by Holly Hart
Starkey glances at Jack, and back at me. He plucks at my shirt. “I need to move this aside. To examine you.”
I can’t watch. I close my eyes and pretend to be anywhere else as Starkey presses his palms to my hip, my abdomen, my ribs. It’s sore, but not excruciating. It’s the helplessness that gets me, the humiliation.
“Looks all right. But if you get any sickness or dizziness, any shortness of breath, you’ll need a hospital. Right away.”
“Right away....”
He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hey. Did you hit your head at all?”
Did I? I don’t think so. “No.”
“You sure?”
Fuck off. “Yeah. Did you hit yours?”
He scowls and straightens up. Something crackles in his neck. “I’ll get that ice. Soap and water for the knee. Anything else?” He really looks awful. His eyes are red and hollow, and he’s in pajamas in the middle of the day. I’m being an asshole.
“Sorry.” I blink and sniffle. “That was rude.”
Starkey looks away. “It’s fine. You’re....” He catches Jack’s eye and turns red. “Right. Ice. I’m going.”
“What was—ow!—what was all that about?” I gesture at my own face. “He get in a fight?”
Jack’s looking anywhere but at me. “He crossed a line.”
“He—” I can only think of one line Starkey’s crossed lately. “This is because of the Hamptons?” I’m not sure I want to know.
“I called him in to dress him down for covering for you.” Jack shoots me a sharp look. “Imagine my surprise when he practically fell over himself apologizing for assaulting you. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I wasn’t sure whether....” Whether he did it on your say-so. “I mean—”
“You thought I’d allow that?”
I turn my head away. I can’t take it, that look of wounded horror in his eyes. Not now. I’m aching all over, half-sick with pain, on the verge of a breakdown. I want to escape into sleep. Deal with this later.
Jack’s stroking the back of my hand, thumb tracing restless circles. “It’s all right. You don’t have to worry.” His lips brush my temple. “I know you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. But I wouldn’t hurt you. Or let Starkey do it. I’d send him away, but—” He squeezes my hand, too hard. “No, fuck it. I will.”
“Don’t.”
“No?” He’s trying to get me to look at him, one finger under my chin. But I can’t. If I do, he’ll see the tears gathered at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill. That I can’t take.
“He warned me about Magnus. Before the ball. I think he was trying to look out for me.”
“Starkey?”
I nod. “He—well, he tried to make it up to me. In his way.” It’s the morning after I’m thinking about, the way he stood at the counter, white-knuckled, talking about compromises. He seemed...trapped. Same way Jack did, at the ball—Whatever you think you know, it’s so much worse. Maybe Starkey’s been punished enough, and in ways I can’t imagine.
“I’ll keep him out of your hair, at least. And I’m sorry.”
I’m saved from having to respond to that by Starkey reappearing with the ice. He wraps the bag around my ankle and fixes it there with a bandage. “Keep it on twenty minutes, and off for an hour. Do you need me to—”
“I’ll do it.” I hear splashing. I brace myself, but it still stings like hell when Jack sets to cleaning my wound. It’s too much, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my face to the cushion.
“I can get you an aspirin, or something stronger.”
“No.” I do want something, but I can’t let him see how shaken I am. Maybe a bath’ll help, once I’ve calmed down—hot water and quiet, time to think.
“You don’t have to, uh... You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Not for me.”
I swallow hard, thinking of that angry, twisted scar below his ribs.
“You can scream if you want, or squeeze my hand.”
I don’t do either, but I finally manage to look at him. It’s almost unbearable, his warmth, his open concern. Makes me want to comfort him, when it’s probably his past that’s got us into this mess. “I think it looks worse than it is.” My voice cracks, but somehow, my eyes stay dry.
The pain eases off just a little, as he rubs something cool and soothing into my knee. “You didn’t... There wasn’t anything in your purse? Anything that shouldn’t have been?”
Yes. “No.”
“If this was in any way, uh...my fault....” He hangs his head. “Whatever it takes, this ends here. No more. I’m... I’ve been done for a while. I just need some time—a couple of weeks, and.... I’m ending this.”
I wish I knew what he was talking about.
“Do you want me to go?”
I definitely don’t want to be alone. “Stay.”
Outside, a light rain starts to fall. It’s soothing, the way it patters against the windows. I let myself drift. Jack settles in beside me and starts playing with my hair. It’s nice. Familiar. I hardly even mind when a stray tear breaks loose and rolls down the side of my face, or when Jack quietly thumbs it away.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jack
I stretch out on Stella’s bed. One of her birds is singing. The other’s tucked into the corner, head under its wing. Kind of like Stella. She’s barely left the couch since the mugging. The swelling’s gone down on her ankle, and her bruises have faded to a sickly green, but it’s like all the energy’s been drained out of her. I brought out her laptop earlier—thought she might appreciate something to do—but she pecked at the keys for a few minutes and went back to sleep.
This is on my head.
I fish out my watch. Sixteen hundred hours, but there’s nothing to do. Took the week off to take care of her, but she doesn’t want anything. I help her to the bath twice a day, try to get her to eat, and that’s it.
Maybe she’d let me brush her hair. I wander over to her vanity. Her brush is right there, where she left it: an ornate, gilded thing, soft-bristled, with her initials on the handle. Looks sentimental. Like something her mother would’ve gotten her. I rifle through the rest of her things: a matching mirror, a set of makeup brushes, a nail file. A watch with some Italian inscription on the back. Just what she came with. The rest of them—they all got straight to work, spending my money. Filled the place with everything under the sun. Stella wanted the comforts of home.
Home. I could get her something from there. Italian food, or.... Or.... I’m drawing a blank. I’ve never asked. Never been curious enough to find out.
I sit down and dig through her drawers. There’s not much there, either—makeup, hairpins, a few pairs of earrings. The string of black pearls she wore to her interview with Katrina. I remember those. She kept touching them on the way out. When she thought we couldn’t see her any more.
This isn’t helping. I need to get her off that couch, whether she wants it or not. Drag her back to the land of the living.
“Sir?” Starkey’s hovering in the doorway. At least he’s dressed today.
“What is it?”
“I could go out, if you want. Pick up some stuff. Her favorites....”
“I can do that myself.”
Starkey doesn’t flinch, but the corners of his mouth quirk downward. Guess there’s no need to snap, but I hate the insinuation he knows her better than I do. He doesn’t. He can’t. He might be the one who does her shopping, but I’m the one who takes her to dinner. Listens to her stories. Lets her steal from my wardrobe. That’s my shirt she’s snuggled into right now. Not Starkey’s.
“I’ll just—”
“No.” I hold up my hand. “Go. That’s a good idea.” And it’ll get him out of here for a while.
I follow him out to the living room and plunk myself down on the loveseat. Might as well let her sleep a while longer. At least till Starkey gets back.
The fall weather’s finally here. It’s been windy for days, gray sk
ies for miles. The rain’s drumming on the windows again. No wonder Stella won’t wake up: it’s like a goddamn white noise machine. One I can’t turn off. I’m getting drowsy myself. Heavy-eyed.
I let my head droop. Doesn’t matter if I nap. The door’ll wake me up. Always been a light sleeper. Well, almost always. It was different for a while—those blue lake days, after....
I jolt upright, startled by...nothing. Nothing’s changed. Stella’s still sleeping. The rain’s coming down. Thunder rumbles in the distance, moving toward the horizon.
Must be going nuts, cooped up in here. I fumble for my train of thought. The blue lake: how I pictured my Vicodin haze. After the incident. Fathoms of water, flattening me to the lakebed. Not painkillers, but guilt. The terrible decision I couldn’t take back. I felt it for the first time before the hospital, in the desert, Erik crouched over me, packing gauze into the gaping hole in my belly.
Magnus was digging a hole. Ferris was staring at the sky, McHugh curled on his side, like he’d fallen asleep.
I wondered things, then, in my cocoon of shock. Fuzzy little questions, like how Erik and Magnus had found me so fast. How they’d found me at all. How they’d strolled in so easily, like they belonged. Questions I never let myself ask again, because it was too late.
What was done was done.
Stella stirs in her sleep, but doesn’t rouse. This is my handiwork, too.
I keep telling myself it’s too late, but that’s only true if I’m not willing to accept the consequences. I could own up to everything. Bring it all down in flames, and me in the cockpit.
I just need a couple of weeks. Time to tie up loose ends, make sure no one innocent gets hurt.
Stella’s huddled against the back of the couch, curled into the cushions. Makes my heart ache to see her so alone, so I stretch out alongside her, careful not to jostle her awake. She breathes the smallest of sighs as I bury my face in the crook of her neck.
“It’ll all be over soon,” I tell her.
Whatever the cost.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Stella
Everything’s changed. Feels like that last week of summer vacation: long, golden days that feel like they’ll go on forever—but you stay up as late as you can, because you know that they won’t. Something’s hovering in the air. An ending, and not a happy one.
“Ready to go?”
I smile, because that’s what you do at the end of summer. You dive off the pier; you swim out to the raft; you sail and you tan and you barbecue. You soak it for everything you can get. “Where are we headed?”
“It’s a surprise.”
It’s all been a surprise, lately. Jack’s been perfect. Patient. Kind. Got me back on my feet with teasing and card games and homemade soup. It’s like a wall’s crumbled away, and our endless game of truth-or-dare has become a conversation. He’s been affectionate, respectful—almost like a real relationship. Exactly like a real relationship: no inspections, no rules, no codes of conduct. And it feels like a long goodbye.
“How cold is it out there?”
Jack stares out the window for a moment too long. “I’ll grab you a jacket.”
Starkey’s been different, too, distant and subdued. When I added a pregnancy test to my shopping list, he brought it without comment. I wasn’t even surprised when it came up positive. Concerned, definitely. Homesick, as well—it’s been weeks since I’ve spoken to anyone I’d want to tell, anyone who’d be excited to know. But not surprised.
I both feared and anticipated Jack finding out. Would’ve been easier than telling him myself, but Starkey must’ve kept his mouth shut. No one’s said a thing. Maybe we’re all pretending we don’t know. Waiting for...whatever’s coming.
“Catch!” My jacket comes sailing across the room, plopping gracelessly in my lap. I shrug into it, and let Jack help me to my feet. My ankle’s still tender, and I’m stuck with a big, stupid boot, but I’m getting around.
The ride to wherever we’re going is weird and quiet. Reminds me of the trip to the Hamptons, but without the mortal fear. Jack keeps looking at me like he’s trying to memorize my face. Every time I start to ask him what the fuck, I lose my nerve and wander into small talk. We go over the weather, the relative merits of tacos versus burritos, the way no one in New York dresses for the season, and we’re here.
“The planetarium?”
Jack conjures a vague smile. “I booked it just for us. We can stay as late as we want.”
I take his arm and let him lead me inside. It’s beautiful in the dome: the sound’s turned off, and it’s like stepping into the silence of space. Galaxies and constellations spiral overhead, slow and majestic. But all I feel is foreboding. This is too much like...like the kind of perfect memory you try to leave someone with, when you know you’ll never see them again.
“Sit with me.”
All the seats are empty, so I take the closest one. Jack sits down next to me, and we lean on one another in the dark, watching the universe go by.
“You’ve... You’re going to do something. Aren’t you?”
I feel, rather than see, Jack turn his head toward me. “Tomorrow.”
So soon? I want to scream at him, shake him, demand an explanation. But I can’t ruin this for him. “It’ll all be over then. Won’t it?”
“You can be there for your mother, like you wanted.”
It’s not an answer, but it fills me with a terrible certainty, anyway. He’s going to sacrifice himself, somehow, throw it all over, and I don’t want him to do it. I might have come here to bring him down, but now that it’s happening, I can’t think of anything I want less. “You might as well tell me, then. What did you do?”
I can hear him breathing—sharp gasps of air; long, shuddering exhales. I can’t tell if he’s crying in the dark, but his distress is clear.
“I’ll tell you. Just not now. Let’s enjoy this for a moment.”
I’m not sure either of us is enjoying it, exactly, but I nod anyway, and squeeze his hand when I realize he probably didn’t see me. I watch a series of bluish, Earth-like planets orbit a distant sun as a trio of comets passes by.
“I saw something terrible going on,” he says at last. “And instead of blowing the whistle, instead of doing the right thing, I took advantage of the situation. Made myself rich.” He shifts in his seat, wiping at his face. “Thought I shut it all down, while I was at it, but....”
“But?”
“But I don’t think I did. I don’t think I did at all. Might even have made it worse.”
I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to know. “Did anyone die?”
“Yes.”
There’s nothing to say to that. No way around it. I stare into the endless starfield, seeing nothing.
It’s dark when we finally leave. The real stars seem faint and impossibly distant after the ones in the planetarium. I turn to Jack to comment on that, but the words die on my lips. What difference does it make? Vacation is over, over, over.
I turn to him again as our building comes into view, but again, I can’t say what I want to say. Which is no, please—you can’t go! I’m pregnant! I still don’t know what he did exactly. Or who he might be hurting. Demanding he save himself might be unconscionably selfish.
That leaves one option: I have to make him talk. And it has to be tonight.
A faint ember of hope glows in my heart as we make our way to the penthouse. Summer doesn’t always end. Some people chase the sun all year long, one paradise to the next. We could do that. Run away together, leave it all behind....
“What are you thinking?”
I smile up at Jack—almost a real smile, this time. “How it’s always summer somewhere.”
“That’s a good thought.” He tilts his head. “Reminds me of our first morning together. The dream you had.”
I remember that, too. How the whole thing felt like a dream—not at all how I thought it would go.
The elevator doors open, and Starkey’s in the hall.
Waiting for us. I whirl on Jack—what? This is it? Not even a last night together, a chance to talk, say goodbye?—but he looks just as surprised as I am.
“Starkey?”
“There’s....” He swallows with an audible click, and for the first time, I notice how pale he is. “You have to come inside. There’s something on the news.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jack
The ticker says it all: GUNMAN AT LARGE IN NAGLER SHOOTING.
Magnus. This is Magnus—but why? Nagler’s neutralized. Hasn’t been a threat in years.
“This is from an hour ago.” Starkey lowers his voice so only I can hear. “There’s still time. If you have a contingency.”
I nod tightly. I don’t have a plan, not for this, but I’m not going to take it lying down.
Stella’s fixated on the screen, staring without seeing. Got a death-grip on my arm. So she knows who he is—who he was. I’m not surprised.
I recognize Nagler’s building, and some of the rubberneckers gathered outside. A pasty-faced reporter steps in front of the camera, washed out by the floodlights. “Excuse the delay—sorry. We’ve got the police here, still very much engaged in crowd control. They’ve cordoned this whole area to the east, here, where the shooting took place, and.... We have, uh—sir? Sir? Could you step forward?”
A tall, twitchy man enters the shot. The camera zooms out to accommodate his height.
“So you witnessed—you saw the actual—”
The man butts in, overeager. “Man, I was here, right on that bench! There was a flash from up there—” He points, and the camera cuts to the roof of a nearby building. “—and then everyone was screaming, diving for cover—it was nuts. I was under that bench for a second; then I thought, wait, it’s wood; bullets totally go through—”
“And when did you realize what was happening?”
“I didn’t! Not till it was over! I just... Everyone hit the deck, and, uh...pack instinct, man! Didn’t know anyone got hit till that lady came out.”
“That would be Felix Nagler’s wife, Cynthia Nagler—and the police, ah, they’ve escorted her inside, maybe five minutes ago. It doesn’t appear she’s a suspect at this stage.” The reporter holds out his microphone. “So you think—you’re thinking a sniper? That’s what you saw?”
