We Are Us

Chapter 49 New York City

Outside the windows of my bedroom, the setting sun plays peekaboo with New York City’s most iconic landmarks. In the building across the street, there is a little boy stretched out on a rug, playing with LEGOs. One floor above, an older couple is seated at a small table, eating di

When was the last time I’d let loose with even an exuberant giggle? When hadn’t I been focused on pleasing someone—my mother, Tucker, a professor, Wren, Tucker’s parents. On not making a mistake that would prove I was just an imposter hiding among them.

Even Sadie. As kids, we played together, but I was always taking care of her, reminding her of the rules, or keeping score.

Only with Gavin had I just let myself be.

I ignore Sadie’s knocks, checking on me. And, even though I am desperate to hear Gavin’s voice, I ignore his calls, too.

I spend half the night tossing and turning, trying to understand why Tucker had taken the necklace Gavin gave to me, lied about it, and kept it all these years.

Did Tucker purposely target me that night? Was my necklace a souvenir? A trophy?

Or had he merely viewed Gavin as competition and hoped that I’d forget about him without a constant reminder on my skin.

I spend the other half of the night mourning. Not my marriage, which has been over for a long time and had clearly been a mistake from the very begi

I grieve the days and weeks and months and years that I’ll never get back.

Heartache that cuts so deep, the scars throb in tune with my pulse.

And the memories that shred a little more of my soul with every look back into the past.

I’ve wasted so much time, made so many wrong choices.

My entire life is up in the air right now, but there is one thing I know for certain. If I get through this, if I didn’t commit the ultimate sin and wind up behind bars, I want to spend the rest of my life with Gavin. If he’ll have me.

But first… First, I need to become my own hero.

I don’t want to be rescued. I will never again hand over the reins of my life to anyone else.

Which is why, even though I’m operating on next to no sleep, I don’t even consider postponing my meeting with Reese Reynolds. Every hero needs a sidekick, and in my case, the kind I need is a kick-ass lawyer.

I evade the reporters camped out in front of my apartment by leaving through the underground parting exit. Beneath my shirt, I am wearing Gavin’s necklace. The clasp is broken, probably from where Tucker ripped it off my neck, but I used a safety pin to link the chain. I’ll have to take it to a jeweler eventually, but right now I can’t bear the thought of being without it again.

I’ve only been waiting in Reese Reynold’s conference room a few minutes when she bursts through the door. Short and curvy, her lipstick is the exact same shade as her red suit, her blond hair cut and styled into a camera-ready bob. She is a familiar face on the evening news, a defender of high-profile, scorned, shamed women. Preferably attractive, high-profile, scorned, shamed women in the Forbes 400.

I am her perfect client.

She sits down and gets right to the point. “I’ve been following press coverage of your husband’s disappearance very closely. I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to contact me.”

On TV, Reese looks like she could be a news anchor, with a wide, square jaw and unblinking hazel eyes. In person, it is obvious the blond comes from a bottle, her careful application of makeup hiding more years than she is willing to admit.

“You haven’t just been following the case, you’ve had quite a bit to say.” I haven’t hired Reese based solely on Douglas Keene’s recommendation. During the hours and hours of news coverage I devoured, she’d been the only lawyer who hadn’t insinuated that I either knew where Tucker was or had something to do with his disappearance. The. Only. One.

“I can’t say the same for you. You’re allowing the press to tell your story, Mrs. Stockton.”

“Please, call me Poppy. And that’s because I have nothing to say.”

“But you’ve spoken with the police and the FBI, correct?” At my nod of agreement, she says, “Tell me what you told them.”

I do. Reese doesn’t take notes or record me, and interrupts only occasionally to ask a question. When I’m finally through my throat is hoarse, and she stands up to pour me a glass of water from the carafe on the sideboard. I take it gratefully.

“It certainly sounds like you have a lot to say.”

“Nothing that has helped to find him.”

Reese’s fingers curve over the back of the chair she’d been sitting in. “Let’s talk this through a bit. Your husband went missing on trip to celebrate your five-year a

I sigh, about to explain that celebrate isn’t exactly the right word to use, but she jumps in with more questions. “Your marriage, was it as happy as it appears? Champagne kisses and caviar dreams?”

“No,” I admit, wiping a drop of condensation from the edge of my glass. “Not at all.”

She remains unfazed. “Okay. Let me try to recap this situation from the perspective of law enforcement. We have two unhappily married people in a small boat, supposedly exploring an uninhabited island. Later that night, the wife is discovered in the boat, unconscious and with non-fatal injuries. The husband, a very wealthy man soon to be arrested for shady business dealings, is nowhere to be found. There is broken glass and a bloody knife. The wife’s fingerprints are on the handle, and blood on the blade from the husband. Do I have my facts straight?”

I can’t speak around the knot in my throat so I merely nod.

“Good. Now, let’s try to solve the mystery. Scenario one, the husband fell or jumped overboard, either an accident or suicide. The blood on the knife came from the wife trying to reach for him, to save him. Unsuccessful, she falls and injures herself. Scenario two, husband attacks wife, she kills him in self-defense and is injured in the struggle. Scenario three, wife kills husband because she’s furious that he’s about to be arrested—”

“But I had no idea—”

“Fine. Then you kill him for some other reason,” she concedes easily. “Scenario four, husband pla

“Who is the mystery man?”

“Exactly. Could be anyone. Actually, I’m being sexist. Mystery person. Someone, or group of people, murdered or kidnapped your husband. You were collateral damage.” Reese finally pulls her chair out and sits back down, her unblinking eyes boring into me. “Six potential outcomes, and you are criminally liable in three of them. Are you willing to trust your fate to the toss of a coin?”

I definitely picked the right sidekick.

“No, I’m not.”

“Good.” She slaps the table with the flat of her palm. “First things first, I require a one-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer. I assume that won’t be a problem.”