Chapter 11 Murder She Wrote #2
“No. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Killing Thaddeus won’t bring my dad back.
It was a moment of temporary insanity.” The words weighed on my tongue, a crushing pressure that had me feeling sick again.
Ugh, this wasn’t a Disney show. Of course I’d crave the release of finally getting back at Thaddeus.
The people who said that ‘hurt doesn’t solve hurt’ were the type of people who’d probably never gone through serious trauma in their lives.
They didn’t know what it was like to see the same guy who drove a bullet through your dad’s brain gleefully go on to ruin other people’s lives by taking away their homes. Imagine going to prison for more than a decade, and you still haven’t learned a thing.
I could never see eye to eye with that man. In fact, just forcing that comment from my mouth sickened me to the point I needed to sprint to the bathroom.
Thaddeus
My father’s office was large but not big enough to contain the shock flowing through me as I twisted the cap off the water bottle, his suggestion still ringing in my ears.
Since my release, I understood the difficult situation my father was in.
Thanks to me taking revenge and not being clear-headed enough to not get caught, it left him without anyone blood-related to hand down his shares to, and I’d been reasonably willing to remediate that by marrying Mimi, even if I was already massively regretting that choice.
But the man had crossed a line with this suggestion.
“Hell no.”
“Thaddeus, be reasonable,” he said as if he had any real authority over me. It made my blood boil. To resist the temptation of swinging my fist straight into the wall, I had to dig my hands into my sides.
Fuck that. “I don’t need to be any damn thing. Summer is my business. You don’t have a say in this.” My anger exploded as he sat in his office chair, expressionless and unmoving. Like he couldn’t give a damn. Not one flicker of emotion in his eyes?
“We’re almost there. Everything is going as planned.
Half the idiots at the business forgot you have a murder charge.
” He spoke with an air of boredom. I wanted to reach across the table and shake some sense into him.
How could he turn to Summer of all people?
Forgetting the fact that she’d tried to murder me not too long ago, the men under my father did not forget about my history.
No one in the town did, but because these guys were under Fitzgerald’s payroll, they just knew there was nothing they could do.
I was the boss’s son. Nothing he said would help here. “I’m not dropping shit.”
We went back and forth for well over thirty minutes. My father did most of the talking since I had made myself clear. When he was out of breath and seemed done, I turned to leave. “Give your shares to charity. Hell will freeze over before Summer works at Fitzgerald.”
The day passed quickly, and I left work early to enjoy some Halloween festivities and distract myself from the shit-show my life had become.
Henry was trying to spend more time with his son, Wylie, since his breakup with Ashley.
We met outside the Tarrytown library, near Patriots Park.
I hadn’t been there since I was a child.
Henry and I used to go there a lot as kids, and now, we were bringing his son to enjoy pumpkin carving.
The nostalgia in the air between us was strong, along with the faint scents of dusty books and lavender air freshener.
Part of me wondered how this library event might have played out if things had been different.
If my plans of having three children had worked out, would they be here with us, eager to scoop out pumpkins with Wylie?
“Henry, over here!” I called to my friend when I spotted the pumpkin table.
“Shh. This is still a library,” an elderly lady said, widening her eyes at me. “Little Thaddeus Fitzgerald.”
I was definitely not so little anymore, but to Mrs. Lin, I’d always be that energetic boy playing computer games who celebrated too loudly every time he won.
“Hi, Mrs. Lin.”
She hugged me and stepped back. Tears were in her eyes. Really, after I outgrew computer games, I never stepped foot in the library. She was just someone I saw once, maybe twice a year, around town.
“I heard you were back. Welcome home.”
“T-T-Thanks.” Her reaction caught me by surprise. She patted my arm and walked away.
I made my way back to Henry and Wylie.
“You excited to carve pumpkins, Wylie?”
We were bros now. My little guy gave me a hug, and I scooped him up. “Ready to make the scariest pumpkin ever?”
“Yes!” Wylie screamed.
“Shh.”
I knew right away, without looking, that it was Mrs. Lin. Some things never changed.
The little craft area was decorated as expected.
A cheap, white plastic tablecloth covered the table.
Scattered on top of it were orange construction paper pumpkins cut in various sizes.
Déjà vu washed over me. I noticed the black paper bats hanging in the corners of the room.
When I was younger, these simple decorations always made me smile.
My mother often brought me down the hill to the library as a kid.
I stepped further into the room and spotted a second table filled with two rows of pumpkins, ready to be carved.
Next to each were the tools that we could use to make the jack-o’-lanterns of our spooky dreams.
I removed my jacket, undid my cufflinks, and rolled up my sleeves. I sat on Wylie’s left as Henry took the right side, and we began carving.
In the end, our pumpkin looked nothing like it should, but that’s the best part about Halloween: anything ugly and messed up came across as scary.
Wylie was happy, even eager, to put it in front of his grandparents’ house.
Henry and I made plans for an adult lunch tomorrow, and I drove away while debating what to do about dinner.
In the end, I grabbed some baked ziti from the pizza place on Broadway and afterwards walked to a nearby bar.
Kelly’s bar wasn’t here when I left, but it’d since become one of my favorite places.
At home, if I finished a bottle of wine, Aston would always judge me, looking at me in his concerned yet detached way.
Here, I could sit in a dark corner, listen to a few songs, and pass the time.
I slid into a table and lifted my arm to catch the bartender’s eye.
It was only then that I spotted Summer sitting on a stool at the bar. My stomach knotted.
She was smiling and conducting what looked to be a civilized conversation with the people seated around her.
So maybe she did still possess the skills to do that.
Just not with me. Seconds passed, and Summer’s face lightened as she grinned at her companion.
I hadn’t seen her like that in years. Relaxed.
No veins popped out of her forehead. No profanity hurled from her tightened lips.
She seemed to have a glow about her, as if the light in the room was just concentrating on her.
I lost track of the surrounding voices and clinking glasses.
In that moment, one woman absorbed all the attention in the room.
And I’d thought I’d resent her goddamn guts forever.
I ordered a glass of scotch, and the bartender brought it over.
I turned my attention back to Summer. Fuck, it wasn’t like she’d done anything special.
Just swept her blonde hair over her shoulders, letting it fall down to her waist like waves.
She crossed one glossy, bare leg over the other as she dripped with unbothered joy.
God, she was beautiful.
Even in my anger, I couldn’t ignore what the sight of her did to me.
She manages to look better every time I see her, I thought as a hardness grew between my legs.
I wondered why she was in such a good mood.
Did she meet someone? Work couldn’t have been the reason she was sparkling that much.
I hid the envy eating at me as I took slow sips from my drink.
There wasn’t any reason this should affect me this way. Yet, I was gripping my glass so hard I could crush it into pieces.
What the hell made her smile like that? I glared in her direction, slicing through the air for any sort of clue.
The bartender had wandered over and joined their conversation. I couldn’t escape the pressure in my chest as I watched Summer’s hand reaching forward to touch the bartender. It wasn’t an intimate touch, but I sat in my corner annoyed, nevertheless.
Then it hit me. My ex might be in a good mood because she believes I’ll drop the charges. Is that why she looked so at peace? Before I could stop myself, I was on my feet and headed to her side.
“Bartender, I’ll take another one.”
At the sound of my voice, Summer froze, released a deep sigh, and turned. For half a second, our eyes met.
Her sourpuss face had returned.
She looked away first.
Typical.
“Damn, can’t I even have one night off? One place where I don’t have to run into a Fitzgerald?”
I hadn’t seen this woman in days. What was she talking about? Oh . . . Dad.
“Yeah, that little offer my dad gave you won’t ever happen. As you might remember, I hate plea deals. Let every guilty son of a bitch do their time.”
Her nostrils flared. “You took a plea deal.”
No, technically, my father’s overpriced lawyer got the charges lowered. I stood trial and let the jury of my peers decide. Summer knew this.
“Here’s your drink,” the bartender said, sliding a glass toward me. He flashed me a look, and if I wasn’t mistaken, he wanted me to get lost. Oh, were these two a thing?
I sat on the stool next to Summer.
“Jesus, can you go sit somewhere else?” Summer pressed, then paused. “You got that order of protection against me. Technically, you shouldn’t be here.”
Nice try.
“Everyone in the bar witnessed me enter earlier. The restraining order means you must leave since I was here first.”
The bartender stopped polishing a glass and threw a cloth down on the counter. Then, in what looked to be frustration, he stared at me. “Don’t be a jerk. Haven’t you hurt her enough?”
Anger shot through me. Did I know this man? He spoke to me as if we’d exchanged words before. I studied him and pictured Summer on this very stool all those years I was away, spilling out her drunken guts about the monster who’d killed her father.
“Greg. It’s okay.”
Oh, so they were on a first-name basis? My stomach clenched at the sound of the man’s name rolling off Summer’s tongue. With him, you’re able to be soft and caring.
“Yeah, Greg. Summer doesn’t need you protecting her. She’s capable of murdering people herself these days,” I said, glaring at him.
He walked away, and I swore under my breath. My damn father was right. Without Summer Cohen, all his plans might be in vain. I scanned the bar, and each patron observed us. Some were more discreet than others, but all eyes were on us.
“Why are you still sitting there?” Summer mumbled.
“No, the question is, why are you sitting there? You only have a few hours to prepare for your new job at Fitzgerald, and from what I hear, your boss is an insufferable jackass.”