Nate came in carrying a bouquet of calla lilies which, I thought, seemed a bit funereal and much like those that adorned his lobby. But sweet.
In my mind, I’d created him tall and swashbuckling, long dark curls and leather pants. I imagined him in studios, angrily splashing paint on his huge canvases, or drifting though swank galleries with a beautiful woman on his arm. But in reality, he looked somewhat bookish—with short, shorn dark hair and glasses. His jeans were paint splattered. He was tall, lean in the waist and broad through the shoulders.
“How—?” I started. He had a kind, arresting smile. “What are you doing here? How did you know?”
“Well, you’re all over the news, for one,” he said. “And our doorman friend, Charlie, called to say that you might not be up to looking in on the cats. I had to come home anyway, so I thought I’d drop by while I was in town.”
“I had my uncle call him,” I said. “To say there had been an accident. Are they okay? Milo and Tiger?”
“I think they miss you,” he said. “But yeah, they’re okay. The more important question is how are you?”
“Um,” I said. I like the way his energy fit into the room. It was quiet. He sat in the chair by my bed. His eyes, they never left me. I could feel him taking in all the details, easily, without judgment. He was a watcher. An artist who wanted to see it all—all the lines and shadows, all the lights and darks. I found I didn’t have the urge to hide from him. “I’m here.”
“That’s something,” he said. “That’s a lot.”
“I suppose it is.”
He smiled and for the first time in about a million years, I felt a smile turn up the corners of my mouth.
Paul seemed to think that it was his cue to leave. He slipped from the room.
“Your uncle,” he said. “I would have said he was your father. Something about the eyes.”
“No,” I said. “My father died a long time ago. But he’s like a father to me.”
I was my father’s daughter. I knew that and Paul confirmed it. Our bond, whatever Paul and I shared, was more than biology. We were family in every important way but that.
? ? ?
“THERE YOU ARE,” NATE SAYS now as I enter the kitchen. “Where did you go?”
“Up on the roof,” I say.
“You climbed the stairs.” He frowns.
“It’s good for me.”
“Hmm,” he says, which I’m just starting to learn is the sound he makes when he disagrees but knows it’s not his place to say. I wonder if that will annoy me sometime down the road. I doubt it. He’s careful, gentle, everything a boyfriend should be.
I’ve never had a boyfriend before, if that’s what you call the person who offers you a hand back from the brink. Who then shows you what it’s like to walk through the park (not searching for crimes in progress), and linger in cafés over brunch until the afternoon (not counting exits), or stay up all night talking (not obsessing about revenge)—or not talking, which is better. But it’s nice.
We’re still getting to know each other, of course. There are things about me he doesn’t know.
For instance, I won’t tell him about what happened today. There are too many shades of gray to ask anyone to go along. In some real way, a lot of people, including me, got away with things we shouldn’t have. But justice has a way of creeping up on you. (And, I’ll be watching my back.) He only knows what everyone knows about the heist, and my parents’ murders, about the huge sum of money that was stolen and never recovered and, for now, he doesn’t need to know more. Because Nate Shelby says he’s in love with Zoey Drake, the cat sitter, the martial artist, the teacher who helps girls get in touch with their power and strength.
Around his apartment are sketches of me—pencil, charcoal, pastel. I’m not sure I know the girl in those pictures—fragile-looking, with a shock of spiky strawberry-blonde hair, delicate features and sad, sad eyes. She’s not the watcher, the thinker, or the Red Hunter; she’s all of those things, and something more.
Maybe now, for the first time, I’ll give myself permission to get to know her.
acknowledgments
Though a novel is written in solitude, publishing takes a village. I am blessed with a stellar team of supporters, colleagues, and friends.
I owe a big thank-you to my editor, Tara Parsons, for her insight, enthusiasm, good humor, and talent. The relationship between writer and editor is an intimate one as we work together to make a manuscript the best it can be. Her thoughtfulness, wisdom, and careful reading were invaluable in making this book better than I could have made it alone. And we had fun doing it!
Thanks to my agent, Amy Berkower, at Writers House for her support and hard work on my behalf. Every author needs a captain, someone to help navigate the big waters of publishing. Her intelligence, experience, and friendship are a beacon. Thanks to Alice Martin and Genevieve Gagne-Hawes for their kind words, careful reading, and support.
The folks at Simon & Schuster Touchstone and Pocket are an absolutely stellar group. Each and every person brings their own special gifts and talents to the table. My heartfelt thanks to: Carolyn Reidy, Susan Moldow, Michael Selleck, Liz Perl, Louise Burke, Jennifer Long, Liz Psaltis, David Falk, Brian Belfiglio, Jessica Roth, Cherlynne Li, Wendy Sheanin, Paula Amendolara, Teresa Brumm, Colin Shields, Christina Festa, Charlotte Gill, Gary Urda, Gregory Hruska, Michelle Fadlalla, Meredith Vilarello, Lauren Flavin, Paul O’Halloran, Irene Lipsky, Etinosa Agbonlahor, and Isabella Betita. And I can never heap enough praise on the top-notch sales team, out there on the front lines in our ever more competitive business, getting books in every format into as many hands as possible. It’s everything; thank you.
I have an amazing network of family and friends who cheer me through the good days and carry me through the challenging ones. I am so grateful for my parents, Joseph and Virginia Miscione, and my brother Joe who have supported me in every way—all my life. Thanks to Heather Mikesell for being one of my first and most important readers. Thanks to Tara Popick and Marion Chartoff for their unfailing friendship—though too much time passes between visits! They’ve been with me every step of the way.
My husband, Jeffrey, and our daughter, Ocean, are the center of my universe. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t thank my lucky stars for the cutest, funniest, sweetest, most loving family a girl could have. The life of the writer is full of beautiful gifts and challenges, dizzying highs and crushing lows. My family helps me to keep my focus on what’s important, what’s real; they keep me centered. Our labradoodle, Jak Jak, offers daily cuddles, kisses, and comic relief. I’m so grateful and so in love.
Special thanks to my readers who have followed me through all the dark, twisty passages I have wandered. A writer is nothing without her readers and certainly I have some of the kindest, most supportive, most involved and vocal out there. Thanks for turning out, for writing, for promoting, for connecting on social media. And, most of all, thanks for reading.