by J. R. Ward
There were twelve other people in the circle and one empty chair, and she knew everybody in the room as well as the person who was missing tonight. After having listened to them all go on about their lives for the past couple of months, she could recite the names of their husbands and wives and children, if they had them, knew the critical events that had shaped their pasts, and had insight into the darkest corners of their inner closets.
She’d been going to the prayer group since September, and she’d found out about it from a notice posted on the church bulletin board: The Bible in Daily Life, Tuesdays and Fridays, 8 p.m.
Tonight’s discussion was on the book of Job, and the extrapolations were obvious: Everyone was talking about the vast struggles they were dealing with, and how they were certain that their faith would be rewarded and God would see them through to a prosperous future—as long as they kept believing.
Marie-Terese didn’t say anything. She never did.
Unlike when she went to confession, down here in the basement she was looking to do something other than talk. The thing was, there was no other place in her life where she could be around normal-ish people. She certainly wasn’t finding them at the club, and outside of work, she had no friends, no family, no anyone.
So every week she came here and sat in this circle and tried to connect in some small way to the rest of the planet. As it was now, she felt like she was on a distant shore, staring across a raging river at the Land of the Worried Well, and it wasn’t that she begrudged or belittled them. On the contrary, she tried to take strength from being in their company, thinking that maybe if she breathed the same air they did, and drank the same coffee, and listened to their stories…maybe someday she would live among them once again.
As a result, these meetings weren’t a religious thing to her, and unlike the fecund mother hen next to her with the obvious Bible, Marie-Terese’s Good Book stayed in her purse. Heck, she brought it only in case someone asked her where it was and it was a good thing it was only the size of a palm.
With a frown, she tried to remember where she’d picked it up. It had been somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon, in a convenience store…Georgia? Alabama? She’d been on the trail of her ex-husband and had needed something, anything to get her through the days and nights without losing her mind.
That was what, three years ago?
Seemed like three minutes and three millennia at the same time.
God, those horrible months. She’d known getting away from Mark was going to be awful, but she’d had no idea how bad it would really get.
After he’d beaten her up and abducted Robbie, she’d spent two nights in the hospital getting over what he’d done to her, and then she’d found a private investigator and headed after them. It had taken all of that May, June, and July to locate her son, and she still to this day had no clue how she’d gotten through those horrible weeks.
Funny, she hadn’t had her faith back then and things had still worked out, the miracle she had been praying for being granted even though she hadn’t really believed in who she was asking things of. Clearly, all the entreaties had worked, though, and she could remember with total clarity the sight of the PI’s black Navigator pulling up to the Motel 6 she’d been staying in. Robbie had opened the SUV’s door and stepped into the Florida sunshine, and she had meant to run toward him, but her knees had failed. Sinking down onto the sidewalk, she had held her arms out as she’d wept.
She’d thought he was dead.
Robbie had turned toward the choking sound…and the instant he’d seen her, he’d bolted across the distance as fast as he could go. As he’d slammed into her arms, his clothes had been dirty and his hair shaggy and he’d smelled like burnt macaroni and cheese. But he lived and breathed and was in her arms.
He hadn’t cried then, however. And he hadn’t cried since.
Hadn’t spoken of his father or those three months, either. Even to the therapists she’d taken him to.
Marie-Terese had assumed that the worst part of the experience had been not knowing whether the son she had birthed and loved was alive or not. His coming home was just another hell, though. She wanted to ask him if he was all right every minute of every day, but obviously she couldn’t do that. And every once in a while, when she cracked and put the question out there, he just told her he was fine.
He was not fine. Could not possibly be fine.
The details the PI had been able to give her were sketchy. Her husband had taken Robbie across the country, going from rental car to rental car, and living off of a host of aliases and a massive cash stash. It had turned out that he’d kept a low profile for a couple of reasons—because it wasn’t just Marie-Terese who’d been looking for him.
And to keep Robbie from trying to escape, it was likely that Mark had bullied him. Which made her want to kill her ex-husband.
After she’d gotten Robbie back and filed for divorce, she’d run as far away from where they’d lived as she could, surviving on money she’d taken from Mark and jewelry he’d bought her. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been enough to live off of for long, not after the lawyers’ fees, the PI’s bill, and the cost of reinventing herself.
What she had ended up doing for money made her think about Job. She was willing to bet when the tide had turned against him he hadn’t known what hit him: One minute he was fine and dandy; the next he’d been stripped of everything that had defined him and been taken so low that surely he’d thought of doing things to survive that once would have been incomprehensible.
She was the same. She never would have seen this coming. Not the descent downward or the hard landing as she’d bottomed out and turned to prostitution.
But she should have known better. Her ex had been shady from the start, a man with cash everywhere except in bank accounts. Where the hell had she thought the money came from? People who were in legitimate businesses had credit cards and debit cards and maybe a couple of twenties in their wallets. They didn’t keep hundreds of thousands of dollars in Gucci briefcases hidden in the closets of their Las Vegas hotel suites.
Of course, she hadn’t known about all that in the beginning. When it had all started, she’d been too snowed by the presents and the dinners out and the plane rides. Only later had she started to question things, and by then it was too late: She had a son she loved and a husband she was terrified of, and that had shut her up quick.
If she was brutally honest with herself, the mystery of Mark had been the true attraction in the beginning. The mystery and the fairy tale and the money.
She had paid for that attraction. Dearly…
The sound of chairs skidding across the floor brought her out of her own head. The meeting was over and the participants were standing up and doing the supportive huggy thing—which meant she needed to get out fast before she became entangled.
It was one thing to listen to them; another to feel them against her.
That she couldn’t handle.
Rising to her feet, she slung her bag onto her shoulder and beelined for the door. On the way out, she said some quick, detail-less things to the others, and as always, got those looks Christians bestowed on the less fortunate, all poor, dear girl.
She had to wonder whether they would have been so generous with the support if they knew where she went and what she did after these meetings. She wanted to believe it would have been no different. Couldn’t help but doubt it, though.
Out in the hall, there were others gathering for the next meeting of the night, which she’d heard was a Narcotics Anonymous group that had recently started congregating at St. Patrick’s. Everyone was cordial, the two sets of troubled mingling as the room handoff occurred.
Searching in her purse to find her car keys, she—
Slammed into a wall of a man.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She looked up, way up, into a pair of lion’s eyes. “I, er…”
“Easy, there.” The man steadied her and gave her a small, gentle smile. His hair was as spectacular
as that yellow stare, all different kinds of colors that flowed onto his huge shoulders. “You okay?”
“Ah…” She’d seen him before, not only out in the hallway but also at ZeroSum, and had marveled at his unreal looks, thinking maybe he was a model. And naturally, part of her worried that he knew what she did for a living, but he never seemed awkward with her or skeevy in the slightest.
Besides, if he was attending NA, he had some demons of his own to confront.
“Ma’am? Hello?”
“Oh…God, sorry. Yes, I’m fine—I just really need to watch where I’m going.”
With a smile back to him, she ducked into the stairwell, headed up to the cathedral’s first floor and left through those big double doors in front. Out on the street, she hustled past the rows of cars that were parallel-parked and wished she’d gotten a better spot. Her Camry was down quite a way, and she was biting on her molars from the cold by the time she jumped in and started the ritual of getting the engine to turn over.
“Come on…come on…”
Finally she got a wheeze and a vroom and then she was doing an illegal U-turn over the double yellow line that ran down the middle of the street.
Caught up in her own head, she failed to notice the pair of headlights that slipped into her wake…and stayed there.
CHAPTER
9
As Jim parked his truck a half a block from the Commodore, he thought, Yup, he could see Vin having a crib there. The outside of the building was stark, nothing but glass bezel set into thin steel girders, but that was what would give each of the condos such incredible views. And just from what he could see of the lobby from the street, the inside was pure decadence, all flood-lit, bloodred marble, with a flower arrangement the size of a fire truck smack in the middle of the space.
Also made sense that Blue Dress would live in a place like this.
Shit, he should have suggested just he and diPietro go out somewhere together to eat: With what had happened the night before still so vivid, being in the same enclosed space with that woman was not the brightest idea. And then, hello, there was the complication of his having to save her fucking boyfriend from eternal damnation.
Killing the engine, he rubbed his face and for some reason thought of Dog, who he’d left at home all curled up on the messy bed. The little guy had been out like a light, his thin flank rising and falling, his full belly a ball his little legs had to splay around.
How in the hell had he managed to pick up a pet?
Putting his keys into his leather jacket, he left the truck and went across the street. As he pushed his way into the lobby, what had looked lush from the street was magnificent up close, but there was going to be no loitering to admire the place. The instant he walked in, the guard behind the desk looked up with a frown.
“Good evening—are you Mr. Heron?” The guy was fiftyish and dressed in a black uniform, his eyes neither slow nor stupid. Chances were good he was armed and knew how to handle what he was packing.
Jim had to approve. “Yeah, I am.”
“May I see some identification, please?”
Jim got out his wallet and flipped it open to the New York State driver’s license he’d bought about three days after he’d arrived in Caldwell.
“Thank you. I’ll call Mr. diPietro.” The guard was two seconds on the phone, and then he swept his arm toward the elevators. “Go right up, sir.”
“Thanks.”
The ride to the twenty-eighth floor was smooth as silk, and Jim amused himself by locating the mostly hidden eyes of the security cameras: The things were positioned in the upper corners where the gold mirrored panels came together, and they were made to look like decorations. With the four of them, no matter which way someone was facing, there’d be a clean shot at his or her face.
Nice. Very nice.
The bing that announced Jim’s arrival was just as discreet, and as the doors parted, Vin diPietro was right there, standing in a long ivory hallway, looking like he owned the whole frickin’ building.
DiPietro put out his palm. “Welcome.”
Guy had a solid handshake, firm and quick, and he looked great—also not a surprise. Whereas Jim was in his second-best flannel shirt and sporting a fresh shave, Vin was in a different suit than he’d had on a mere three hours ago at the hospital.
Probably just wore the things once and threw them away.
“You mind if I call you Jim?”
“Nope.”
DiPietro led the way over to a door and opened the way into…Shit, the place was right out of the Donald Trump collection, nothing but black marble, gold curlicues, crystal crap, and carved statutes. From the floors of the front hall, to the stairs that led up to a second level…and then, yeah, what was laid down in the living room, there was so much cut and finished stone, Jim had to wonder how many quarries had been stripped to kit the place out. And the furniture…Christ, the sofas and chairs looked like jewelry, with all of their gold leafing and gemstone-colored silk.
“Devina, come meet our guest,” diPietro called over his shoulder.
As the sound of high-heeled shoes came toward the living room, Jim stared out at a truly stunning view of Caldwell…and tried not to think of when he’d seen the woman last.
She had on the same perfume she’d worn the night before.
And how fitting her name was. She’d certainly felt divine.
“Jim?” diPietro said.
Jim waited a moment longer, to give her time to look at the side of his face and compose herself. Seeing him from far away was one thing; having him in her home, close enough to touch, was another. Was she in blue again?
No, red. And diPietro had his arm around her waist.
Jim nodded at her, refusing to let even one memory enter his head. “Nice to meet you.”
She smiled at him and extended her hand. “Welcome. I hope you like Italian food?”
Jim shook her palm quickly and then stuffed his hand in the pocket of his jeans. “Yeah, I do.”
“Good. The cook is off for the next week, and Italian is pretty much all I can do.”
Shit. Now what.
In the silence that followed, the three of them stood around as if they were all wondering the same thing.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Devina said, “I’ll just go check on dinner.”
Vin dropped a kiss on her mouth. “We’ll have drinks here.”
As the clipping of those high heels receded, diPietro went over to a wet bar. “What’s your poison?”
Interesting question. In Jim’s old line of work, he’d used cyanide, anthrax, tetrodotoxin, ricin, mercury, morphine, heroin, as well as some of the new designer nerve agents. He’d injected the stuff, put it in food, dusted it on doorknobs, sprayed it on mail, contaminated all manner of drink and medications. And that was before he’d gotten really creative.
Yup, he was as good with all that as he was with a knife or a gun or his bare hands. Not that diPietro needed to know it.
“Don’t suppose you have any beer?” Jim said, glancing at all of the top-shelf liquor bottles.
“I’ve got the new Dogfish. It’s fantastic.”
Right, Jim had been thinking a Bud, and God only knew what that was—neither dogs nor fish were something you wanted brewing with hops. But whatever. “Sounds good.”
DiPietro fired up two long glasses and opened a panel that turned out to be a mini-fridge. Grabbing a pair of bottles, he popped off the caps and poured out a dark beer with a head so white it looked like ocean foam.
“I think you’ll like this.”
Jim accepted one of the glasses along with a little linen napkin that had the initials V.S.dP. on it. A single sip…and all he could say was, “Damn.”
“Good, right?” DiPietro took a draw and then lifted the beer to the light as if inspecting its character. “It’s the best.”
“Straight from Heaven.” As Jim savored what was passing over his tongue, he looked around with fresh eyes at all the fancy-dancy
. Maybe the rich did have a something going on. “So, this is a hell of a place you got.”
“The bluff house is going to be even more magnificent.”
Jim wandered over to the banks of glass and leaned into the view. “Why would you want to leave this?”
“Because where I’m going is better.”
A subtle doorbell-like chiming went off, and Jim glanced down at a phone.
Vin looked over as well. “That’s my business line and I have to take it.” With his beer in his hand, he headed for a doorway on the opposite side of the room. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
As the guy walked off, Jim laughed to himself. Home here? Riiiiiiight. He felt like he was part of one of those children’s quizzes where the kid had to pick out the object that didn’t belong: carrot, cucumber, apple, zucchini. Answer: apple. Silk-covered sofa, fine woven rug, workman, crystal decanters. Answer: duh.
“Hi.”
Jim closed his eyes. Her voice was still lovely. “Hi.”
“I…”
Jim pivoted around and was not surprised to find that her eyes were still sad.
As she struggled for words, he held up his hand to stop her. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I’ve…I’ve never done anything like last night before. I just wanted…”
“Something that was very not him?” Jim shook his head as she grew agitated. “Oh…shit…look, don’t cry.”
He put down the beer diPietro had poured for him and came forward holding out the napkin. He would have dabbed at her tears himself, but he didn’t want to smudge the makeup.
Devina’s hand trembled as she took what he offered. “I’m not going to tell him. Ever.”
“And he’s not finding out from me.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes drifted over to the phone console, where a light was flashing next to the word study. “I love him. I do…. It’s just…he’s complicated. He’s a…complicated man, and I know he cares for me in his own way, but sometimes I feel invisible. And you? You actually saw me.”
