“It’s not you.”
She took a deep breath and nodded with an understanding she didn’t want, had never wanted. People said Anne Longstreet could take anything. But she’d only asked for a simple life, cooking and knitting, growing things in her garden.
Joshua had called her on their way back to Vermont and told her they’d be back in time for supper. His family knew that Wendy had skipped off to New York and Joshua had gone to fetch her. Unless they’d had the news on, they wouldn’t know about Bobby Tatro. In recent months, Juliet’s life had become more complicated—and dangerous—than ever. Now it had affected the most sensitive and sheltered of the Longstreet grandchildren.
“Joshua?” His mother’s eyes narrowed on him. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Another car pulled into the driveway. Paul, the town cop. He’d probably know about Tatro by now. He’d have called Joshua’s brothers and told their father, and they’d all be at the house soon, wanting details, providing support, hashing out anything any of them needed to do. Not just for Wendy. For Juliet, too. Except she wouldn’t want their help. She never had because their help was always laced with criticism.
Joshua pointed to a chair. “Have a seat, Ma. We can wait for the others—”
“We’re not waiting. Tell me now. Why is Wendy throwing up? Why are you as white as a sheet?”
He knew he couldn’t keep silent and told her. She listened without interruption, Paul standing in the doorway, Jeff and Sam following him inside, then Will. And, finally, Will, Sr., the family patriarch, his limp more pronounced tonight.
Joshua had seen people overcome tragedy and violence in his own family.
He’d just wanted his daughter to be exempt, at least for a while longer.
Juliet called an Upper West Side pet store that specialized in rescuing unwanted animals and had them come for her surviving fish. They sent a sanctimonious college student who seemed to think she’d kicked the hell out of her fish tanks in some kind of rage. She didn’t enlighten him, just let him scoop the survivors into plastic containers and bags. She gave him all her food and supplies and added a tip to the rescue fee.
Her apartment felt empty without the gurgle of the tanks and the rhythmic motion—even the variety of colors—of her fish. She didn’t really know how she’d come to have so many. Freda hadn’t seemed to mind.
The place smelled of fish water, Pine-Sol, wet wood and sweat. Bobby Tatro’s body odor lingered. Juliet opened the living room windows to let in some air.
And she spotted Ethan getting out of a cab.
She phoned the private security guard the building managers had hired until they could figure out what to do about a new doorman, and vouched for Ethan.
When Juliet opened her door for him, Ethan sniffed the rank air and made a face. “Smells like ultraclean dead fish. Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy us dinner.”
“Plan on doing some talking.”
He didn’t answer, and she noticed that he was clean and not as ragged-looking. He had on fresh jeans, the brown leather coat, the silver belt buckle, the boots.
“I don’t know why I trust you,” she said.
“What did you do with the fish?”
“Sent them to a rescue shelter.”
“There’s a shelter for fish?”
“They take care of all kinds of animals.”
“Only in New York.”
She thought she heard a hint of humor in his tone, but it didn’t show in his face.
“What about your friend who owns this place?” he asked.
“Freda didn’t take the news well. She wants me out by the end of next week. The sooner the better.” Juliet nodded to the damp floor. “The couple downstairs got flooded. They’re not real happy with her or with me.”
“Never mind the murdered doorman and the traumatized teenager.”
“I don’t think they’re happy about them, either, but their waterlogged apartment is easier to grasp.”
“You’re nicer than I am.”
She almost smiled then. “What have I been saying ever since I met you?”
He took her face in both his hands, catching her by surprise. He’d never touched her that way before. There’d been sparks between them from the first, but he’d been on the trail of his wife’s murderers, out of control, breaking all the rules. Juliet had warned herself—she’d warned him—that he needed to get a grip before his guilt and regrets destroyed him. He couldn’t escape the cauldron of memories and questions and so many things he couldn’t change. What he hadn’t done. What he should have done. How far he and his now-dead wife had let their marriage suffer because of the demands of their work.
“Damn,” he said. “I’m sorry about what happened today.”
Juliet noticed that his dark eyes were soft in the dim light, perhaps an optical illusion. “It wasn’t your fault.”