Chapter 2 #2
Darlene. The marriage everyone had quietly tiptoed around at holidays was now officially over. Michael raised an eyebrow. “Sorry to hear it. What happened?”
Simon shrugged as if tossing away a coat. “She wanted different things. I wanted freedom. C’est la vie, right?” Nothing more. The topic was dismissed with the smoothness of a politician side-stepping scandal.
Michael nodded slowly but wondered about the truth.
It wasn’t just Simon’s glossed-over answers that set Michael’s reporter instincts buzzing.
It was the way Simon moved—casual, confident, as though money cushioned every step.
When Ginny passed him his train ticket, he tucked it in his breast pocket, exposing a thick wad of cash.
Not a few bills. A wad. Michael doubted Simon even realized he’d revealed it, or maybe he did it on purpose.
Some men liked to display power and wealth like cufflinks.
“So, what have you been up to?” Michael braced for the onslaught of stories that would spring forth from Simon’s mouth.
His cousin didn’t disappoint.
Simon spouted on and on about his recent trip to Morocco, an acquaintance who knew a cabinet minister in Italy, a party in Dubai where he’d met someone whose name Michael recognized from the news.
The details always flowed easily from Simon’s bragging mouth.
But there was always a polish to it all, a too-perfect sheen that kept Michael’s instincts on high alert.
Michael let him talk. That’s the thing about people like Simon: the more rope given to them, the more likely they are to hang themselves. Still, Michael plastered on a smile, nodding at the right beats, though his inner notebook was already scribbling questions.
Drugs? Smuggling? Some kind of offshore scheme?
“Boys,” Ed called, snapping Michael’s attention to the twins.
They were clambering onto the edge of a piece of luggage, pretending it was a horse.
Ginny tried to corral them, exasperation etched in every line of her face.
A wisp of her gray hair sprung loose from her low bun and whipped across her face.
“They’re spirited,” Michael said diplomatically.
“They’re four,” Ginny replied, tugging one down before he toppled. “Everything is a game at four. They’ll be fine once the train moves.”
Two sets of identical brown eyes widened. “Will it go fast?” one asked. Timothy or was it Tyler? Michael hadn’t spent enough time with them to tell the difference.
“Faster than any horse,” Michael promised, and the boys giggled before bolting in different directions again.
Simon leaned in, lowering his voice just enough for Michael to catch the cadence. “They’ll exhaust us before we reach Chicago.”
Michael smirked, though his mind looped in on Simon’s expensive wool coat. His cousin was well-fed, well-traveled, and well-dressed. To his family, Simon was the prodigal cousin returned to grace them with his charm. To Michael, he was a question mark dressed in finery.
Michael shoved his suspicions down where they belonged. No sense airing them now, not on the edge of what Ginny clearly hoped would be a bonding journey for the holiday reunion.
“Glad you’re here,” Michael said aloud to Simon, plastering cheer over his doubt. “This trip just got more interesting.” Not a lie. Though Michael didn’t think Simon would be the kind of story his boss was looking for either. But he sure would fit an editorial piece on con men among us.
Simon flashed that smile again. He glanced down the platform as though he were looking for someone. “Exactly what I thought. Interesting. This trip should be very interesting.”
The twins barreled back toward Michael like pint-sized torpedoes in puffy jackets, mittens flapping, voices high and eager.
“Michael! Michael! Did you bring us presents?” Timothy or Tyler squealed.
“Yeah, presents!” the other echoed, tugging at Michael’s coat sleeve with sticky fingers that smelled faintly of candy canes.
Michael crouched down, forcing a smile that came easier than expected. “You know Santa’s already got you covered, right? But I did bring some surprises for the ride.” He tapped his bag. Their eyes widened as if he’d told them he had the key to Willy Wonka’s factory.
“Later,” Ginny said firmly, stepping between the boys.
She adjusted one boy’s hat and straightened the other’s scarf with the same mother-hen efficiency she’d once used on Michael and every one of her foster children after him.
He’d lost count over the years. “They’ve already had more sugar than sense today.
Save your bribes for when the cabin fever sets in. ”
Her words were warm, but her eyes held a glint of warning—the look she gave him every time she thought he might cause problems. She saw straight through him. The years hadn’t dimmed her intuition. She should have been the reporter in the family. Nothing got past her.
Behind his mother stood his father, his gray wool coat dusted with flurries. He clamped Michael’s shoulder in a single squeeze that said what his quiet mouth never did. I’m glad you’re here.
“Leave it to your mother to plan such a shindig,” his dad said.
“Oh, no, this was all Jayda’s idea,” Ginny replied. “Now where is that child?”
Ginny looked over the boys’ heads to the entrance to the platform. Worry etched her brow, and Michael could have kicked Jayda for doing this to his mother. Every year, Jayda blew them off.
Michael didn’t mask his I-told-you-so look.
“She’ll come,” his mother whispered, stopping him from voicing his opinion further.
Michael bit back the retort. Of course, she believed in Jayda. She always had. Even when no one else did, including him.
“She’s not coming, Mom,” Michael said as sympathetically as possible.
Her hand tightened around her purse strap. She lifted a daring chin and stated, “She’ll be here.”
“Your confidence in her is misplaced. Always has been.”
“I disagree. You’ll see.”
The conductor’s whistle shrieked across the platform. “All aboard!” he called.
The twins squealed with delight. Ginny herded them toward the train, muttering, “Come on, come on. Let’s get you settled before you freeze.” But her eyes—sharp as ever—scanned the platform behind them before she stepped up the steps, guiding the boys to their seats.
The train lurched with the first groan of movement. Ginny’s face pinched, her hand pressing against the glass as she peered out the window of the car.
And then—
“Michael!” she cried, startling everyone. “Michael, help her! She’s here! Jayda’s here!”
Michael moved to the window, and there she was, barreling down the platform, coat flapping open, curls wild, determination blazing in her eyes. She was late. Of course, she was late. But she was here.
For a moment, the years melted away. She wasn’t a Yale Law student, wasn’t a woman running to catch a train. She was just the same Jayda who used to beat him at chess and smirk about it for days.
The train picked up speed.
“Go!” Ginny ordered, practically shoving him toward the sliding door to the outside hallway.
Michael grumbled and wondered why he had agreed to always clean up Jayda’s messes, but he still did as his mother ordered.
Outside the car, he swung himself onto the outside steps leaving the platform, one hand gripping the cold metal rail, the other stretched out for her.
“Come on, Jayda!” he shouted.
She lunged, her hand slapping against his, and he hauled her up with more force than finesse. She slammed into him, the momentum driving her against his chest. For one shocking second, their faces stood inches apart, their breath mingled in the cold air.
“You’re always late,” Michael accused, his voice rougher than he intended.
Jayda’s lips curved. “Only when you’re around. The less time near you, the better.”
The jab was sharp, practiced. She meant it to sting. Same old Jayda, different day.
Michael let her go, turning to retreat inside, pretending the heat in his chest was just from the effort he exerted.
But something made him glance back.
Jayda stood on the landing, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, eyes fixed on the platform. Not on him. Not on Ginny, who waved furiously from behind the door’s window.
But on two men dressed head to toe in black, sprinting across the platform where Jayda had just jumped aboard. But they weren’t just sprinting.
They were armed.
Each carried a gun, glinting beneath the harsh station lights.
Michael’s stomach dropped. He instantly stepped in front of Jayda, his arm up to push her back out of their view.
“Who are they?” he demanded.
Jayda’s head whipped toward him, her eyes wide. “Just…people who missed the train.”
The words tumbled too fast, too easily. Relief flooded her face as if she’d convinced herself more than him.
“You never could lie with a straight face. You’ll make a terrible attorney.”
She huffed and slipped past him into the car, not looking back. She let Ginny wrap her up in a welcoming hug as though she were the sweet, innocent daughter they never had.
Michael didn’t believe her for a second. What kind of trouble was Jayda in? Obviously, something illegal. As the train pulled away from the platform, leaving the men in black shrinking into the distance, one thought pounded in Michael’s head.
His parents could take the girl off the streets, but they could never take the streets out of the girl.