses, but Gretchen worked in maternity, doing the night shifts. With such different schedules, they rarely saw each other. Amanda usually got home about an hour before Gretchen left.
Now she poured herself a glass of Rioja and headed for bed. She didn’t have the mental focus to read tonight; she’d scroll on Facebook for a while instead. Her bed was cozy as she sat up in the dark, the light from her phone harshly bright in the darkness. A few sips in and ten minutes later, her phone dinged—the group text thread with her two best friends since the seventh grade.
My kids are driving me batshit crazy tonight, Steph said. NEED. WINE.
Amanda laughed, took a quick selfie of herself holding her half-full glass, and sent it. Here you go, mama. I’m a step ahead of you.
One glass won’t do it, Steph wrote. I need the whole bottle.
Amanda laughed again. That bad?
Their father thought it’d be fun to take them out for ice cream, Steph texted. At 7:00 at night. Dumbass. They’re all sugared up, they’ll never go to sleep.
Amanda checked the time. It was ten-thirty. Jesus, they must be really wired.
I gave up. I told Todd he could put them to bed, since he did this. I’m hiding in the bathroom. I locked the door.
Amanda couldn’t help but giggle. I’ll smuggle you the wine through the window.
I wish you could!!! Steph wrote back.
I’m here, I’m here, came Roni’s text at last. Not ignoring y’all. On a date.
What? Spill! Amanda wrote back quickly. Roni, a lawyer who dealt with international finance, lived in New York City. Steph had married her college sweetheart at twenty-five; she lived with her husband and two kids in Connecticut. Amanda hadn’t gone on even one date since breaking up with Justin. She and Steph lived vicariously through Roni’s busy dating life. Another Tinder guy?
Nope, Roni wrote. Worse. Blind date through a coworker. Why am I here?
To amuse us and keep us entertained, Steph wrote.
He ju
st went to the bathroom, Roni texted. Is it bad that I don’t really care if he comes back or not?
Going that well, huh? Amanda wrote.
Is he nice, at least? Steph asked.
Yes. Very nice. To the point of boring, Roni texted. I’m falling asleep in my soup. But he’s cute, so I’ll need to kiss him to know if I’ll see him again. Could go either way.
You’re ruthless, Amanda wrote.
I prefer to think of it as pragmatic, Roni answered.
The three of them talked for a few more minutes before signing off. Amanda didn’t even realize she’d finished her wine. She was cozy as could be in her bed, but made herself get up to brush her teeth. When she flopped back into bed, she realized she felt a little better. She smiled to herself as she burrowed further beneath the covers.
Wine helped, for sure. Her friends helped, always. Steph, with her suburban stay-at-home-mom life, and Roni, with her fast-paced, high-stress lawyer life. Steph loved being home with her kids. Roni loved the high stakes of her career. Amanda . . . well, her life was pretty quiet these days. Which was fine, even though she’d boxed herself into a routine. And what was worse, for now, she didn’t really care to change things up. Myles Harrison was about to get a whole lot sicker before he got better, and the anguish of that would be all she’d be able to handle for a while. Her own fault for getting so emotionally attached to her patient.
It was safer to be alone. Safer to come home and know her days, and have no surprises, and just push through. Being safe was boring sometimes, but she didn’t like to think about the alternative too much. She’d done exciting and ended up hurt. She’d taken a few risks before and they had left her reeling. Safe was better. Excitement and contentment . . . were for other people.
Chapter Three
As the plane began its descent into JFK Airport, Nick felt his stomach clench. He had no idea what lay ahead in the next few weeks. Agreeing to be someone’s bone marrow donor was a hell of a thing on its own—much less taking a leave from work, staying in a different state, being poked and prodded and God only knew what else by doctors, and dealing with a group of strangers who were desperate for him to be the miracle they’d been praying for.
Add to all that the bizarre fact that he was related to these people and they had no idea. How the hell was he supposed to bring that up?
When he’d peeled away from his parents’ house, he’d gone right to his favorite bar and called his best friend. He and Darin Peterson had met on their first day at the police training academy and been tight from that day one; there was no one else he trusted more. Darin had talked him down as they shared some beers, then driven him home when he’d exceeded his limit. The next morning, he’d gotten on the Internet and dug up everything he could on the Harrison family. His research and investigative skills had never felt so crucial.
He needn’t have worried. There was a lot of information readily available. This wasn’t just any family—they were like the goddamn Rockefellers, for Christ sake. There was extensive material on all of them; he spent hours making notes and soaking it all up. When he pulled up younger photos of Charles Harrison II, his bio dad, his breath got stuck in his lungs. His mom had been right; the resemblance was strong and undeniable.
His mom. Thinking of her now made his stomach do that miserable little flip again. God, he was so pissed at her. Her and his dad both. They’d both tried to call several times, sent texts and emails, but he hadn’t answered. All he’d done was shoot them one quick text right before he boarded the plane in Miami, letting them know he was leaving and would be in touch when he was ready.
The betrayal and rage Nick felt was so deep, so overwhelming, he hadn’t even processed it yet. So he did what he had to, same as any time he went out on the street at work: he shoved all those feelings into a box in his head and sealed it up. He had too much to deal with as it was; his parents would have to wait. He wasn’t ready to talk to them right now. He’d inherited his mother’s temper, that was for sure. He needed time and space to cool off.
The plane touched down gently onto the tarmac, and he glanced out the window. For mid-April, it didn’t look like springtime yet; everything looked gray and brown. Dead grass, naked trees, and concrete, all made even more gloomy by the overcast sky. Florida was gorgeous, always with everything in bloom, green grass and colorful flowers everywhere.... He sighed. Maybe New York City was something to write home about, but so far, on first glance, he was unimpressed.
He moved slowly as he disembarked, not in a hurry to face these Harrison people. He knew he’d have to tell them sooner or later who he was . . . but since he was still having a hard time wrapping his head around it, he was at a loss. He felt off his game. He was always so sure, and that confidence worked well for him as a cop. But this . . . he’d never dealt with anything like this. His whole sense of identity had been thrown for a loop. He had no idea what to do, how to handle it. So he’d just stay quiet, observe them all—watch, listen, and learn as if he were working undercover. At least that he knew how to do.
Nick was one of the last people off the plane. His long legs carried him through the terminal, but he didn’t even feel aware of his surroundings. He shifted his duffel bag over his shoulder and kept following the signs toward the baggage claim.
Nick waited by the baggage carousel for almost fifteen minutes before his bag finally appeared. He pulled it off, shifted his duffel on his shoulder, and wheeled his suitcase along as he headed toward the exits. Charles Harrison had told him that someone would be waiting there for him, a driver to take him to his hotel. Charles had made all the arrangements, covering every base. If Nick allowed himself, he could almost think of it as a vacation . . . if vacations involved hospitals, needles, and sick kids.
Sure enough, a stocky, tough-looking man in a dark suit stood front and center, holding a sign that simply read MARTELL. Nick went to him and said, “I think you’re looking for me. I’m Nick Martell.”
“Okay, great,” the man said. His eyes were almost as silver as his crew-cut hair. “You have ID to show me, though?”
Nick wanted to scoff at the suggestion, then remembered who he was dealing with. The super-wealthy and powerful Harrison family clearly didn’t mess around. This guy was like a tank; Nick bet he was former Army or even Marines, just based on his vibe. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, showing not just his driver’s license, but his badge. He watched as the guy’s steely gaze glanced over both.
“Nice to meet you, Officer Martell,” the man said. He extended his free hand for a handshake. “Name’s Bruck. I’m Charles Harrison’s driver. He’s waiting outside in the car. He figured you two could talk as I drive you to your hotel, since it’s a good forty-minute ride from here.”
“I see.” Nick knew Charles must be anxious to meet him, considering he was there to try to help save his son’s life, so he didn’t read too much into it. “Call me Nick, though, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for God’s sake, don’t ‘sir’ me.” Nick slanted him a sideways look. “First of all, I’m probably half your age. Second . . . I’m like you, not them.”
Bruck only nodded. “I’ll take your luggage.” He reached down to grasp the handle of Nick’s suitcase from his hand.
But Nick held tight and said, “No, dude, I can do that.”
Bruck raised one thick brow and said, “Make you a deal. I won’t call you ‘sir,’ and you won’t call me ‘dude.’ Okay?”
Nick laughed, relaxing a bit for the first time all day. “Sure.”
Bruck started walking and Nick followed, pulling the wheeled case along.
“You were in the service, weren’t you?” Nick guessed, unable to help himself.
“Army,” Bruck said. “Fifteen years.”
“I can tell.”
Bruck only nodded, but Nick caught the spark of esteem in his eyes.
“So now you’re a driver. You his muscle too?” Nick asked casually.
“Sometimes.” Br
uck didn’t give him more than that, but Nick didn’t need any more. This guy was probably armed, and his broad build hinted at sure physical strength. “How long you been a cop?” Bruck asked. His New York accent wasn’t heavy like the stereotypes Nick had heard in movies, but it was definitely noticeable.
“Five years. Just got promoted, actually,” Nick found himself saying. “I’m moving up to investigator.”
“Good for you,” Bruck said, and Nick thought he heard real respect in his voice.
They went through sliding glass doors and made their way through the people on the sidewalk. Every building was gray; the sky was gray. . . . Nick didn’t like it. He already missed the sunshine and the bright colors. Ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto, he thought, grinning ruefully.
Then he noticed the black Escalade parked a few feet away. He watched Bruck go to it, and frowned. Private cars weren’t usually allowed to stay parked curbside at airports for more than a minute. He knew NYC security and law enforcement were pretty tight by reputation. So how the hell had Bruck done that? Big money, that’s how, a voice whispered in his head. You’re entering a different world now, remember? Buckle up.
Bruck opened the trunk and took the suitcase handle from Nick’s hand. As he hauled it into the back, Nick pulled his duffel bag over his shoulder and put it inside. Then he took a deep breath, went to the passenger door, and opened it.
“Hello.” The dark-haired man sitting in the backseat wore an expensive suit, was a little older than him, and reeked of power and prestige. But he leaned in, offering a friendly smile and a firm handshake. “So good to meet you, Mr. Martell. I trust your flight was fine?”
Nick only nodded. He peered harder into the shadows of the backseat.
It Might Be You Page 3
