FOR THE FIRST time in over a week, he breathes fresh air, he walks in grass, he wears his own clothes, he sees the sun, not over a concrete wall for one hour a day but out in the open. Noah Walker takes a moment to savor it before he steps into the minibus that will transport him to the train station for passage from Riverhead to Bridgehampton.
When he’s home, he first takes a shower—no fancy shower-head or immaculate tub, but at least a healthy flow of water, without mold on the fixtures, without raw sewage bubbling from the drain, without having to look over his shoulder to wonder whether he was going to have an unexpected visitor. The biggest problem with Suffolk County Jail in Riverhead was the temporary nature of it all. Nobody in Riverhead had been convicted of a crime—if they had, they’d be in prison. Riverhead was just a pretrial holding facility for people with unaffordable bail or no bail at all, and thus there was nothing in the way of remedial programs or education, no recreational facilities, no pretense of nutritious meals. It was just walls, a handful of books, a chaplain on Sunday, shit for food, and an overpopulation of pissed-off detainees. He met someone inside, a guy named Rufus, who’d been in county lockup for over four years waiting for his trial.
None of that for Noah. He’s demanded a speedy trial, his constitutional right. He can’t stomach the thought of waiting months, even years, wondering.
Out of the shower, hair dripping wet, feeling warm and refreshed, he picks up his cell phone and hits the speed dial.
“Are you out?” Paige says breathlessly when she answers.
“I’m out,” he says, thanks to her, and the checking account that bears only her name, that her husband doesn’t control. “I’m home now.”
“I can … I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He feels a rush, a longing for her, tempered with fear. “Are you sure? What about—”
“I don’t care. I’ll figure something out. I’ll tell him something. I don’t think he knows about us. He’s never said a word—”
“He knows about us,” Noah says. Of course her husband knows. That has to be what’s going on here. John Sulzman is a man of boundless influence. Influential enough to snap his fingers and have someone thrown in prison? Noah’s no expert on backroom deals, but he doesn’t doubt it.
“Well, I’m coming. I can’t wait to see you!”
“Me too.” Noah closes his eyes. “Just … be careful,” he says.
13
NOAH’S TOES CURL into the moist sand. He looks out over the Atlantic, black and restless in the dark, the post-rain breeze brushing his face. This is what freedom feels like, he thinks. This is what I missed the most.
He hears the familiar hum of the superior engine approaching. He stands and sees her Aston Martin pulling up in the lot. She pops out of the car and forgets to close the door. Noah is already running toward her.
No, he thinks, she is what I missed the most.
“I can’t believe it,” she manages as he scoops her up in his arms; she wraps her legs around him and grips his hair. Their mouths press against each other, more of a smash than a kiss. His body is charged with electricity.
“I didn’t … kill those people,” he whispers.
“You don’t need to say that to me. Of course I know that.” Paige strokes his face. “What can I do to help? Do you need money for a lawyer? A private detective?”
“You can’t do that,” Noah says. “John will—”
“I don’t care about John. You need someone on your side. I’ll do whatever I have to do. I won’t let you go through this alone. Tell me what you need.”
“I just need you. That’s all I need right now.” Noah draws her close, breathes in her fresh-strawberry scent, takes in the warmth of her body. As long as he holds her, which could be five seconds, could be an hour, there is no criminal indictment, there is no prospect of life in prison, there is only Paige, the woman he loves, the woman who loves him.
And then he hears another vehicle approaching.
Noah raises his head. The beach had been empty, thanks in part to the lateness of the hour but more so to the rainfall an hour ago. The approaching SUV is not familiar to him. It stops in the middle of the small parking lot that serves as the end of Ocean Drive, positioned so that its headlights are trained on Noah and Paige.
Noah walks around the Aston Martin to stand between the headlights and Paige, a protective gesture.
“Well, shit, timing sure is everything, isn’t it?” says Detective Isaac Marks, getting out of his vehicle. “Another case of coitus interruptus.”
“What do you want now?” Noah’s hands curl into fists. He moves toward Isaac.
“Easy, son, easy.”
Son. Noah’s always hated how cops talk to him, the condescension. But especially from Isaac Marks, who was the same year as him at Bridgehampton, and their history—and now he’s calling Noah son. What a difference a badge can make.