April’s laughter echoes around the terrace. I glance to her glass, thinking she may have had more than the one glass by how relaxed she seems. Why is she drinking, considering her situation? “She’s awful, like my mother was. I was always a disappointment to them both. She was a devout Catholic, and I was the jezebel that was her burden to bear.”
I didn’t see that coming. I’m tempted to drink just to feel less sad for her and to numb the reality that I’m even having to suffer through this get-together. I won’t let my guard down. That’s what they want, and I have no intention of giving it to them.
Garvey pats her hand. “Don’t worry, Aunt April, you’re a Kingwood now. You don’t ever have to think of them and their do-gooder-judgmental ways again. You showed her.”
My mouth falls. “Kingwood? You’re not a Kingwood.”
Eyes dart my way, searing me to the spot. Garvey smiles but there’s nothing kind about it. “I wouldn’t go questioning others when you have secrets you don’t want revealed.” What’s that supposed to mean? Who is this guy?
The sun is veiled behind the clouds, and I’m starting to relate to the struggle. I stand. “Are you threatening me?”
“No,” he replies nonchalantly. “Why would I do that? Anyway, you don’t have anything to hide, right, Ms. Grayson?”
My heart starts racing as I try to find my way out of this situation while refusing to let them see me panic.
I am strong.
I am strong.
I am strong.
Staring him straight in the eyes, I say, “It’s Kingwood. Missus.”
“Oh yes, I forgot the story that’s in play. My apologies, Mrs. Kingwood.”
Do they know the truth? Would Alexander tell them? I need to talk to him before I say anything more. I turn to leave, hating that the process puts my back toward them. Why the hell would Garvey Penner call his aunt a Kingwood? She never was and never will be. What is wrong with them?
Inside the house, I hear Neely talking to someone at the door. It widens as I walk closer, and Cruise steps inside the foyer.
“Cruise, come in.” I smile, happy to see a friendly face. My pace slows with each step I take, my smile falling when I see what looks like worry permeating his expression. My heart, which was racing from anger outside, now thuds loud and the beats become more infrequent. I expect to see Alexander behind him, laughing, giving him a hard time, or coming straight to me, but he’s not. “Where’s Alexander?”
We stop with only a foot between us. His head is down, and his eyes closed. Watching him try to gather his own strength as he scrubs his hand over his face is odd. Cruise rarely shows such open emotion.
I feel sick. My arms cover my stomach. “Where’s Alexander?” This time it’s just a whisper.
When he looks at me, he says, “Something’s happened.”
29
Sara Jane
“I don’t understand.”
Cruise runs both hands through his hair and stands from the couch. He’s struggled to sit still since we came into Alexander’s quarters to talk in private, like his insides are frenzied despite his exterior holding him together. “He’s gone. I don’t know where he went, but he’s gone.”
“Just gone? That’s all I get?”
His voice is clipped matching his expression, “I don’t have anything else to give you.”
“His bike?”
“Gone.”
“How far can he ride on it?”
“As far as there is land to drive on.”
I stand and walk to the balcony doors and open them. I need to breathe in the fresh air. I turn back around and say, “I saw him this morning. He said he’d be back in a few hours. Why are you so worried? It’s just lunchtime.” My eyes look toward the bedroom, and I gasp thinking only hours before I’d been in his arms.
“Did you see him at the penthouse?”
“I wouldn’t have come to you if I didn’t think something was wrong. He’s not answering his phone.”
“I think we’re jumping to conclusions.” Despite my words, worry grows in my stomach. I shouldn’t be concerned. This is not abnormal behavior for Alexander. It’s only out of the ordinary for Cruise, because he isn’t used to it. “Tell me what’s really going on. I know you two have a code between you, but please tell me why you’re really here.”
A debate plays in his eyes. The only reason I notice it is because his nickname doesn’t reflect the concern. Control is gone, and panic has risen in his irises. “It’s me, Cruise. No one wants him safer than I do. Please tell me what’s going on.”
“The cops came by the penthouse. Well, the lobby. There’s no way they were gonna be allowed up without a warrant. But the doorman called me down.”
“Okay. And?”
“They said they had some leads on the hit on the West Side, and King might be called in. I was told to lawyer up as well.”
I come back inside and close the doors, the pretty day ruined anyway. “What else did they say?”
“They said it was three guys working together. They don’t have us tagged up with Jason.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Look, Sara Jane. King’s kept you in the dark for a reason. I’m not sure I should be the one telling you this.”
“We’re friends.” I sit back in the chair, keeping my eyes steady on him while hiding the panic I feel inside. “I’ll always cover for you. Will you do the same for me?”
“I’ll always have your back. You know that.”
“I’ll call Mr. Quincy and tell him you need a lawyer.”
“My parents cut me off.”
“I know.” My fingers fold together, clasped on my stomach. “We’ll cover it.”
“We?”
I cross my legs. “I have a woman downstairs trying to take over like she owns the estate. I refuse to let her. I’m Alexander’s wife and as such, I call the shots.” Our gazes hold strong and he never flinches when I use the term “wife.” He’s fully onboard. In fact, for the first time, I feel as though I have Cruise’s respect. “You’re our family and family sticks together, so you’ve got a lawyer.” I pick up my phone and call Alexander on speakerphone.
We watch the screen and then I hear his voice. Instant relief floods before it flows away as quickly. Voicemail. Damn it. “Call me right away, Alexander.” Before I hang up, I add, “I love you.” I always say it, and I don’t intend to avoid it out of embarrassment of an audience.
The room is quiet as we sit in silence, both lost in our thoughts. I’m used to Alexander leaving unexpectedly—being gone—but Cruise’s stress concerns me. His dark brown hair looks almost jet black in the masculine room. It’s trimmed short, and stylish. Full lips are anchored under a strong nose and dark eyes. His chambray shirt fits a little tight in his upper arms. He’s much the same guy I met years ago—a solitary man in many ways—but as he’s aged his features have become more defined. His strength is exuded through his attitude, a steady expression of don’t fuck with me always present.
But here, in front of me, midday on a sunny Tuesday, steady has been replaced with edgy. He’s unable to hide his concern, and that’s what makes me anxious. “Do you think something bad has happened to him or you just think he’s off the grid for a bit?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. My gut tells me something’s wrong.”
“We need to look for him.”