The next time I looked up, it was still dark. I stared at the walls of the strange room, not remembering where I was at first. It all came back to me as I glanced out the window and saw the lit-up harbor. A big boat called The Chesapeake. Baltimore – the Sheraton Inner Harbor.
Then other images came.
Paul. Veronica. Little blonde Caroline.
The Jaguar in the Potomac.
I lay in the dark and thought it all through from the beginning. What I had done. How I felt about it now. How I felt about myself. I pinched my eyes shut. Vivid sensations and memories flashed through me periodically. The smell of Scott's cologne. The taste of rain in his kiss. The feel of the rain on my shins as I stared at his battered body. Paul in the Jaguar at the end.
My breath caught at what I remembered next.
I saw silver-white light streaming through the windows of the church where Paul and I were married. My left hand twitched as I felt the slide of a gold ring.
The despair that overtook me then was like a seizure. I felt like it was something that had always been in me. Some dark blossom that had been waiting to bloom since the day I was married.
For the next two hours I did nothing but cry.
Eventually I found a phone and ordered a sandwich and beer from the Orioles Grille in the hotel. I turned on the TV. On the eleven o'clock news there was a lurid shot of the bridge in DC where the accident occurred, and of Paul's car being lifted from the river.
I was about to cry again, but I stopped myself with deep, hard breaths. Enough of that for now. I shook my head at the screen as the news anchor called it a tragic accident.
"You don't know the half of it," I said. "You have no idea what you're talking about, mister. No idea."
Epilogue
Chapter 116
THE LAST FEW MINUTES of my hour-long run were always the bear. I kept my eyes focused on the silver lap of water on sand, the slight give of the wet dirt under the balls of my feet.
As I finished my kick, I dropped to the beach, lungs burning, amazed at what I'd just accomplished. Five miles – on sand.
For the umpteenth morning in a row, the sun broke above the horizon, and I witnessed the miracle moment when the water and the seashore became gold.
I stared along the curving rim of beach I'd just run. It was like a gilded crescent moon laid on its side. Darn pretty.
I checked my watch. You're gonna be late, Lauren.
I found my moped in the near-empty parking lot. I put on my flip-flops, then helmet. Safety first. I nodded at a couple of fishermen who looked familiar, swerved around wolf-whistling, sun-browned surfers in a canary-yellow convertible, and hit the winding beach road toward town.
Funny how things work out, I thought as I buzzed along the narrow ribbon of asphalt.
The FedEx package had arrived three months to the day after Paul's death. Inside was a letter. It was typed on expensive stationery, the letterhead from an attorney of the Cayman Islands Trust Bank.
Paul had left the stolen money plus interest, $1,257,000.22 – in my name.
Didn't matter, I still wasn't ready to forgive him.
I was tempted to turn it in, maybe give it to some charity. But by then I was coming along, and there's nothing like a baby's kick to make you realize it isn't about you anymore. I did send two hundred fifty thousand of the money to the Thayer family, but that was just me doing the right thing. Doing the best I could, anyway.
I pulled into the short drive of a glass house perched on a cliff above the beach. With its leaking roof and rusty sliders, it was more glass trailer than house, but you couldn't beat the view, or the privacy.
I left my bike helmet on as I ran inside. I needed to check in on the man in my life.
My baby boy exploded into giggles as I knelt in front of his snuggly bouncer. How do you like that? I was still a sucker for younger men.
His name was Thomas. After my dad, who else?
A Spanish woman clucked at me from the kitchen doorway.
"What are you doing here, Miss Lauren?" she said. "You can't miss your first day of work."
"I just thought I'd give Tommy one more kiss and a hug," I said.
She pointed at the front door.
"Basta," she said. "You may come back for lunch. And to see Thomas. Now, vámonos."
Chapter 117
MY OFFICE SPACE was only ten minutes away, just above a popular bar on a busy tourist street.
I climbed the stairs and undid my chin strap as I gaped at the new "Paradise Investigations" sign above the weathered door. This is good. Looks right, feels right.
I went back down the stairs and into the bar – wading my way through the jungle path of tikis and palms.
The bartender turned the page of last Sunday's New York Daily News and looked up at me.
My old partner, Mike Ortiz, rolled his eyes before he smiled broadly – the only way Mike can smile.
"Hey, gumshoe," he said. "Aren't you supposed to be shadowing some nasty hombre, or something like that? And what did I tell you about my aunt Rosa? If you keep going back home, she'll think you don't trust her with little Thomas."
We could have been sitting next to each other in our old squad car, except Mike was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that looked like it might require batteries. He seemed to have adjusted pretty well to life after The Job, anyway.
He'd told me to look him up, and that's what I did. It wasn't like I had anywhere else to go. Besides, Mike was just about the only honest man I knew. And actually kind of cute, I was starting to notice.
"I saw your new shingle upstairs," Mike said. "Real nice. Except you do know this is a Spanish-speaking country, don't you? How much business do you think you're going to get with a sign in English?"
"As little as possible, dummy," I said, stealing the Style section. "What does a girl have to do to get a cup of joe around here?"
"Let me think about it," Mike said, "while I get you that coffee."
Then Mike added, apropos of nothing really, "You're doing real good, Lauren. You and Thomas."
I blushed down to my toes. I guess I'm just not used to compliments yet.
About the Authors
JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and best-selling writers of all time. He is the author of the two top-selling new detective series of the past decade: the Alex Cross novels, including Cross, Mary, Mary, London Bridges, Kiss the Girls, and Along Came a Spider; and the Women's Murder Club series, including 1st to Die, 2nd Chance, 3rd Degree, 4th of July, The 5th Horseman, and The 6th Target. He has written many other #1 bestsellers, including Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas, Lifeguard, Honeymoon, Beach Road, and Judge amp; Jury. He lives in Florida.
MICHAEL LEDWIDGE is the author of The Narrowback, Bad Connection, and Before the Devil Knows You're Dead.
