Chapter Twenty-One Nate
Chapter Twenty-One
Nate
“Thanks for getting me out of there,” I say to Arthur as we descend the police station steps.
My relief is off the charts. There were moments when I expected to be cuffed, dragged to jail, and locked up. I can’t even fathom how I’ll endure it if that happens. I’ll never be able to live with the shame.
“They couldn’t hold you indefinitely,” Arthur replies.
We reach his car—a silver Mercedes-AMG GT Coupe—and I pause on the sidewalk. “Is this new?”
“Not really,” he replies. “I got it a year ago. Get in.”
I open the car door and slide into the black leather-upholstered passenger seat. Arthur buckles his seat belt and starts the engine.
“How’s Sienna doing?” he asks. “Any improvement?” He checks his rearview mirror and pulls onto the road.
“No. She had surgery this morning, and the kids are terrified that she won’t wake up.”
He speaks with genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do, say the word.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes, and it’s awkward because we haven’t spoken since the kids were little.
I’m to blame for that because I’ve been so busy with the restaurant.
I turned down a lot of invitations to his house.
I’m pretty sure the last time he called, I never called him back.
He must have given up on me, because he stopped calling.
At least the kids have kept in touch with their cousins through social media, and Sienna occasionally runs into Alex at the grocery store, though not often.
Arthur glances at me repeatedly. “Can we talk frankly?”
“Of course.”
He wastes no time. “Did you do it?”
I’m dumbfounded and appalled. “Do what?”
“Push her.”
I scoff because the question is ridiculous. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”
“I have to,” he replies, “because if I’m going to defend you, I need to know the truth. You have to tell me everything—every little, insignificant detail about what happened that day and every argument you and Sienna have had for the past ten years.”
Part of me wants to tell him to shove those questions up his ass, but I can’t because the whole world is against me, and I need someone in my corner, and my brother is someone who doesn’t like to lose.
I tip my head back and let out a sigh of frustration. “I swear on our mother’s life that I didn’t push her. But we were arguing. Apparently, people noticed, and it’s that goddamn Facebook page that created all these suspicions.”
Arthur remains focused. “What about your financial situation? Is the restaurant struggling? And did you ask Sienna for money?”
“Yes, to all of it,” I reply. “And I’ve been a total dick about it.”
Arthur makes a left turn, which is not the way to my house.
“Where are we going?”
“Not to your place, because reporters are camped out on the sidewalk.”
“Seriously?” I reach for my phone in my coat pocket. “I need to call the kids.”
Arthur keeps driving and says nothing while I notice all the texts from Amanda. I call her, and she answers after one ring.
“Hello. Dad?” She sounds panicked.
“Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay? How’s Mom?”
“I’m fine. We’re both fine. What’s going on? Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”
My daughter is in a heightened emotional state, and I hate that this is happening. I squeeze my eyes shut and run my hand down my face. “I’m so sorry. They were grilling me, and I had to put my phone away. How’s Mom?”
Amanda speaks in a more measured tone, and I’m glad that she sounds calmer. “She’s out of surgery but still the same. I’ve been sitting with her.”
“Good. And how’s Connor doing?”
“Not great,” she replies, “but he went out to get McDonald’s. He just texted, and he’s on his way back now.”
Feeling exhausted and defeated, I rest my elbow on the car door and prop my head in my hand. “I’ll come to the hospital soon.”
“Are you still at the police station? Are they going to arrest you?”
“No, that’s not happening.” I speak firmly because I don’t want her to worry. “Your uncle Arthur just picked me up, and we need to talk for a bit, okay?”
“He’s a lawyer, right?”
She hasn’t seen him in years, and the fact that she has to ask this question piles on more guilt and regret.
As soon as we end the call, I accept that my life has gone to shit.
Sienna was right. I became obsessed with my career and viewed everything else in life as a bothersome interruption. My family included.
The car slows, and I realize Arthur is taking me to his house in the South End.
We turn onto his street, and I gaze at all the mansions on wide landscaped lots.
They must all have gardeners, handymen, and house cleaners.
The house that Sienna and I share is far more modest. She’s the one who looks after the gardens.
But this . . . this is what my father wanted for me.
I don’t regret my choices, but I hate that my father probably revels in my lack of wealth, because in his mind, it proves him right. By his standards anyway.
Arthur pulls onto his sloping driveway and shuts off the engine.
“Will Alex or the kids be home?” I ask, fighting shame as I imagine them reading about their uncle’s run-in with the law, which is a far worse scandal than my Birthday Brunch rebellion at their grandparents’ house.
“No, they’re all at school,” Arthur replies, “and Alex is with her mom.”
I realize I don’t even know what his children are doing, what schools they’re attending. “You’ll have to catch me up on everything,” I say.
“Sure,” he coolly replies as he gets out of the car. “Come on in. I’ll fix you a drink, and we can talk.”
I slide out of the passenger seat and follow him up the steps to the impressive oak door.
Arthur hands me a glass of top-shelf Scotch whisky, which goes down as smooth as calm water. It’s exactly what I need. I sit back in the leather armchair in his office and wait for the alcohol to drown my regret.
“I’m glad you asked for me,” Arthur says. He takes a seat in the opposite leather chair. They’re a matched set in front of floor-to-ceiling bookcases staged with framed family photographs.
“I knew I had to.” I toss back the rest of the Scotch in a single gulp.
Arthur gets up, fetches the bottle from the corner of his desk, and pours me another. He sits back down and gives me a moment to relax before he clobbers me with a question.
“Can you tell me about the restaurant? And for the record, I’ve been there. Incognito. The food was fantastic. Best in the city.”
I blink a few times in surprise. “When?”
“I don’t know. A few times over the past year.”
A few times. With whom? What was the menu that night? What did you order?
“Why didn’t you let me know?” I ask. “I would have come out to say hello.”
“I didn’t want to get in your head,” he replies with insight. “I just wanted to check it out because everyone at work was talking about how great it was.”
It’s not the correct moment for me to feel flattered, but I appreciate the compliment, more than he can ever know. I only wish I could enjoy it more, but my head is elsewhere.
“In case you’re wondering,” he says, “Dad has been there too.”
And there it is—the answer to the burning question I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I didn’t even want to admit to myself that it mattered.
I swirl my whisky around in the glass. “I hope the food was good that night.”
“It was phenomenal,” Arthur tells me. “The wine pairings were spectacular, and I know because I was with him.” Arthur sips his Scotch.
“He finally booked a table because his colleagues kept congratulating him. I actually enjoyed watching dear old Dad stumble and try to act like he knew what they were talking about or pretend that he had some hand in your success.”
It’s a surprise to hear my brother make fun of our father. He’s always danced to Dad’s tune, and he never once stood up for me.
“Next time you make a reservation,” I say, “let me know. I’ll come out and say hello and make sure you’re treated right.
” Arthur nods, and I take another sip of my Scotch.
“If there is a next time, because if anything happens to Sienna . . .” My voice breaks.
“I don’t know how I’ll manage anything.”
Arthur watches me intently. Then his expression grows hard and grim. “I was serious in the car when I told you that I need to know everything. You have to tell me every possible detail that the prosecutor could use against you if they start digging.”
Maybe it’s the Scotch, but I’m feeling more willing to open up to him. “What else do you want to know?”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks. “Having an affair?”
I flinch in my chair. “God, no!” But then I think of Martina. Sienna always felt threatened by her, and even Amanda grilled me about Martina in the car just last night. “I love my wife,” I insist. “And when would I have time for an affair? I barely have time for my kids.”
“That’s not for me to say,” Arthur replies. “So what else? Anything damaging that you can think of?”
Unfortunately, there’s plenty. “We went to Peggy’s Cove to spend time together because we have been having some relationship problems,” I confess, “and Sienna went to see a lawyer about a legal separation. But she didn’t follow through with anything.”
Arthur stares at me. “That’s definitely something I would consider damaging. Next question: Any new life insurance policies? And what’s in her will? I assume you get everything? As I recall, she sold her company for a nice chunk of change.”
“She did, and the life insurance would be enough to bail me out of all my problems with the restaurant. Don’t flip out, but we renewed it about six months ago and tripled the value.”
Arthur slowly blinks.
“I’m not stupid,” I say. “I know that looks bad, but we talked about it and wanted to make sure the debts would be covered if anything happened to either one of us.”
He tips his glass back, empties it, and sets it down. “Okay. Well. At least there’s no evidence of foul play—it’s all circumstantial—unless there are witnesses. It sounds like people saw you arguing, but no one saw you push her.”
“Because I didn’t,” I insist. My voice breaks, and I hang my head. “I don’t want her to die. And I don’t want to lose my family.”
I fight hard to choke back a sob because Arthur and I were taught to never show weakness. It was beaten into us. We were raised to be warriors, tough as nails, which is why Arthur is such a damn good defense attorney.
He gets up, moves to his desk, sits down, and opens his laptop.
While he types something, I stare down at my Scotch and hunger to get back to the hospital.
I want to hold Sienna’s hand and tell her how sorry I am and how much I love her.
I need her to wake up so that I can start over, be a better man, and prove myself to her instead of my father.
Arthur’s cell phone rings, and he answers it. “Hello?” He glances at me briefly, then rises from his chair. “When? Okay, thanks for letting me know.”
He ends the call, and his expression tightens with displeasure. “LaPierre got a search warrant. They’re heading to your house now.”
A trembling begins in my limbs, followed by convulsions of panic. “Based on what evidence? You said it was all circumstantial.”
“They could have information from a witness, or maybe you said something to give them cause?”
“I don’t think so.”
Arthur considers that. “They’re looking for digital and print records. Should we be worried?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “But Sienna wasn’t happy. They might find evidence of that. God knows what she texted about me to Becky.”
“They need more than feelings to use as evidence in court.”
My hands turn clammy, slick with nervous sweat. “I just want to get back to Sienna.”
“Give me the key to your house,” Arthur says, “so I can let them in. I’ll drop you off at the hospital on the way.”
I’m grateful for his decisiveness. And the hospital is the only place I want to be right now.
I drain my glass of Scotch and get up.
“Thanks for helping me,” I say.
“It’s what families do,” he replies and holds out his hand.
I stare at it and feel undeserving of his kindness. He’s not my father, and I should have been a better brother to him, a better uncle to his children.
“I need the key to your house,” he says flatly, which pulls me back to reality. I’m being investigated for attempted murder. I need to keep my emotions in check.