Restitution （n.） – Scarlett
RESTITUTION (N.):
THE ACT OF RETURNING A PROPERTY, ASSET, OR ECOSYSTEM TO ITS ORIGINAL OR FORMER CONDITION AFTER IT HAS BEEN DAMAGED, DESTROYED, OR WRONGFULLY TAKEN.
SCARLETT
The faint crackle of the flames in the restaurant’s hearth is the only sound sifting between my mother and me.
She’s staring at me from across the table, crossing and uncrossing her legs while I’m silently wondering which one of us is supposed to break the ice.
“Can I interest you ladies in a glass of wine?” A waiter suddenly appears beside our table, holding up a bottle. “The chef sent this over.”
“Yes, please.”
“Gladly.”
We answer in unison.
He fills our glasses to the brim, sets down two menus, and disappears as quickly as he arrived.
“Your brothers just found out you’re no longer enrolled at Harvard,” she says. “I mean, you left months ago, but the news is new to them.”
“I’m shocked you didn’t tell them the same day you found out.”
“I don’t see why.” She reaches for her wine. “From what I remember, I was hell-bent on making you return and keeping that information to myself.”
A familiar burn spreads through my chest as the memory of what came next rushes back to me.
Maybe coming here with you was a bad idea.
“I stopped telling your brothers and your father things years ago.” She looks directly at me. “They were always too wrapped up in the ‘family business’ to give much thought to the little things. I don’t even think they’ve realized I’ve moved all my things out of the estate.”
“Just temporarily, right?”
“No, Scarlett.” She shakes her head. “Forever. Your father will be receiving divorce papers at the end of this month.”
“Why?” I ask. “Better yet, what happened to all those women who would kill to have access to your lifestyle?”
“I didn’t realize your father took that murder line so seriously.” Her voice drops.
“What are you saying?” I can barely hear my own voice.
“Your father is willing to permanently silence anyone he thinks is getting in his way, and I didn’t realize it until after he was arrested…”
I swallow. “Was Francis one of those people?”
“Yes.” Tears prick her eyes. “It was silly of me to ever get too close to him anyway. Your father hated the idea of me befriending any of the staff.”
“It’s not like you were dating Francis,” I say. “I really liked him, too.”
“I was in love with Francis.” She dabs at her eyes. “I should’ve taken him up on his offer to run away together, but I was too concerned with keeping my lifestyle.”
“Is he really dead?”
She bursts into sobs and nods. “Lucas all but admitted it to me weeks ago.”
I grab a napkin and move to her side of the table, pressing a hand against her shoulder.
“It’s my—It’s my fault.” Her voice breaks. “I forgot to turn off the cameras in my town car once. Just once…”
“Do you know where he, um, buried him?”
“I think I have an idea.” She dabs at her eyes again. “In one of his off-limits places at the estate, I’m sure.”
“One of?” I arch a brow. “The old water well was the only place, right?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Mom, the well was the only place he marked as off-limits, correct?”
“Sure…”
The defeated look in her eyes tells me the real answer, and I can’t help but push a little harder.
“Did you ever know what he actually did for the family business?” I ask. “Like, the main details?”
“No, I only knew bits and pieces,” she says. “He was wealthy, successful, and a lot more experienced than me, and that’s all I focused on at the time. I mean, I knew he operated in the gray areas and cut out middlemen to sell all types of supplies, but I never thought…”
She stops talking as the waiter sets down a basket of bread.
The moment he walks away, she immediately knocks back her glass.
“Well, maybe—” I pause. “Maybe he didn’t start off as terrible as he eventually became, and—”
“He’s a monster, Scarlett.” She cuts me off with a deep-throated cry. “I married a monster, and there’s no pretty way to put it.”
“I damn near turned into one myself.” Her cries come harder. “And I almost ruined you. I almost made you as fucked up as I am.”
Completely speechless, I rub her back.
“I promise you, Scarlett.” Her watery eyes meet mine. “If you give me a chance to be the mother I should’ve been to you, I will be. Please.”
I wipe her tears with my fingertips, but they refuse to stop falling.
For a while, neither of us says anything.
“I never thought Lucas would throw his own children under the bus.” She sucks in a breath. “Antonio and Ryan have no idea what’s coming their way.”
I still for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“They have several pending charges as well, but—” She shakes her head. “They’re brainwashed into believing their father has some huge master plan for their legal woes.”
“Doesn’t he?” I ask. “I doubt Jameson Tate would ever let any of them get near a guilty verdict.”
My heart skips a beat at the thought of Jameson.
“Only your father has Mr. Tate now.” Her voice is strained. “He’s going to let them take the fall, make sure their commissary accounts are always full whenever they’re locked away, and then carry on with business as usual.”
My heart drops, and I struggle to find the words to convince her she’s wrong.
But I can’t point to a single moment of softness in my father’s history, or any memory that suggests he’s capable of putting someone else before himself.
“What do you think he’ll do to you when he finds out about the divorce?” I change the subject.
“I can’t worry about that.” She squeezes my hand. “The last thing Francis did for me was create an emergency getaway plan for me to follow in case I ever needed to disappear. And since practically all the men left on your father’s team are new, they won’t know where to start looking for me.”
“What about me?” I ask. “If he calls me, what should I say or do?”
“Oh, Scarlett.” Her face pales. “Your father wiped his hands clean of you once he got arrested. He thinks you’re to blame.”
“I…” The pain ripping through my chest is unbearable. “I’m not. I didn’t. I mean, even if I wanted to turn him in, I wouldn’t know where to begin, and I didn’t find out about—”
I stop stuttering when she pulls me close, taking her turn to comfort me.
“It’s okay,” she says. “At least you’re free now. You can live and do whatever you want without his shadow hanging over you, Scarlett Winters.”
The way she says my new last name makes me look up.
“We might’ve had the same idea with that.” She smiles. “I picked Autumn for my new last name. Think it fits?”
“It’s perfect.”
I’m not sure how long we sit in that dining room holding each other, but when the staff flicker the lights to signal that it’s time to close, it feels like we’ve only been here an hour.
And somehow, we never ordered any food.
“There’s a place down the street we can go,” I say, standing up. “It’s a taco food truck.”
“A what?”
“A taco food truck.”
“As in, the kitchen is inside a vehicle?” She arches a brow. “And we’re expected to pay for that?”
“Yes, Mother.” I nod. “That’s how the regular world works.”
“Would you judge me for wanting to go to the hotel restaurant down the street instead?” she asks. “They have tacos, too.”
“Not at all.” I smile at her for the first time in forever. “You’re still you.”
“For now.” She clasps my hand and leads me outside into California’s warm evening air.
We make it halfway down the block when she suddenly lets out a scream.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I almost missed that!” She points toward a city bus.
“There’s no way you actually take public transportation.”
“I’m not talking about the bus.” She points at the sign stretched across its side. “There’s going to be a huge, multi-day book signing with my favorite author. He’s amazing.”
I squint at the sign.
The King of Thrillers Is in Town: Come Meet Peter Hansel
I shrug. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“You have to start reading his books,” she says. “Peter Hansel has the ability to make your entire world disappear with his words. He creates these crazy and intense plots that…”
I stop walking at the sound of his name.
Looking at the billboard again, I realize that I have heard of him before.
From Jameson.
“When I get done with you, Peter Hansel, you’ll be looking up at me from Hell and regretting the day you ever fucked me and my family over.”
“I’d like to go to that book signing with you,” I say, desperate to put together a few more pieces of a puzzle I can’t bear to leave unfinished. “When is it?”
“Next Friday.”