Set Me Free (13 page)

“I got your message about what I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you everything. About Suze. That I was put on trial for her murder and acquitted. Then, yesterday, I figured you’d found out about it, so you didn’t want anything else to do with me. You wouldn’t be the first.” He sighed, and I knew I’d do anything to put my arms around him right now, no matter how much of an idiot that made me.

“I should’ve told you everything from the very beginning. I wanted to…but I didn’t. Mostly because I thought you already seemed half terrified of me. Not that I blame you for that, after your ex. I don’t know. It was just so tempting to imagine that you and I could be together.”

He paused again. In the distance, a cool female voice announced a final boarding call.

“I’m sorry, M. Really. I’ll leave you alone now. There’s just one thing I have to say, though obviously I don’t expect you to believe me. I did not kill Suze. I would never have hurt her. I loved her more than my own life.”

I
dreamed about Owen
, restlessly, feverishly, and woke up mid-morning, still exhausted, still completely at a loss for how to respond to him. I wished I didn’t have the day off—I would have much rather gone into work than dwell on this all day.

Eventually, I decided to be honest. I sent him a text:
I need some time to think.

Immediately after I pressed send, I remembered that Owen was in California and it was 7:30 in the morning there. Oh, well. Owen was an early riser, anyway.

My phone buzzed. He’d written me back already, as if he’d been waiting for me. It was just one word:
Ok.

I wondered if he’d sent the text from bed, like me, if the time difference was enough to put us on the same sleep schedule. Probably not. He was probably already out in the yard, building a deck or planting some palm trees, working up a sweat in the California sunshine.

I rolled out of bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen, where I made myself a pot of coffee. Kaye and Andy had left for their run an hour or so ago, and Scott was either still sleeping or watching TV in bed. A man after my own heart, in some ways.

A knock sounded on our front door. Still in my pink pajama tee, shorts, and fluffy slippers, I crossed the living room and opened the door.

Claire stood on the paved driveway, holding two leashes in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. Byron stood beside her, looking dignified, while Ferdinand, bigger and fluffier than ever, lolled on the ground and nibbled on one of Byron’s legs.

“Claire,” I said, confused. “What are you doing here?”

Claire was taller than me, but even she looked small next to her giant dogs, especially with her shoulders slumped and her head down.

“I came to apologize,” she said.

“Apologize,” I echoed.

Of course. I couldn’t believe this hadn’t occurred to me last night: Claire had obviously known all along about Owen’s trial, and
she
, unlike Kaye and Andy, had also known that Owen and I were dating. If anyone besides him had the responsibility to tell me about his past, it was her.

I should have been angry. Furious. And yet…I wasn’t. The realization just made me tired.

“Come in.” I gestured for her to sit down at the breakfast bar.

“I brought muffins.” She set her paper bag down on the counter.

“Thanks.” My tone sounded chilly even to my own ears. I fixed her a coffee, a little annoyed that I knew how she liked it. Black, three sugars.

“Owen told me yesterday he was flying to California to see his dad,” she said. “I thought maybe you guys had a fight?”

“I heard about Owen’s trial.”

Her face paled. “I thought that might be it.”

“How could he not tell me, Claire? He said they dated, but he didn’t say he was accused of
killing her
. Kind of a big thing to leave out.”

“It’s my fault.”

I stared at her.

“I told him not to tell you,” Claire admitted. “He wanted to, but I thought that it would have been too much for you to hear, especially before you really got to know him. I knew you would find out eventually, but…” She glanced down at Ferdinand, who licked her hand. “I’m sorry, Miranda. I just thought…if you could get to know him a little first, without all the rumors and the gossip, you would know, in your heart, that he couldn’t hurt a fly. And especially not Suzanna.”

I couldn’t help remembering Kaye’s stark, forlorn expression from last night. “Lots of people think he killed her.”

“I know they do,” Claire said irritably. “But they don’t
know
him. I’m his mother. And I can tell you, he loved Suzanna like there was no tomorrow.
He did not hurt that girl
.”

“He should have
told
me,” I insisted. “He should have trusted me to make my own decisions.”

“Miranda,” Claire said, “think about it. You guys have been dating for, what, a week and a half? If I’d started out my marriage to Charles by telling him all my weird, bad stuff, it would’ve been even shorter than it actually was!”

“First of all, I told him all of
my
stuff. I told him stuff I’ve never told anyone.” My throat ached suddenly, and I pressed my palm to my forehead. He
knew
about Rhys—he knew what Rhys had done to me, how badly it had messed me up, the constant nightmares. But he still hadn’t told me the truth about himself. “And, Claire, being accused of
murder
—”

“He didn’t do it—”

“But how do I
know
that?”

Claire looked as though I’d slapped her. “Fine,” she said stiffly. “Maybe you aren’t as right for him as I’d thought.”

She stood up and whistled to her dogs. Byron snapped to attention, and Ferdy leapt after him. They started towards the front door, but Claire turned back to face me. “I really am sorry about this. But think about it. If he had told you, on day one, would you have bothered to see him again?”

I still wanted to see him. Even now. But I didn’t say that out loud.

At my silence, she sighed. “Goodbye, Miranda.”

She left me standing in the kitchen with my arms crushed against my chest, my mind a storm of indignation. Claire had guessed ages ago why I’d come to the island, I was sure of it, but she’d still convinced Owen to keep this from me. As if I couldn’t think for myself.

She needn’t have bothered—that was the worst part. Owen was already temptation personified, no matter what kinds of skeletons he had in his closet.

Snatching up the bag of muffins, I stomped into the living room and threw myself down onto the couch. I stuffed a chunk of muffin into my mouth and turned on the TV, trying to keep being angry. Anger was comforting in a way that the urge to cry was not.

“Oh, boy.”

I glanced up to see Kaye and Andy standing by the front door, looking sweaty and invigorated in their running clothes, their smiles fading at the sight of me.

“You okay, Miranda?” Kaye asked.

I realized that I was wearing pink pajama shorts, eating a bag of muffins, and watching an infomercial about watches, but I still resented the alarmed look on Kaye’s face.

“I’m fine,” I snapped.

“We saw Claire’s car leaving as we were jogging in,” Andy said.

“Yeah, she stopped by to tell me she was sorry for being a manipulative jerk.”

“Oh.
Oh
,” Kaye said. “She obviously knew about you and Owen.”

“Yes. She obviously did.”

Andy discreetly slipped away to take a shower, while Kaye sat down on the arm of the couch and frowned at the man modeling a large gold watch on the screen. I handed her the bag of muffins, and she fished one out and began to slowly pull it apart. “I hate to think of you fighting with Claire,” she said quietly. “I love Claire.”

“I do, too.” The urge to cry intensified.

“Everybody does,” Kaye admitted. “We are all afraid of Owen but love Claire.”

“I’m not afraid of Owen,” I said softly. “Maybe I should be, but I’m not.”

Kaye patted my arm. “Fuck it,” she said. “Let’s go to the mall.”

* * *

W
e wandered
around the tiny mall in Bellisle for ages. Kaye tagged along patiently while I trailed my hands over luxurious silk tops and cashmere sweaters. It made me feel more normal, calmer—at least on the surface. In the back of my mind, everything was the same.

Eventually we headed out to Bellisle’s small but relatively nice downtown. We settled on a sushi place for lunch, since Kaye had never tried sushi before.

“What do you think?” I asked her.

“It’s…weird,” Kaye admitted, around a mouthful of spicy tuna. “But in a good way.”

“Excuse me,” the waitress said, appearing at my elbow. “This sake is compliments of the gentleman in the far corner.” She opened the bottle, poured us generous portions, and left the bottle on our table, wrapped in a cloth to catch the condensation.

Kaye and I exchanged a surprised glance. At the far side of the restaurant, James Emory raised a sake glass in my direction. A young woman in a tweed suit, her shiny blonde hair wound into a bun, sat across from him.

“Is that the guy from the Widow’s Walk?” Kaye asked.

“James Emory,” I said. “Is he…on a
date
? Is he flirting with me while he’s
on
a
date
?”

“He can’t be,” Kaye said. “It must be a business lunch.”

“I hope so. What should I do? Should I go over there?”

“I have no idea.” She peered at him over her sake cup. “God, he can fill out a suit, can’t he?”

Pointedly ignoring this last comment, I sipped my sake. It was cold and sweet, with an oaky depth.

James solved my conundrum by coming over himself, his blonde companion standing awkwardly beside him. “Hello, Miranda. How do you like the sake?”

“It’s delicious,” I ventured. “Thank you so much.”

“I thought you would like it. It’s a good match for a whiskey drinker.” His smile broadened, revealing a slight dimple. “You are looking prettier than ever, by the way,” he told me, taking in my 1960s-style dress and enormous necklace. “You are like an art piece, all by yourself.”

I had to laugh at that ridiculously over-the-top line. “Thank you.”

“Did you give any more thought to my offer? About your artwork, of course.”

“It’s very tempting.”

Or, to be precise, it
should
have been very tempting. I should have jumped at the chance to show my artwork in galleries in New York City, even if this was all just a ploy for a date. Kaye was right—he
did
fill out his suit really well, and his dark hair was impeccably styled.

“I found a gallery locally,” I said. “So, I think I’ll stick with that for now.”

His smile faltered. The slightest hint of sadness appeared in his eyes. “Of course,” he said, waving a hand airily, his composure restored. “You have my card if you change your mind. Enjoy the sake.” He nodded politely at Kaye and swept out of the restaurant, his companion trotting behind him.

“What was that about?” Kaye asked, setting her chopsticks down. “What about your art?”

“He says he wants to introduce me to people in the art scene in New York,” I told her. “I guess he owns some kind of auction house.”

“Like a Sotheby’s?”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

“And the problem with that is what, exactly?”

I made a face. “What do you think?”

“Hmm, yeah, I see it now,” Kaye said. “You think it’s a dastardly ruse to get into your pants.”

“Exactly.” We paid our check, and as we left the restaurant, Kaye asked me about the local gallery that had taken an interest in my art. I told her about Mrs. Gautier, and how she had been the one to tell me about Owen.

“I’m sorry you had to hear it from her,” Kaye said.

I shrugged, because I didn’t know what else to do.

My phone beeped, and I froze in place, the hair on the back of my neck prickling. It couldn’t be Owen. Could it?

“Do you want me to get it?” Kaye asked.

I nodded and handed her my purse. She pulled out my phone, her expression determined, but when she read the message, her fair skin turned ghostly.

“What?” I asked. “What did he say?”

She glanced at me, her eyes wide with worry. “Who’s Rhys?”

“Oh, God.” I grabbed the phone out of her hand and read:
I can find you.

“What does that mean, M.? Who is he?”

“He’s my ex.” My tone was flat and shuttered, but inside my mind, Rhys’ threat echoed and echoed:
I can find you. I can find you.

“But what did he mean?” Kaye asked. “Didn’t he already know you were here?”

I shook my head. He hadn’t texted or called me since before I’d spoken to Rosa, but I no longer had any idea what that meant. For all I knew, he could be back in New Haven, moving on with his life. Or he could still be in Florida, hunting for me.

He’d pleaded with me at first to tell him where I was, and once or twice he’d told me that if I didn’t, I’d be sorry. But this was the first time he’d said he could find me.

Could
he find me? I couldn’t imagine how. I’d cut all my ties with people in New Haven. I’d been so careful not to leave a paper trail. My own father couldn’t have told Rhys where I was, because even he didn’t know.

“Didn’t you break up months ago?” Kaye asked.

“He’s still mad about it.”

“If he’s been texting you like this the whole time, maybe you should talk to the police?”

“I know.” They would side with Rhys. They would think I was exaggerating. All the bruises had faded, and they had never been bad enough, anyway—not bad enough for someone to take my side. “I know,” I said again.