Chapter 54 Headlines
HEADLINES
ASHLEY
We land at Logan late.
The boys are tired, cranky to the point where they’re bickering over nothing, and I don’t blame them. I don’t even remember walking off the plane. Don’t remember baggage claim. It’s already just a hazy memory, muted by a jumble of what-ifs and what-nows, tinted with more than a trace of terror.
Noah steers us over to the rental car he’d booked and starts loading our bags into the trunk.
I barely have the energy to hug my mom goodbye, barely hear her promising me everything is gonna be just fine before joining Babs in a separate car.
By the time I turn around, Luna’s already buckling the boys in, taking charge and waving me over.
And then, more waiting. The drive doesn’t take too long, especially late on a Sunday night, but it gives me enough time to sit and think.
Enough time to take out my phone.
I move to call Beckett’s number, by habit more than anything else, and then I remember that that stupid burner is at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, his old phone who knows where.
So then, I look for a different source of information
I click on the browser and before I even finish typing Midtown… My phone fills in the blanks: “Midtown Investments Self-destructs.”
“Retirement Accounts Wiped Out in Alleged Ponzi Scheme.”
"Unidentified Informant Behind Multi-Agency Financial Probe"
“Feds Execute Dozens of Arrests in Weekend Sweep.”
My breath catches, but I still click on that last one.
And right there. A photo of the CEO in front of the house where we’d attended more than a few Christmas parties. Followed by a list of lower-level executives, advisors, brokers. And then… there it is.
Beckett Carrington, Senior Portfolio Manager.
I stare at it like it might disappear if I blink. But it doesn’t.
He’s part of this.
My stomach twists so violently I press my fist to it.
This… It doesn’t make sense. Beckett’s an amazing dad. He’s the man that I love. And this… It’s not right.
He’s one of the good guys. Always has been.
But now the FBI—the world—is saying otherwise.
The car slows as we turn onto my street. Our street.
We pull into the driveway. Noah puts the car in park, turns off the ignition, and everyone climbs out. Me, moving a little bit slower.
By the time I go around to help unload the trunk, I realize… They’ve totally emptied it out.
“What are you doing?” I catch up to them and the boys at the porch, searching my purse for the key. “I thought you guys had a hotel.”
“We’re not leaving you alone with the boys tonight,” Luna says.
I blink. “You don’t have to—”
“No,” Luna says, tugging her suitcase up the step. “We’re staying. At least until this gets ironed out.”
“But your honeymoon—Paris….”
“—can be rescheduled,” Noah cuts me off.
I shake my head even as we all shuffle inside.
“This isn’t—this isn’t right. You shouldn’t have to—”
“Stop,” Luna says as she flips the closest light switch on. “You’ve always been there for me.” Her eyes soften as they meet mine. “It’s my turn now.”
I stare straight ahead, throat closing, and then, because I don’t know what to say, I just nod. And when l go to help Noah with the boys’ luggage, my legs almost give out.
Later that night, after quick baths, a bedtime story, and a dozen reassurances I wish I actually believed, I wander back to the kitchen, not quite sure what to do with myself.
Luna’s at the table, a mug of tea cupped in both hands.
“Noah’s lying down,” she says as I sink into the chair across from her. She’s stayed here dozens of times in the past—knows where to find towels, extra blankets, whatever they need in the guest room.
“What should we do?” she asks, even though she looks just as wrung out as I feel. “Want me to whip up some goodies? Or we could watch a movie? Something mindless?”
Luna and Noah were meant to be celebrating tonight, preparing for their honeymoon tomorrow—this big romantic trip to Europe that I know Noah must have pulled out all the stops for. I should make them go.
I mean, after everything Beckett and I did so they’d have the perfect wedding…
But I don’t have it in me.
“That’s really sweet,” I tell her gently. “But I’m fine. Honestly, you can just go to bed if you want. With your husband.”
She gives me a doubtful look.
“Really. I just… I think I need a shower. I’ve got airport all over me.” I trail off, then add, “I’m so glad… I’m so glad you guys are here.”
Which is true. I don’t know how I’d handle staying in this house alone with just me and the twins, but right now…
I don’t say that I need some space. I don’t have to.
She nods.
“You know where to find me.” Then she circles the table and wraps her arms around me from behind.
“I know things look really bad right now,” she murmurs, her voice soft against my ear, “but we’ll learn more in the morning. This has to be some kind of mistake.”
She’s trying to sound hopeful. But she’s seen the headlines too. Everyone has.
And this idea—that it’s all a misunderstanding—is starting to feel more like wishful thinking than a plausible explanation.
I squeeze her arm, hold on a second longer, then let go.
I’m not sure how long I just sit there after she leaves.
Sleep isn’t even a possibility. Not with this hum in my chest—like static. Like panic. So I default to my usual.
I start by quietly unpacking the boys’ luggage, sorting dirty clothes into a hamper, start a wash load, put suitcases away, then their little toothbrushes, toss stray wrappers. I move to my own bag, but the sight of those silly swimsuits—so frivolous now—makes me a little sick.
I toss them into the hamper and keep going.
I check the fridge and throw out anything that’s questionable, but when I sit down to write up a grocery list, I can’t do it. I can’t think that far into the future right now. Not yet.
But eventually, I run out of things to straighten. Nothing left to do but face the silence.
So I go to the shower.
I turn the water as hot as I can stand it, the steam rising fast. I strip slowly, mechanically, leaving my clothes on the floor. When I step inside, I don’t reach for the soap. Or the shampoo.
I just kind of slide down the tile until I’m not standing anymore.
And… I break.
Slow tears at first, building to gulps, and then ugly sobs. They are raw, utterly beyond my control. My chest heaves, and the sound that comes out is somewhere between a gasp and a moan—feral and guttural and completely unlike me.
My arms curl around my knees. Water pours over my head and down my back.
Thank God the master bedroom is on the far side of the house. Thank God the boys are sleeping.
I cry until the water runs lukewarm, then cold. Only then do I move. I shampoo, rinse, somehow, I just go through the motions.
By the time I step out, I’m hollowed out. Empty.
I don’t even bother with pajamas—just collapse on top of the covers still wearing my towel.
Hair wet. Lights on. No strength left to care.
And I kind of sleep, on and off, until something creeps into my brain, and I remember.
At the wedding, I’d asked Beckett if he was in trouble, and he’d said…
If something happens… go to Nick.
Go to Nick. It hadn’t made sense at the time, but…
My energy spikes, and I don’t waste a second. I grab my robe, throw it on, and practically sprint to the office.
I flick on the light, bypass my own desk, and drop into Beckett’s chair.
Nick Watson. Nick Watson… I rifle through drawers until I find what I’m looking for—his stack of business cards.
Nick Watson, Trusts and Estates Attorney.
It’s not even six a.m. but I don’t care.
I tap in the numbers and hit call.
It goes to voicemail. Because of course it does. Because it’s not even six a.m.
“Hi, this is, uh, Ashley Carrington. Not sure if you remember me but, um… I’m not sure if you’ve seen the news, but Beckett…
” I have to take a deep breath. “He’s in trouble.
But… before… He said I should call you. Please, please call me when you get this message.
I’m… I need to know. I need…” Help. I need help. “Thank you.”
I hang up and just sit there. Then I nearly jump out of my skin when my phone vibrates in my hand.
“Hello?” My voice comes out breathless.
“This is Nick Watson. Is this Mrs. Carrington?”
“Yes. Yes?” And honestly, I don’t know what to say. Because Beckett said go to Nick. If anything happens. His arrest by federal authority, I’m sure, more than qualifies.
“I met with Beckett a few weeks ago.” Nick gets right to the point. “Can you meet me at my office in an hour?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you remember where it is?”
I do. I think. Then again… “What’s the address?”
I jot it down on a sticky note from Beckett’s desk, and the second we hang up, I start moving again.
Back in my room, I yank on a pair of jeans and one of Beckett’s old hoodies, tie my hair into a messy knot without even brushing it. I’m already reaching for my keys when Luna appears in the guestroom doorway, still in pajamas, her brows knit with concern.
“Did you hear from Beckett?”
“No. But I remembered… I don’t know if it’ll help but I'm meeting with our lawyer,” I tell her, breathless. “He might… he might know something.”
She opens her mouth to ask more, but I cut in gently, “I’ll tell you everything when I get back. When I know something. Promise. Just—call me if anything comes up here.”
“Okay. Want some coffee first?” she asks.
“No time.” I glance around, thinking I’m forgetting something, and then head for the garage.
The door rumbles open.
I slide behind the wheel, start the engine—
And drive.