26. June
26
JUNE
T he car ride back to Boston is tense. Not a mile goes by that I don’t want to take him up on the offer of fleeing. But I can’t give up on the dream of a normal life for us and our kids. Not yet.
We cross the border into Massachusetts, and I’m half-convinced that the police are going to pop out from the next billboard to swarm us. Nothing happens, though. I know this isn’t a movie, but when you think about running from the law, everything gets grandiose.
Anderson gives my hand a squeeze. “Holding up?”
“I’m here. You?”
“In my mind, I’m in the Maldives.”
I smile at him. “That sounds nice.”
“No extradition there, you know.”
“I googled non-extradition countries in the bathroom earlier, so yeah, I know. Pretty far from Boston.”
The muscle on the side of his neck that pops out when he’s stressed has been popped out since he figured out it was Moss at the door. Poor thing. “That’s the idea. Far from Boston. You’re sure you want to go back?”
No. Yes. Maybe. “I’d like to know what we’re facing before we figure out if we want to give up on our lives here. But if things feel off in any way, we’ll bounce. Okay?”
It’s the same thing we decided to do in Vermont. But it bears repeating.
He nods. “I know, I know. And even though Moss says it’s not likely that we’re bugged, I think we should keep acting as if we are. Any important conversations happen in the park. Agreed?”
“Agreed. No sense in taking unnecessary risks when we have options.” Just another half an hour before Boston. Feels like every minute ratchets up the tension in us both. But I have to trust that everything is going to be okay. We will have our normal life at some point. It’s just going to take a lot of work and some patience. But we will get there.
Anderson is a West, and that means, despite his father’s enemies, he also has his father’s friends in high places who can help us. We have Otto Pym helping us, and there is no better defense attorney on the East Coast. I’m still amazed he was available for us on such short notice. There’s Moss, who, no matter my personal feelings about the man, is someone I like having in my corner. It’s like owning a rowdy pit bull who likes you and only you. We are not without resources.
And, break glass in case of emergency, I have Andre Moeller. He might be my boss and some kind of an underworld criminal, but that only means he, too, has resources that might come in handy. I don’t want to have to lean on him. But he did kidnap me, so the guy kind of owes me. Plus, he likes me, as he’s brought up time and time again. I don’t want to lean on him—he’s a sociopath—but if it means saving me and Anderson, I’ll do it.
Walking into our apartment does not feel like coming home. I don’t get that sense of relief I used to when I walked into my apartment. It’s more like the calm before the storm. Since we called everyone and said we were sick, it would be weird if we just bounced back in a day, so we agreed to spend the rest of the day at home, eating too much Chinese food and enjoying a sick day. It’s as relaxing as it could be, which isn’t saying much.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to fall. A call or a text from the detectives, or god forbid, a hearty knock at the door. Although, at this point, I’ve been tense for so long, I could almost believe it would be a relief for them to contact us. Sort of letting the steam out of the pressure cooker.
When night comes, neither of us initiates sex.
In the morning, we get ready and go to work like it’s any other day. Back to pretending life is normal and we didn’t kill a guy and improperly dispose of his body, and the police are not circling like buzzards.
As soon as I get into my office, things feel fishy. I get strange looks from the paralegals on my way to my office, and I want to stop and ask why, but if I do that, isn’t that an admission of guilt? Doesn’t it make me look suspicious if I’m asking why everyone is looking at me suspiciously?
Maybe I’m overthinking it.
I get into my office, close the door, drop the curtains, and keep the lights low. When I get my laptop open, there are over a hundred new emails. I’m glad I have everything shut down and dark, because I could use some peace and quiet while I pretend to work. And it will be pretending because now that I’m back, I have zero concentration. I just keep waiting for another paralegal to knock and announce I have detectives here to see?—
Knock, knock.
Oh my hell, seriously? Already? I haven’t even gotten my coffee. I wonder how prison coffee is. Oh god, is there prison coffee?
I clear my throat. “Come in.”
But it’s not the police. It’s Carlos. Of fucking course, it’s Carlos. He saunters in, all swagger, no couth. “Good morning. I heard you were unwell, but you look fine to me.”
That’s either an accusation or a flirtation, and I don’t care which it is. “What do you want, Carlos?”
“I thought I made that clear the first day you arrived.” He peers down my blouse for a moment. “Your office.”
I roll my eyes. “Why are you here now?”
“So testy?—"
“Carlos, I have a sinus headache from being sick. Can you just get on with it?”
He winces in false sincerity. “My apologies. I did not realize you were not up for our usual repartee. Andre wants to see you in his office. Now.”
“Why didn’t he just shoot me an email?”
“I would never be so bold as to assume I understand how his mind works.”
“Fine. Thanks. Message received.”
He smiles curtly, then leaves, and I’m grateful for the silence, but I better get moving. Never a good idea to leave a sociopath waiting.
As I pass by the breakroom, I give a longing sigh toward the coffee machine before the elevator whisks me up to the top floor. It’s funny how I have been able to block out what happened in Andre’s office the other day. With all the discussions of running away from home and what that might entail, I couldn’t bear to mention that Andre is scheming to upend West Media. It didn’t seem relevant to fleeing for our lives. Not even irrelevant—it felt small and meaningless, truthfully. But now that I’m going back to his office, it feels like that should have been the first thing out of my mouth the moment I saw Anderson.
Before I can knock, I hear, “Come on in, Junebug.”
What the hairy fuck?
I throw the door open, and there, I find Andre sitting across from my father. It is all I can do to not shout at the man. My father, not Andre. Although, at the moment, I’m not sure who needs yelling at. They’re both all smiles as if they’ve been having a grand old time. It makes me want to rip them apart. No one should be having a good time right now. Not when my life is on the line.
But I clench my teeth and force a smile. “Dad, I didn’t know you were acquainted with Andre.”
He smiles, and I know that smile. It’s as fake as my own. “You don’t remember the introduction email you sent for me?”
With that one sentence, I know precisely what’s going on. Somehow, he sent an email, made it look as if I’d sent it, and gotten the introduction that he wanted. If I say anything right now, he’ll never forgive me, even though I’m not the one who needs forgiveness. I could ruin whatever deal he’s got going, and all I have to do is open my mouth and speak the truth. The truth has always been the one thing my father is afraid of. He must really trust me to think I won’t fuck him over for this.
But right now, I have enough of my own shit to deal with. I don’t want to deal with his, too, whatever that is. So, I suck it up. “Right, sorry. It must have been the fever that made me forget. I’m still catching up.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Dad says as he gets up. He shakes Andre’s hand. “Good seeing you again. We’ll have to do it on my yacht next time.”
Andre smiles and nods. “Splendid idea. I’ll bring the champagne and the,” he stops himself to look at me before meeting Dad’s eyes again, “entertainment.”
Women. He means women. Probably sex workers, by the tone in his voice.
Dad chuckles. “Deal. This weekend?”
“I can kill a few things off my calendar. Saturday it is.” Anyone else would have said, “Clear my calendar.” Not Andre. He wouldn’t say something so mundane as that. Or he actually meant to kill some things off his calendar in the literal sense. I was not dumb enough to ask.
“Sounds good. See you then.”
“Uh, Dad, can you hang back for a moment?”
“Junebug, I need to run?—"
“Hang back,” snaps out of me. But then I lose my tone. “Please? I need to talk to you.”
“Oh, of course. I’ll meet you at your office.”
“Great.” He leaves, and I turn to Andre. “How can I help you?”
“Your father is quite a character.”
I smile. “He really, really is.”
“Did you know he saved a child from a burning building?”
No. Because he didn’t. “I may have heard the tale a time or twenty.”
He chuckles. “Or that he used to be a track star in college?”
My father never went to college. But I smile. “He’s had an interesting life.”
“Indeed. I understand the two of you had been estranged for a time. Why is that?”
None of your business. “Family is complicated.” I give a shrug, hoping he leaves it at that.
“Too true. My own father and I stopped speaking the moment I had him committed against his will. The old bastard never forgave me for that. It is as you said, family is complicated.”
I gulp. “Since we’re sharing, why commit someone against their will?”
“He was getting … troublesome. I don’t like trouble, June. You are level-headed like me, so I value your opinion. Is your father trouble?”
More than you know. How do I say this without saying it? “He’s boisterous and likes to stretch the truth. Sometimes, that gets him in trouble. But he’s not malicious.”
“Ah, Sounds like most of my friends. Very good. That is all.” He turns to his laptop, dismissing me.
Good, because I have a father to tear into.