My Fallen Saint

by J. Kenner

  I’d packed five boxes into Shelby, gotten an apartment in Irvine, then worked as a barista until I could start college at UCI in January. I was still seventeen, but Chief Randall and Amy signed off as my court-appointed guardians.

  I haven’t been back to Laguna Cortez since. I’m not sure I’d be back now if Roger hadn’t pushed me.

  “Deep breaths,” he says. “I’ve watched you for three years and there’s nothing you can’t handle.”

  I cringe. I hate seeming weak, and I’m convinced that’s how he saw my reluctance to return. “I’ve got this,” I say firmly. “But I may not turn it into a story.”

  I pace in front of Shelby, as if moving will ward off the creeping anxiety that’s nipping at my heels. “I want to know what really happened to my uncle. But that doesn’t mean I want Spall publishing it. It’s still my life. My family. You get that, right?”

  I know he does. But I can’t seem to pass up any opportunity to remind him.

  “I want you to have closure, Ellie. If that means writing a story, then write it. If it means finding the truth and locking it away, then that’s your choice. I won’t push you. Not for this story. But you damn well better turn the profile piece in on time.”

  Now I laugh, because Roger truly is a clever bastard. “I’m on my way to the interview right now,” I assure him.

  My last argument against coming back was that I had work to do in New York. So my devious editor assigned me to write a profile of the Devlin Saint Foundation, focusing on the success it’s had in rescuing and rehabilitating women and children caught up in a Nevada-based human trafficking ring. To that end, he lined up an interview with Devlin Saint—the Devlin Saint—for this afternoon.

  It’s not an investigative piece, but it’s still important. Despite being relatively new, the Devlin Saint Foundation has become one of the world’s foremost philanthropic organizations, with fingers in educational projects, criminal rehabilitation efforts, global development, anti-hunger, the arts, and so much more.

  Its success, of course, is attributed to Saint himself, the mysterious, young, and extremely private founder of the organization. A man who started the DSF only five years ago and grew it into a world-renowned philanthropic enterprise. Whose reputation as a brilliant and generous global philanthropist is counterbalanced by his notoriety for being an arrogant and enigmatic loner whose business acumen and exceptional looks have paved the way to his foundation’s success where his chilly personality could not.

  I hesitated when Roger assigned the story, but ultimately agreed. After all, Saint is so enigmatic and well-known that the whole country will read the story, and that can only be good for my career.

  Now, I wrap up the call with Roger, ostensibly because I need to get moving, but really because as soon as my mind turned to the foundation, it also turned to Alex. With a sigh, I take one more look at the town below.

  From up here, it looks small and fragile. Like an architectural model. But I know the truth. Beneath its bright sunshine and sparkling waters, Laguna Cortez is nothing but death and loss, sharp edges and pain.

  Despite having only two lanes and soft shoulders, Sunset Canyon Road is the main east-west thoroughfare for this Orange County town. With its gentle curves, it’s also the easiest route down the hill.

  But I don’t need easy. Not now. Not even remotely.

  So instead of meandering like someone’s grandma down the main road, I hook the first left onto a tiny canyon road with no shoulders, serious drop-offs, and hairpin curves from hell.

  I fly down the road, losing my cap in the process so that my hair whips around, stinging my cheeks. I ignore the discomfort. My attention is entirely on the road, on navigating this path. Right now, all I need is the wind in my face, the roar of Shelby’s engine, and the euphoria of knowing that for this moment at least, I’m in total and complete control.

  That’s an illusion, of course, and no one knows it better than me. No one is ever in control of their destiny. Lives are lost. Dreams are shattered. Hearts are broken. Right now, I could hit a pothole and flip the car. I could die before I ever make it into Saint’s office.

  But that’s the thrill, right? And when I finally pull into the foundation’s parking lot, I’m back in control. Because once again, I’ve shown that bitch Fate my middle finger.

  I’ve won.

  For a moment, I simply sit in the driver’s seat, relishing my victory. Then I adjust the rearview mirror, grab the brush I keep in the glove compartment and go to work on my loose, dark brown curls. I always drive with a cap, which tends to prevent the worst tangles, but since the thing went flying, right now, I’m a mess.

  I end up opening the trunk and getting my toiletry bag out of my suitcase. It has a small bottle of Argan oil, and I use a few drops to ease the tangles free. After years of driving Shelby, I’ve learned what necessities to have on hand.

  I take the opportunity to fix my makeup as well, using the rearview as a cosmetic mirror. Even having driven from LA with the top down, I’m still pretty put together, which is probably because I don’t use that much makeup to start with. Some golden eyeshadow to highlight my brown eyes. A smidge of gloss. Mascara of course, and just a hint of blush.

  Normally I’m not particular about my face and hair. Or my clothes for that matter. Sure, I enjoy dressing up for a night out, but my favorite part of being a reporter is living in jeans and a T-shirt. Because most days I’m sitting at my desk writing or working the phone.

  Today, though, I want to look as professional as possible. I’ve never seen a photo of Saint where he doesn’t look sharp. Hell, dead-to-rights perfect. And I’ll be damned if I’ll walk in there without looking like his equal. If nothing else, Roger expects that.

  I stayed with friends in Los Angeles yesterday after taking five days to drive from New York so I’d have Shelby with me in California. This morning, I’d done lunch with my friends, then meandered my way down to Laguna Cortez. My plan is to bunk with Brandy while I write the article about the foundation and research the facts surrounding Uncle Peter. She moved back after college, and I called last night to tell her I’d meet up with her after my interview.

  I dressed for the interview before leaving LA. A simple black pantsuit with a white silk tank and a loose-fitting blazer. I’m wearing flats at the moment, but I reach into the back and grab the killer Christian Louboutin pumps I’d stashed there earlier.

  Designer shoes are my weakness, and since I can’t actually afford them, I’ve made them a game, searching them out in consignment stores, thrift stores, and online sites like eBay. I found these a few months ago at an estate sale. A total score. They also have the advantage of adding much-needed inches to my usual five-foot-five frame, which is always nice in an interview. I can hold my own, but extra height gives extra confidence.

  Once I’m all set, I grab my dad’s battered leather satchel that I use as a briefcase, then slide out of the car. I pause for a moment to look at the impressive building rising from what was once the slab of a long-demolished grocery store, the concrete baked and cracked. It had been an eyesore of disputed ownership, and Alex and I would walk across it some nights when we’d head out together for ice cream.

  We’d walk from Uncle Peter’s house to Pacific Avenue, the east-west street that serves as the access point for the Arts District. We’d get our ice cream from the corner store, then walk south along the Pacific Coast Highway for about a mile before crossing the highway to this lot. Then we’d keep walking toward the ocean and our tidal pools.

  “What a wreck,” Alex said once, looking around at the cracked concrete and sunbaked weeds that marred the empty lot.

  I’d looked around, then shrugged. “It’s just concrete.”

  “It’s an eyesore. Right here between the Coast Highway and the ocean. It deserves better.”

  “Well…” I cast about for a piece of discarded chalk. Kids used the lot to draw, so it wasn’t hard to find. I bent down and wrote El and Alex’s place, careful to u
se the nickname he’d started calling me a few weeks after our first kiss. Everyone else called me Ellie.

  Then I’d grinned up at him. “It’s ours now. We can imagine it’s anything. Does that make it better?”

  “Oh, El,” he’d said, with that sweet, sexy smile. “It does. It really does.”

  Now, I stand frozen, lost in the memory. Then I swallow the lump in my throat and pull myself from the past. The building that now rises in front of me is all cement and steel and glass, with sleek lines and sharp angles. Five stories that sparkle in the sunlight, complemented by a wide swath of eco-friendly landscaping that peters out as it reaches the sandy beach.

  It’s absolutely stunning, but I don’t like it at all.

  Because this building isn’t supposed to be here. And I don’t care about the environmentally responsible xeriscaping or the locally sourced materials. I don’t give a shit about the beauty of the angles or the way such a massive structure rises from the ground as if it is as native to the coastline as the craggy cliffs and rocky coves.

  And I could care less about how the amazing Devlin Saint took a stretch of undeveloped land with disputed title, got it sorted out, and built something as remarkable as the DSF’s offices.

  Because this was our space. Our lot. And I hate Saint for stealing the memory from me.

  A fresh burst of anger cuts through me. Not at Saint this time, or even Alex. No, this time, I’m angry at myself. Because Alex Leto was a prick. A manipulative son-of-a-bitch, and I don’t owe him a thing, much less warm and fuzzy memories.

  If I could banish him from my mind, I would, but at the very least, I need to exorcise the power he has over me. And, dammit, I’m going to start right now.

  I draw in a series of deep breaths, purposefully gathering myself. Then I cup my hand over my forehead to shield my eyes from the sun as I reconsider the building. And this time I have to admit that it’s not so bad. At least Saint got out there and built something. Took an eyesore and turned it into something stunning. All Alex Leto did was run.

  I’d trusted him, and he’d ripped me to shreds.

  But I’m smarter now. Stronger, too. Just like he said.

  And you know what?

  Fuck Alex Leto. Fuck him for leaving me during those already dark days. For slinking away without a word and never getting in touch again. For casting the final blow when I was already cracked and broken.

  Mostly, fuck him for breaking my heart.

  Chapter Five

  The lobby of the Devlin Saint Foundation is essentially nothing more than a well-designed box, austere but impressive. The glass wall on my right faces the ocean and provides a ton of natural light that helps to accent the various pieces of artwork that line the brushed concrete walls.

  A hallway snakes off from the left, but turns so quickly that I can’t see where it goes. Presumably offices. There’s an unobtrusive elevator that exists in sharp irony to the massive floating staircase that leads up to the landings for the floors above us.

  I pause inside the doorway and glance up at the fourth floor. That’s where Devlin Saint’s private office is, and I see the glass windows, currently opaque. I remember reading that the foundation’s interior windows didn’t have blinds for privacy, but instead utilized some kind of technology that allows the glass to shift between opaque and transparent.

  I assume the tech is expensive, and I can’t help but wonder why an organization that is dedicated to providing financial help to needy institutions around the globe would choose to spend funds on magic glass instead of buying blinds at Walmart.

  Even though I’d researched the foundation, part of me still expected it to be a shoestring operation, with battered government resale desks and cheap paper calendars tacked on the walls. Where every dime scraped together was sent out into the wild to do good deeds.

  This ultra-modern, somewhat intimidating set up is more than a little off-putting.

  I wonder if that’s the point and make another mental addition to my list of questions for Saint.

  I march across the lobby to the large reception desk that sits under the arch of the cascading stairway. Nearby, two upholstered benches form an L, presumably offering respite for those like me who haven’t yet been offered passage into the heart of this operation. Two rectangular tables sit, one in front of each bench, both covered with a colorful array of hardback books and a few flimsier pamphlets.

  “May I help you?” A man about my age smiles at me, showing the kind of perfect teeth that any actor would envy.

  “Elsa Holmes,” I say, showing him my equally bright and shiny press credentials. “Actually, just Ellie. I have an appointment with Mr. Saint.”

  “Of course.” He taps at a hidden keyboard while looking down, presumably at a computer screen embedded in the desk’s glass surface. His brow furrows. “I’m sorry, it looks as if Mr. Saint is unavailable.”

  “Oh.” I check my phone, but that’s just out of habit. I know what time it is—four on the nose. And I know what time my appointment is scheduled for—four fifteen. “I’m sorry, I called to confirm the appointment this morning. Did something come up?”

  Red starts to creep up his neck, and I have the feeling that things are expected to—and usually do—go much more smoothly at the DSF. “If you’d like to take a seat, someone will be right with you.”

  I nod. I’m not sure if they double-booked an appointment or if Saint had a whim and skipped out on his staff, but something is definitely not going on an even keel here.

  “I apologize again for the delay. Would you like anything while you wait? Coffee? Water?”

  I want coffee, but in light of my white shirt, I opt for water. As I sip the bottled seltzer, I sit on one of the benches and flip through the books. Each is about the foundation and represents a year of work. They’re oversized coffee table books, filled mostly with images of the various projects with just a bit of text describing the goal of the grant and how the project is progressing.

  I page slowly through the one for the last year, searching for a picture of Saint himself, but there aren’t many. The man clearly likes his privacy.

  Still, I’ve seen enough to recognize the man if I bumped into him at the grocery store. And to know that he’s ridiculously good-looking with a mane of wavy dark hair that’s long enough to brush his jawline, emerald green eyes he hides behind dark-rimmed glasses that accentuate his angular face, and golden brown skin with a thin scar that bisects his eyebrow and mars his cheekbone, then cuts a line through his close-trimmed mustache.

  Bottom line, he’s not only hot, he’s totally my type. And there’s something about him that reminds me of Alex, though I can’t put my finger on it. They have the same coloring, but Alex was blond and clean-shaven. His face was rounder, his nose a bit wider, and while he had beautiful eyes, they were a sandy, golden brown, not a vivid green.

  Even so, Saint’s picture conjures Alex’s memory, and I can’t decide if that will be a help or a hindrance during our interview.

  The truth is, I know very little about Saint. But then again, who does? He’s hardly a shut-in, but when he holds interviews, he keeps the focus on the foundation and its mission, carefully steering any personal questions back to the work, so deftly that most of the time the reporter asking the question doesn’t even notice the shift. I’ve noticed, though. I spent much of the last week watching replays of foundation press conferences, and the man is an expert at manipulating the press.

  I smile to myself, certain he’ll try the same tactics on me. Too bad for him that I’ll not only see him coming, but I desperately love a challenge.

  At the same time, I’m no fool. It won’t be easy to tease out personal details for my article. My research has turned up next to nothing about Saint’s personal and professional life before he founded the DSF. Or any aspect of his life, actually, other than the most basic of facts. Birthplace. Parents’ names. Education. Military service.

  His parents are dead, the few professors I was able to
reach over the last few days remembered him as quiet but studious, and the Army’s press liaison confirmed that his military record is bright and shiny. No red flags at all. But there was no meat to the facts. No embellishments. I know that his personal net worth is over a billion dollars, but other than that, Devlin Saint came off impressive, but bland.

  Odd description for a man who built a charitable foundation that now boasts an endowment in excess of thirty billion dollars.

  I’d told Roger that he seemed like Oz’s wizard. And I can’t wait to get a peek at the real man behind the curtain.

  “Ellie!”

  I look up at both the sound of my name and the hauntingly familiar voice. A dark-haired woman with a single streak of gray framing one side of her face is striding toward me, her smile so wide it’s almost blinding.

  She looks to be in her early fifties, with high cheekbones, and the kind of facial structure that magazines classify as elegant. She’s impeccably dressed, about four inches taller than me, and walks with total confidence on the titanium heels of a pair of pink Stuart Weitzman Nudist sandals that I totally covet.

  She looks like the kind of woman I’d want to know, but I’m completely clueless as to who she is.

  I’m about to admit defeat, when everything suddenly snaps into place. “Mrs. Danvers?”

  Her smile is like sunshine. “I was hoping you’d recognize me.” She holds out her arms, and I hurry to her, allowing myself to be folded into her embrace. “It’s been far too long.”

  “It has,” I say truthfully, because she’s one of the people I missed when I left Laguna Cortez.

  My father always said to never judge anyone on a first impression—but my first impression of Tamra Danvers had been of a scary stoic lady, thanks to my dad’s love of the movie Rebecca, which featured the crazy Mrs. Danvers. And it had taken me a while to warm to her, but once I had, I was in all the way.