He thinks about it for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to harbor a fugitive.”
I laugh, in spite of the circumstances.
He looks at the clock on the wall. It’s half past one in the morning. “Let’s go,” he says. “Nobody’s coming at this point.”
We take our own cars. I follow him into East Hampton, checking my mirrors at all times, feeling very conspicuous out here on Main Street at this hour.
But I don’t see any patrol cars.
Justin has a house by the ocean, a beautiful two-story cedar A-frame. I park my car next to his in the garage and he lowers the door, shielding my car from any inquisitive law enforcement.
Inside, he leads me to a family room. What a place. Clean and spacious and updated. He directs me to a couch that’s more comfortable than my bed, perched next to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a large backyard.
I sink into the couch, exhausted. Next to me, on a side table, are two framed photographs of Justin as a child. The first with his mother and father, at a Yankees game. Justin must have been, what, four or five? All of them wearing Yankees caps, smiling for the camera. Justin looking like a miniature version of his father.
The second, just the boy and his mother, when Justin is older, probably ten or so, on the beach, the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop.
“Nice family,” I say.
“Yeah.” Justin nods at the photographs. “That’s the last photo I have of my father. He died two days later. Crazy, right?”
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” I say. “How did he die? Not to pry.”
“No, that’s okay.” He waves me off. “He had a brain aneurysm. Healthy as a horse, worked out regularly. Then all of a sudden, he dropped dead. He just dropped.”
“I’m … so sorry.”
“Yeah.” Justin puts his hands on his hips. “The truth? I don’t even remember him. I was only four. That’s why I keep the photograph around.” He waves his hand around the room. “And that’s how I have money. A healthy life insurance policy.”
“Sure.”
He works his jaw. “I’d give it all back to have a father.” He claps his hands, shakes himself free of the memory. “Now, Miss Murphy, have you eaten?”
“Have I—oh, listen, that’s not—”
“Did you eat, ma’am? It’s a simple yes-or-no question.”
I chuckle again. “No.”
He nods in the direction of his kitchen. “I have cold cuts and some cheese and crackers. Maybe even some fruit. I’d like some myself.”
“That sounds great,” I concede.
He starts to leave but turns and spins. “And what are we drinking? I can’t tell if you need coffee or wine.”
I look at him.
“Wine,” we say together.
He returns first with two glasses of Chardonnay. “Cheers,” he says. “Our second date.”
I realize my hands are shaking as I clink glasses with him.
“You’re trembling,” he says. He puts his hand on my free one. “You’re safe here, Jenna. Just relax.”
I nod and take a sip. It’s on the sweeter side, but alcohol feels good right now, a little numbing of the anxiety.
“I’ll get the snacks.” He pops off the couch and heads into the kitchen.
Justin’s right. Isaac would never look for me here. I’m safe for tonight.
But so much to do. I have to reach out to Ricketts to see what my status is. I need to find out more about Holden VI. I have his lawyer’s name, but— No. Justin’s right about that, too. I have to slow down. If I don’t get some sleep, I’m going to fall apart.
I look over the room. Picture windows on two sides. Expensive leather furniture. A big-screen TV mounted on one wall. An oak bookcase lining another wall.
A nice, handsome, rich guy. Yeah, run away from this one, Murphy. You wouldn’t want to be happy and comfortable, would you?
“You look more relaxed now,” he says. He’s carrying a tray of cheese and salami, some sliced tomatoes and grapes, a small fancy knife, the Chardonnay bottle tucked under one arm.
He sets it all down and sits next to me on the couch.
“Now eat,” he says. “And drink. And be merry.”
I pick a couple of grapes off the bunch and pop them in my mouth.
“You’re spoiling me,” I say. “I show up unannounced, with the cops on my tail, and you spoil me.”
When he doesn’t respond right away, I turn to him. He’s watching me.
“Maybe I like spoiling you,” he says, touching my hair.
Is this guy for real? Are there actually guys like this out there? In that other world, I mean, the one Justin mentioned, where people are truly decent and honest?
And handsome, too.
He leans into me slowly, giving me the chance to decide, and I lean into him as well. This kiss is better than last time, less inhibited, more natural, each of us more at ease.
He pulls back. “You can stay here as long as you need to,” he says. “You’re safe here.”
And then we both hear it, footsteps from a distance.
From behind us, outside.
And then a piercing smash, as something—or someone—comes crashing through the picture window.
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