by Holly Hart
“I know.” He shifts, and his hand brushes mine. “You know what I found out afterward?”
“What?”
“Once you close those things, they lock. Forever. If I’d pulled that top down, I’d have suffocated in there.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” I’m still giggling—every time I think I’m done, another snicker breaks loose.
“Maybe not.”
“Definitely not.”
“I was drunk, too.” He swivels his head my way. “Thoroughly hammered.”
Well, duh. “So, how was it?”
“Huh?”
“Your preview of the great hereafter.”
His gaze cuts to the finger of sun stealing between the drapes. “Uncomfortable. Depressing. Cramped.” A stray tear runs down his cheek, catching the light. A tear of laughter, I think, but the sight of it makes me feel weird. Protective. “Don’t let them stick me in a box when I go. I want cremation. Burial at sea. Or that new thing, where they dissolve you into fertilizer. Make sure someone knows.”
As if I’d be in charge of that.... “You should put it in your will.”
“Mm.” He half-rises, as if to say something else, but he’s interrupted by a knock at the door. Our food. I’d almost forgotten.
Max brings in the cart. The food smells great, but when it comes time to eat it, neither of us has half the appetite we’d anticipated. He picks at the bacon; I poke at a piece of French toast. The sweetness sits heavy on my tongue, even after a swig of coffee.
I drop my fork and sink into the pillows. I’m made of sandbags. Too heavy to move.
Max sighs, and I feel my plate being taken away. Warmth settles over me: he’s folded me into the blanket. I murmur a protest—I’m not sleeping; I’m not—but it comes out as an incoherent moan.
Maybe five minutes. Then I’ll call Wes. It’ll be hard on him, all alone in London. It’s killing me, too—the guilt, mostly, not being there for him. Picturing him oceans away, no one to turn to. If it weren’t for Max, I’d be falling apart, myself.
I force my eyes open. Max is whistling under his breath, folding his jacket over the back of a chair. This should be uncomfortable, a ticking time bomb situation, but it feels...easy. Familiar. All that’s missing is his warm weight at my back, his fingers in my hair....
I could hold up the cover for him. Call him over. But maybe it’s only exhaustion holding back his anger, only the need for comfort.
My eyes drift shut. The sounds of the street are soothing, muted by distance and double glazing. So tired.
I hear a distant flump: Max taking over the couch. What I wouldn’t give for his arms around me—but he’s right. It’s a bad idea. I turn over on my side, away from the morning sun.
Five minutes....
“Wake up!”
What? I wasn’t—
Max is shaking me, none too gently. “Christ, Kate, get up!”
I’m sticky and sweaty—a little sick. The sun’s beating down, baking me in my blanket burrito. Must be almost noon. I wipe my face on the pillow. “What? I’m awake.”
“I’ll get you a cold washcloth.”
“What’s the matter?”
He’s already gone. I sit up slowly, cataloguing my aches and pains. My face hurts the most—no, my whole head. And my back’s one giant cramp. Must’ve wrenched it in the fall. My arms—
“Here.” Max thrusts a wet cloth into my hands. I wipe my face mechanically, wincing at the amount of makeup that comes off. I must look like a clown, after a morning of sweating into the pillow.
“What’s wrong?”
Max looks at me—through me—like he’s not seeing me at all. His pupils are blown, and he’s gone an unhealthy shade of gray. “Rachel. She’s—something’s going on. I don’t know. Here.” He flicks on the TV. We don’t even have to hunt for it: it’s right there. Headline news. We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for this glimpse of hell.
“What—?”
A bright-faced anchor pops up, dazzling in her periwinkle blouse. “And we’re here in front of Congressman Kyle Abernathy’s DC residence, and as you can see, we’ve got paramedics on standby, and a significant police presence—oh! And more on the way.” Sirens wail, and she pauses to let them die down. “Neighbors report a single shot fired inside the home—that was around nine this morning, and it looks like the police are setting up for a hostage negotiation. We’ve got SWAT here, and communications equipment being set up, but so far—”
“She’s—she’s dead?”
Max silences me with a hand on my arm. “We don’t know that.”
A flustered-looking cop barges into the shot. “Gonna need you to make some room—that van can’t be blocking the road.”
The camera swings away from the confrontation, panning over a line of closed and curtained windows. A spot dances on the glass—laser light? A sniper?
“No. No....”
Max drops his phone on the bed. “Carson’s not picking up. You got anything?”
I scroll through my notifications: nothing. “This is Dev all over again.”
“Something’s happening.” Max’s hand finds mine. It’d be more reassuring if I couldn’t feel him trembling. I squeeze back anyway. Something is going on: one of the cops is nodding into his phone, hand held up for silence. When the camera swivels back to the house, there’s a couple of SWAT guys on the door, weapons drawn. Awaiting orders.
“This is—that’s a good sign.” Max swallows. “If they’re going in, it means.... It means they’re not just shooting. They’re probably—”
One of the men throws open the door. The other darts inside, and then they’re both out of sight. I hold my breath till it starts to burn in my chest. The anchor pops up again, and I flap my hand at the screen—out of the way!
“This is good. The quiet, it’s—”
“Oh, Rachel!” I drop Max’s hand. I can’t look, won’t look, don’t believe—I clap both palms over my eyes. But I can’t deny what I saw, what’s still there, no matter how I hide: Rachel’s sheet-draped body, being wheeled out past an actual white picket fence.
Max makes a sick grunting sound. I drop my hands into my lap. “Why? Rachel—fuck!”
“That’s not Rachel.” But there’s no relief in his voice. They’re showing Kyle’s official press photo—that’s him under the sheet?
“I don’t understand.”
The anchor’s saying something, but it’s going in one ear and out the other. I can’t make sense of what I’m hearing. A single gunshot wound to the head...what? Who would’ve—Rachel? The blackmailer? Was this her punishment?
A family portrait appears—Rachel and Kyle by the lake, swinging little Tom between them—and that’s over, now. Finished. They’ll never pose for another. Never bounce their grandkids on their knees.
Kyle’s gone? Really gone?
I realize I’m clinging to Max. He’s rocking me in his arms, eyes glued to the screen. I bury my face in his shirt, but I can’t block out the voices—all that information I don’t want, would’ve been happier without.
“Rachel’s all right.” Max clears his throat. “They’re bringing her out now. She....”
“What?”
“She’s in handcuffs.”
Rachel? It doesn’t seem possible. “That doesn’t mean she killed him. If she showed the cops the flash drives...they’d still arrest her, right? For—maybe there was something else on her list. Something criminal.”
“She wouldn’t do that. Rachel—she was desperate to keep the truth from her son. She’d never give up those drives.”
“Then you’re saying she killed him?”
Max shrugs helplessly. “We need to....” He trails off, like he’s run out of ideas.
“We need to fly out there. Talk to Rachel.” Find out if....
He’s nodding. “Might be too late, already. A dead congressman—cops’ll be all over that. But we have to try.”
Or we could let the truth come out. Our ef
forts to keep it under wraps have only brought us grief. I open my mouth to say so.
“We can’t come forward.”
“Why not?”
“We knew about the blackmail. About Dev—and there’s still Matt Danbury. We’re not innocent victims here.”
My head’s spinning. “We’re, what? Accessories?”
“Or criminally negligent. I don’t know.” He drags his palms down his cheeks. “Kyle was the one who knew the law. All I know is I feel guilty as hell, and if there’s any justice in the world, we’d deserve—they’d be able to stick us with something.”
“If we deserve it, maybe we should face up to it.”
He turns to me, lips drawn down in agony. “And what happens to Wes then? And Carson?”
I look away. I don’t know. “We need time.”
“There isn’t any.” Max stands up. Buttons his jacket. Maybe it’s the harsh noonday sun glaring in his face; maybe it’s the angle of his jaw—but there’s something hard and walled-off about him. He looks down at me, expressionless. “Pack an overnight bag. Meet me at JFK in two hours. If you’re coming.”
What choice do I have? “I’m coming.”
“Good. I’ll book our seats.” He nods at me, distant and impersonal. “Text when you’re on your way.”
“Right.” I reach for him, desperate for the reassurance of touch, but he’s already walking away.
Something’s changed. Everything’s changed. I should never have come. I should’ve run at the first sign of danger. How did I ever think Max and I might still...might find our way back to one another?
I pick myself up in a daze and stumble to the shower.
One catastrophe at a time.
Chapter 19
Max
* * *
The rain starts when I’m too far from shelter to bother running. It’s not much of a downpour, anyway. More of a drizzle, damp and unpleasant. The kind that makes you feel greasy, more than wet. Clammy—that’s the word.
I push on, resisting the compulsion to scrub at my face. I’ve been choking on a sickly mix of rage, grief and horror since yesterday morning. If I don’t walk off some of this energy, I’ll explode.
They still won’t let us see Rachel. Her lawyer’s supposed to be getting us in, but my phone’s been infuriatingly silent. Six o’clock: guess it’s not happening today. Meanwhile, the cops are all over that house. I drove by this morning, just to check, and they were everywhere. If there’s anything to find, they’ll find it. It’s only a matter of time.
I can’t wrap my head around the idea of Rachel as a murderer, but it’s all over the news. Even on the street, it seems like the only topic of conversation—inescapable. She shot him. Held the gun between his eyes and pulled the trigger—and why didn’t he run? They’re saying he knelt for it. Let her do it.
Maybe he thought she was bluffing. I would have. Anyone would have. It doesn’t make sense; it’s not—
A gust picks up from the north. Needles of rain sting my face—those tiny, spiteful drops. For a moment, the clouds thin. The setting sun peeks through, pink as a wound. I should turn back: last thing I need is a ticket for being in the park after dark.
But I’m not alone. There’s someone standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the waterfall. Her back’s turned, but those long, dark curls; that stupid giant purse—that’s Kate. Yet another reason to call it a night.
I pick up my pace. My anger’s like an infection, burning under my skin. Maybe she’s the wrong target, but it can’t be coincidence we both wound up at Meridian Hill. She came here looking for something, and so did I.
I narrow my eyes. “Kate!”
She turns around. It’s hard to tell, in the gathering gloom, but she doesn’t look surprised. She doesn’t look happy or sad, or much of anything at all. Even my name comes out toneless. “Max.”
I want to bound up the steps, but I take my time. She shuffles in place, fidgeting with her necklace—that same alexandrite pendant she wore all through high school. Didn’t know she still had that. She wasn’t wearing it at the wedding, which means she must’ve run home to grab it on her way to the airport. That was important to her. A hunk of purple-green rock.
I’m being petty.
I’m past caring.
“Did you follow me here?”
I smirk. “Just strolling down memory lane.”
She keeps her expression blank, but no way she’s forgotten our senior trip. We stood right there, on the opposite side of the waterfall, holding hands. I dipped her over the railing. Kissed her deep, to the cheers of half the class.
“You don’t remember?”
Kate glances at the spot where I kissed her, and I know she does. But she steps out of reach, retreating up the stairs. “Thought it’d be peaceful here. But it’s just wet and gray.”
“Think they do a lot of weddings here?”
She falters. “Not in this weather.” Her heel scrapes on the stone.
“But on a sunny day, with the wind whispering in the trees, the smell of spring flowers and fresh-cut grass—”
“Leave it alone.”
“Why?” I don’t need to elaborate. She knows what I’m asking.
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Why not? What could it possibly matter, now?”
Kate shudders. She’s still retreating, purse clutched to her chest. I should let her go.
“Was there someone else? A dream you never told me about? Did you just not care?”
She makes a sound like I punched her in the gut, somewhere between an exhalation and a ha. “You’ll never know how much I cared. How much I—” She shuts her mouth with a snap.
“What?” I practically bark it in her face. She’s fleeing, now, bounding up the steps with me in hot pursuit. We’re both slipping on the wet stone, me in my dress shoes, Kate in her pumps, but she doesn’t slow down, and neither do I. Not till she runs out of stairs.
I trudge up behind her. “Please. Say it. How much you what?”
“How much I loved you.” Kate turns around. For the first time since Kyle’s death, she looks alive, eyes clear of shock and exhaustion. “More than my life. More than my freedom. More than anything I had, or dared to hope for.” Now, she’s the one advancing on me. “I loved you enough to throw it all away, every shred of hope or happiness in my world. It was you. No-one else. There’s never been—no one’s touched my heart. Not since you.”
I hold my ground. “Your heart, eh?” Even with the rain on her face, I can see her tears. I brush one away with my thumb, tracing the contour of her cheek. “How about here?—anyone touched you here?”
She stills and says nothing, but her pupils dilate. A faint flush rises to her cheeks.
“Guess so, huh? How about here?” I drop my palm to her shoulder. She hisses between her teeth.
“See for yourself.” She guides my hand to the swell of her breast. I can feel her heart. It’s racing, pounding with anger, fear, passion—I can’t tell which.
“What are you doing?” That hoarse, broken voice can’t be mine.
“You chased me all the way up here.” Her purse hits the ground. I flinch as she grabs me by the belt, jerking me into her space. But she’s warm, and she’s here, and I can’t feel the rain any more: she’s pulled me into a dark little alcove, under the retaining wall. We’re alone. Sheltered. We could...we could. Here and now. Have the moment I’ve never stopped waiting for. Maybe then, I’d be free of what might have been. She’d be just like the others. Nothing special.
I lean in for a kiss. Kate bites me instead. I dart my tongue between her lips anyway.
She nips that, too, and then her hands are under my shirt, cold fingers sending gooseflesh down my neck. Her thumb grazes my nipple, and I gasp as it stiffens from the chill. And still, her pulse is galloping, fast and hard. I can feel my own keeping pace, even as the blood rushes south.
Her breath tickles my throat, and I shudder all over. Once again, I’m reminded she knows my
body. Every kiss, every sigh, every shift of her hips against mine—she’s seducing me. Dragging me back to the beach, the raft, the student council room, all those promises unfulfilled, because we were waiting. Saving it for our wedding night. So many times, she brought me to the edge, just like this—
I spin her around to face the wall. Let her try those tricks now.
“Max....”
I peel her coat off her shoulders and let it crumple at her feet. Her dress is silk, loose and flowing. I picture it tearing under my heel as I ram her against the wall. My shoeprint on her hem, as she slinks back to her hotel.
I unzip her dress, and it slithers to the ground, revealing a thin ivory slip. I push one lacy strap off her shoulder, then the other, and that falls away, too. She’s bare underneath. Like she was expecting this.
“Bend over.”
Kate braces herself against the stone. She’s shivering: the rain’s blowing into the alcove, beading on her back. I kiss my way down her spine, tasting her skin. I shouldn’t linger, but I always loved this—her smooth skin, salt sweat, the way she murmurs encouragement—keep going; like that....
She’s leaner than she used to be, from a lifetime of hard work, but she’s still soft where it matters. I run my hands over her hips, her thighs, the curve of her belly. And those breasts—magnificent as ever. I flick her nipple, just to wring a moan from her, that deep, throaty approval.
Electricity hums, and the park lights blaze to life. Twin rows of lamps ignite along the staircases, setting the waterfall aglow. Rippling shadows race down Kate’s back. She shifts away from the arch—as if we could hide, if anyone happened by.
“Don’t stop.”
I wasn’t planning on it. But we’re tempting fate with the foreplay. I fumble my belt open and grab a condom from my wallet. My hands shake as I tear the wrapper: it’s the cold. Just the cold.
Kate glances over her shoulder. I bump her legs open with my knee. She arches for me, and I can see the glistening wetness between her thighs. So this is how she likes it: rough and filthy, with a hint of danger. I’ll give her that.
