The pig wheeked her disapproval as I drove east. Somehow I was starting to think that she was smarter than me. And I didn’t mind a bit.
Chapter Thirty-five
“Politics are very much like war. We may even have to use poison gas at times.”
– WINSTON CHURCHILL
The great thing about the way I lived my life was that I could walk away anytime I wanted to. Anytime things got inconvenient or uncomfortable, I could bolt. I told myself that was exactly what I wanted. My friends and family seemed to admire that about me.
But the truth was, I became the world’s biggest loser. While they admired me, my family lived differently. And I never figured that out. Until now. What did I learn? That with all my prestigious degrees and vast worldwide travel, I really knew nothing at all.
Okay, I did know something. I knew that I was madly in love with Veronica Gale. And I knew that I had to see her and tell her the truth. About everything. What she did with the information was up to her. But I couldn’t pursue her without her knowing the truth. All of it.
I pulled into a Target parking lot this time. It was three in the morning and I felt like a change was in order. I fell asleep with Sartre next to me. For the first time in a long time, I slept well.
I slept until the afternoon the next day. After renting a car-I didn’t want to violate zoning ordinances by trying to park my trailer on a residential street-I drove to where she was staying and knocked on the door.
“Cy!” She actually looked happy to see me. Was this a trap? I was used to traps.
“Come in.” Ronnie pulled on my sleeve and, once I was inside, stuck her hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out Sartre. She knew where I kept her. She knew that I’d brought her. Maybe there was something to the idea of fate after all.
“I need to talk to you,” I said as I followed her into a large sunroom. We sat on the couch, facing each other.
“Okay. But first I have to tell you something.” She took a deep breath. “Sartre just peed on me.”
I looked down at her T-shirt and saw a large, spreading yellow stain. I think the pig winked at me.
Ronnie jumped up and ran out of the room. I toyed with suggesting she just take off her shirt, but thought maybe we should talk first. In a minute, she returned with a fresh shirt and Sartre wrapped up in a towel.
“I gave her a bath.” She patted the little rodent’s head. Sartre really looked pissed. Her fur was fluffed out, giving her the appearance of being much larger than she was, and the way her hair was askew gave her an angry look.
“Okay. So, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” Ronnie said with a grin. “I should have introduced you to Drew. I should have e-mailed you and explained when I didn’t at the house. The thing is”-she chewed her lip adorably-“you are a dick and an asshole.”
I nodded. “I know. You are absolutely right.”
“And you make me so angry I want to kill something,” she continued, without understanding the irony of her words. And why would she? I’d never told her.
“I’m not sure I can forgive you. Which is in direct conflict with my feelings for you.”
I looked at her. “Why would you have any feelings for me? I don’t deserve them. I treated you badly, thought I had you all figured out. I’m just here to apologize.”
I stood and Ronnie grabbed my hand, pulling me back down to the couch. “That is exactly what I wanted to hear.”
“It is?”
“Yes. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I’ve realized that, in spite of my better judgment, I’m in love with you, Coney Bombay.”
My head felt light and dizzy. It was a strange feeling when someone you loved told you they loved you too. My heart tightened in my chest, and I was worried about having a heart attack.
“What did you want to tell me?” she asked sweetly.
Oh. That. Now that she loved me, I didn’t really want to tell her.
“The truth,” I finally said. “I want you to know who I really am.”
Ronnie shook her head. “I’m not pigeonholing you. And we have our whole lives to learn about each other.”
Something in her light tone made me almost chicken out. But I was here and I had to say it.
“I’m an assassin.”
She laughed. That was unexpected.
“No. Seriously. That’s what I do. Or did, rather. I don’t do it anymore.”
Ronnie’s mouth formed a perfect O. “You’re serious?”
I nodded.
“You mean you aren’t an overeducated carney?”
“No, I’m those things too. It’s just that I also used to kill people.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Define ‘used to.’”
I guess if I was going to tell her everything, I should be completely honest. “As in up until a few weeks ago.”
Ronnie got up and left the room. She was gone so long I was starting to think I should find the door on my own with my wet pig in tow.
Just as I was about to get up, she came back in carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses. “I’m lousy at opening these things. Do you think we’ll need another bottle?”
I poured. “No, one bottle should do it.” And then I told her the story of my family and what the Bombay family business was all about.
Veronica listened carefully; her face did not betray one iota of emotion. Perhaps she had distanced herself, listening academically to what I had to say.
As the words came out of my mouth, I felt something strange. My shoulders started to relax. Tension flowed out of my arms into the sofa. I realized that I’d never told another non-Bombay about this. And what a burden it had been to carry it around all these years.
That was good. But the jury was still out on how Veronica would take the news. There was no guarantee she wouldn’t throw me out on my ass. I didn’t think she’d call the police. At least, I hoped she wouldn’t.
We finished the bottle as I finished my story. I took a deep breath and waited for her to speak.
“That is so interesting,” Ronnie said finally. “I mean, that really appeals to the anthropologist in me. And if I look at it that way, it doesn’t bother me.”
“It doesn’t?”
She shook her head. “At least, not yet. Give me a few days.”
“Oh.” What else could I say?
“You only killed bad people, right?” The ring of hope in her voice was unmistakable.
I nodded. There was no point in telling her that I might have killed someone who didn’t deserve to die. The cousins and I had vowed that we didn’t want to know the truth about that, and I felt comfortable in my ignorance.
“Did you kill Dekker?”
“No. I couldn’t do it. But I did drive him to thoughts of suicide.” I told her the story of how I kept him alive as my own imprisoned therapist.
Ronnie snorted. “Oh, my God. That is the funniest thing I ever heard! Did you really do that?”
Okay. So it was all out there. And she took it well. But I still felt very uneasy.
“I shouldn’t have accused you of anything,” I started. “I was the one who pigeonholed you. I should have asked you-”
Ronnie silenced me with a kiss. She stood and started to pull me upstairs. I followed. Even though she hadn’t fully processed everything and was very likely in total shock, I wasn’t about to turn her down.
Chapter Thirty-six
Man: How you doing, Keaton?
Keaton: I can’t feel my legs…Keyser.
– THE USUAL SUSPECTS
So this was what it was like. I listened to Ronnie breathing beside me and sighed. If she woke up and decided she never wanted to see me again, at least I had this moment. I rolled over and watched the sun set lower in the sky. I wanted every late afternoon to be like this.