by Matt Goldman
“Really? Maybe I do have a good-boy complex.”
“Don’t worry. With proper nutrition and exercise, you can live a normal life.”
We ate and drank and talked until 11:00. I learned that Lauren hated most of the same things I hated, and if that’s not a foundation for a relationship, then I don’t know what is. Later, sitting in her driveway, I asked if she wanted to come over for dinner the next night and she said yes. Then we kissed good-bye for half an hour as if we were sixteen.
At 11:45, I stood outside Micaela’s building and pushed the button next to her name on the security system. It took her awhile, but I finally heard, “Nils. What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
I could tell I’d woken her. I looked into the security camera and said, “I need to talk.”
“Uh … okay. I guess.”
I didn’t expect a warm welcome at nearly midnight on a Sunday, but I didn’t expect hostility, yet that’s what I heard in her voice. And that said it all. She buzzed me in. I took the elevator to the top floor—it opened into her foyer. “I’m in the kitchen.” She was pouring two glasses of the Tyrconnell when I walked in. She said, “What’s going on?”
“I wanted to tell you in person that I can’t see you again.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the last time we’ll see each other.”
“Ever?”
“Ever. Or at least for a long, long time.”
We took our whiskeys into the living room and sat on the couch. She wiped a tear off her cheek with the sleeve of her flannel pajama top.
“You don’t get to cry, Micaela.”
“I can.”
“No, you can’t. I know you love me. But you don’t love me enough to put up with the inconveniences that go along with living that love—the responsibility that comes with it. So we’re done doing whatever it is we’ve been doing.” She nodded. “I still love you and that’s my burden. I can’t make how I feel go away. I have tried. I’m just hoping I’ll learn to live with it, and it’ll get easier over time. Like with a death.”
“That’s a nice comparison.”
“It’s an accurate one. Be well. And never, ever, doubt my love for you. Even if I join a cult and marry a dozen women.” She managed a smiled. I drained my glass and set it on the table. I stood and walked toward the elevator.
“Nils?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I call or e-mail once in a while? Just to see how you’re doing?”
“Please don’t.”
The elevator door opened. I stepped into it. The door shut, and I descended out of Micaela’s life.
* * *
In mid-April, I was in Lunds buying fresh-caught steelhead to cook that night for Lauren. After the butcher handed me a white paper package, I turned around and entered the produce section in search of brussels sprouts, baby potatoes, arugula, and lemons. I set out to gather my bounty when I noticed Beth Lindquist, thirty feet away, squeezing avocados.
I observed something on her face I hadn’t seen before—I’m quite certain it was happiness. Not giddiness, just a baseline level of joy I hadn’t noticed three months prior. She had lost two loves. Yet, a few months later, there in produce, she looked like she’d lost two captors.
I parked in front of the shitbox and carried my groceries up the walk, past the Edina Realty sign with the SOLD appendage hanging below it. In a week, the sale would close, and I’d move into an old coat factory, not in but near Stevey Fine’s building. It was on the ground floor, so it didn’t have a view. But I loved it because the building had yet to be renovated. It had a loading dock—I could park my car next to the living room. And it had an emergency eye-wash station—you never know when you’ll need one of those.
I’d miss my little patch of lawn. The snow had melted. The grass was brown and dormant and, in places, covered by patches of snow mold. Karyn and Alice, across the street, had already raked and seeded their yard. I told them they were foolishly optimistic. It was only April 14—it would snow again. They both sighed in resignation, then Karyn said, “Maybe this year it won’t.”
I opened my front door and noticed a battalion of last fall’s un-raked in the planting beds against the house. A green shoot had breached the half-decayed clump of brown and gray. It reached skyward two, maybe three inches. It might have been a tulip or hosta or even a weed. I didn’t know. It was too new to tell. I wished it luck, opened the door, and carried my groceries inside.
Praise for Gone to Dust
“Sharp wit, complex characters, and masterful plotting makes Goldman a writer to watch. Irreverent and insightful, private detective Nils Shapiro is sure to become a fan favorite.”
—Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author
“A perfect blend of light touch and dark story—I want more of Nils Shapiro.”
—Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author
“Matt Goldman brings the heat with a moody and wry Midwest elegy.”
—Ace Atkins, New York Times bestselling author
“Gotta love it: Spade, Spenser, and now Shapiro. The brilliant Matt Goldman has written the perfect PI novel—smart, spare, sarcastic, and completely heartbreaking.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Anthony, Agatha, and Mary Higgins Clark award–winning author
“Gone to Dust is a clever mystery that starts with a unique crime scene, mixes in a package of red herrings, and tops off the plot with Nils Shapiro, a private eye who is as interesting as his name.”
—Phillip Margolin, New York Times bestselling author
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MATT GOLDMAN is an Emmy Award–winning television writer. He began his career as a stand-up comedian while attending the University of Minnesota, before moving to Los Angeles to write full-time. He has worked on Seinfeld, Ellen, and The New Adventures of Old Christine, as well as many other shows. Gone to Dust is his first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Praise for Gone to Dust
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GONE TO DUST
Copyright © 2017 by Matthew Goldman
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Shutterstock.com
Cover design by Jeff Miller, Faceout Studio
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-9128-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-9129-2 (ebook)
eISBN 9780765391292
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First Edition: August 2017
