KATRINA

Katrina

THREE DAYS BEFORE

I'd been waiting on the edge of the playground across the street from Kyle's apartment for more than an hour. I'd been compelled there by Mark's offhand parting remark: "Cleo is very lucky to have you looking out for her." But was she really that lucky? What if I'd actually put her in more danger by confronting Kyle all those months ago? And so here I was, doing the only thing I could think of: throwing myself back into the fray.

It was nearly midnight when Kyle finally came out of his apartment, stopped to light a cigarette, shook the sandy blond hair from in front of his eyes, then lifted the collar of his puffy white jacket against the evening chill. He was good-looking, in that damaged, James Dean kind of way that inevitably seems to attract girls. But only if you could get past the whole put-on hoodlum shtick. It was especially ridiculous considering the Greenwich hedge-fund mansion where he was raised.

But then Aidan had been obvious, too, I suppose. It wasn't as though he'd hid that he was a ne'er-do-well. It was like Aidan was so assured of his place in the world that he didn't need to bother to try and prove anything. Even before Cleo was born, I'd known that was a problem. But I'd had so many problems of my own, it had been impossible to gauge its importance. And so I'd had a baby with him. And then I'd stayed with him for two decades, even though I was so unhappy—to give Cleo the stable family I'd never had. But maybe in doing so I'd given her something else. A lesson in the worst kind of compromise.

I crossed the street briskly, heading Kyle off at the far end of the block.

"Oh, you got to be fucking kidding me," he said, waving an exasperated hand in my direction. "I talked to my parents' lawyer, you know. We can sue you for harassment."

"You were supposed to stay away from my daughter."

"I haven't fucking seen Cleo in months."

"I don't believe you," I said with a fake smile. "Do you remember what I promised—about sending you to jail if you ever went near her again? Because I meant it."

He looked about to snap back, but instead he smiled smugly, then stepped closer and exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke directly in my face. "Go ahead, go to the police. But if you do, Cleo is coming down with me." He held up his phone. "I've got photos on here of her buying, selling, using. I keep photos of all my runners. Insurance: You never know when you're going to need it. And I've got plenty of customers who'd be willing to testify to her working for me. Whole bunch of them are pretty pissed at her right now." He dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the heel of his Air Jordan. "So I'd stop fucking threatening me if I were you."

And with that, he strutted away, lifting his phone to his ear as he crossed the street.

Lying in bed the next morning, I had to blink a few times to see Mark's text clearly. Please update me as soon as you have anything on Sinclair. Darden is all over me.

It was only 7:15 a.m. Mark never applied pressure; and after less than twelve hours? But I wasn't surprised Darden was agitating—and they weren't going to be easy to ignore. They were accustomed to getting what they wanted, when they wanted it. And right now they wanted Doug Sinclair under the Xytek bus. There was only so much stalling I was going to be able to do.

I'm on it. Be back in touch ASAP.

"Hey, have you found Douglas Sinclair's phone yet?" I asked when I called Detective Cross a few minutes later.

"Nope," Cross said. "Scene guys are still searching, but it's not looking good. Must have been thrown in the accident. Could have been broken into pieces and scattered who knows where."

"Have you confirmed that it was a suicide?"

Cross muttered something unintelligible.

"What was that?" I asked.

"A witness has turned up."

"A witness to what?"

"A black sedan was apparently tailing Sinclair shortly before impact. Looks like maybe it wasn't an accident or suicide."

"Meaning what?"

"Homicide."

I walked briskly up Fifth Avenue toward the Advantage Consulting offices, weaving my way in and out of the sidewalk traffic—moms with strollers, well-dressed ladies on their way to overpriced four-course lunches, the late-morning dog walkers.

Looks like maybe not suicide or an accident, I texted Mark. This was at least an update, for sure.

What do you mean? came Mark's quick reply.

Bronxville PD says maybe Sinclair's car was driven off the road. Doesn't rule out a possible link to the bribery/blackmail. I'm checking that out now.

It also didn't rule out Darden somehow being involved. After all, they were the ones who seemed so eager to use Doug's death to their advantage. What if they'd been the ones to cause it? It was way too soon to suggest such a thing to Mark. I'd need some evidence first.

Okay, thanks. Good work. I'll let Darden know.

I was a block away from Advantage when my phone rang. Vivienne Voxhall. I couldn't ignore her any longer.

"Hi, Viv—"

"Where the fuck have you been?" she shouted. "Didn't Mark tell you to call me back?"

I'd had enough. "Scream at me one more time and I'll fire you. Got it?"

She took a loud, huffy breath.

"The situation is being handled," I went on. "I've left word for the Times reporter, but we need to tread lightly there. I want some ammunition of our own first. And I've got a couple decent leads on why Anton left his previous job. It appears that numerous women complained he was verbally abusive." Unable to sleep, I'd finally had time to review the investigation file that had come in. "That's not a justification for your having threatened homicide, but it's the start of something that could balance the scales. I need to do some more digging. That's why I haven't called you back—because I am working on it. What's important right now is that you stay calm. If you do something rash, it will give Anton even more power than he already has."

"I have power, too." She sounded like a petulant child.

"In this particular situation, you do not, Vivienne. Not with the scrutiny surrounding the IPO—you can't threaten to kill underlings, no matter how awful they are. You call HR and fire them, like a normal person."

"You're the one who's supposed to be making this go away."

"I'm the one helping you manage it," I said, correcting her. "To the best of my ability."

"Fix this, Kat," she said, her voice low. "Please."

I breezed past the doorman at the Advantage Consulting building this time with a brisk stride and a confident wave.

I was determined to find out what had happened to Doug; once I had, I could then decide what to do with that information. Maybe that would be sharing it with Darden. Maybe it would be burying it forever. My instinct was still to protect Doug. So what if he'd lied about paying off Advantage? I understood, given his fractured relationship with his daughter, how he could have ended up there. But first I needed to know the truth, all of it.

"Oh!" the Advantage receptionist exclaimed when I burst in. "I'm sorry, you need an appointment."

"I need to see Brian," I said, making a beeline for his office before she could head me off.

"Oh, no you don't!" she called after me. "You can't do that!"

But I was already opening his door. Brian Carmichael was at his desk, on a phone call. He looked up, registering me. There was no warmhearted Montana boy in those cold eyes—the charm was still there in his voice, though, as he wrapped up his call. "Good to talk to you, too, Roger! And be sure to send my best to Lisa."

The contrast was unsettling. I steeled myself as Carmichael hung up, leaned back, and crossed his arms.

"I'm so, so sorry, Brian," the receptionist stuttered as she rushed in behind me. "She raced right past me. There was nothing I could do to stop her." She sounded genuinely terrified.

Brian waved an irritated hand in her direction. "It's fine, Bethany. Leave us and close the door."

The receptionist wasted no time following his instructions. I took her hasty departure as my cue to move fast.

"You were blackmailing Doug Sinclair." I had no illusions that Carmichael would have been doing the dirty work himself, but wild accusations had a way of dislodging useful information. My money was still on an Advantage employee or associate—someone who thought they should be benefiting more from Carmichael's well-oiled machine.

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," he replied easily, chin resting in his hand. He looked bored and kind of annoyed, but not the least bit concerned. "Now, Ms. Thompson, or whatever the hell your name is, I suggest you get the fuck out of my office."

"Or what?" I asked casually. "You'll kill me like you killed Doug Sinclair?"

Carmichael laughed. "What are you talking about?"

"Doug Sinclair is dead," I said. "He was driven off the road."

"And what does that have to do with me?" Carmichael asked dismissively.

"You were blackmailing him. You tried to apply pressure. Things got out of hand."

He leaned back, hands resting casually on the arms of his chair now. "I didn't even know he was dead until right now."

I shrugged. "Pretty big coincidence, though, don't you think?"

"Call it what you want." There was a tightness to his face now. "I didn't have anything to do with any car accident."

"So that's a yes to the blackmail."

Carmichael shook his head, then made a show of considering the accusation.

"Blackmail him with what, exactly?" he asked, folding his hands in his lap.

"You helped him bribe his daughter's way into Amherst."

"I most certainly did not."

"You told me you did at our last meeting, remember? Those extra payments? I have a recording."

"Recording." Carmichael smirked. "What you have on tape, then, is the oldest upsell in the book," he said. "I suggest your friend paid for an extra that he didn't pay for in order to convince you that you need to do the same."

"That's convenient."

"Convenient and also true. Go to the police and open up an investigation into Ella Sinclair's file if you want—all you'll find is a kid who had some help studying for her SATs, revising her résumé, and crafting essays. All well within the bounds of acceptable and entirely legal college counseling. There was nothing to blackmail Doug Sinclair with because he didn't do anything remotely wrong." Carmichael stood. "Now, like I said, get the hell out of my office before I call the police myself."

I crossed Fifth Avenue and walked a couple blocks uptown along Central Park, feeling thrown but also relieved. Doug hadn't bribed Amherst—which meant he hadn't lied to me. Still, this wasn't necessarily the answer Darden wanted. Without any wrongdoing involving Advantage, Doug wasn't nearly as convenient a scapegoat. Doug was still being blackmailed, though—I knew that firsthand. And it was theoretically possible that the blackmail had distracted Doug at work, that he'd made mistakes. I still found that hard to believe, but it was a compromise I could potentially accept—letting Darden scapegoat Doug, but allowing him to retain his fundamental innocence.

It was warmer now, a hint of spring in the air as I passed a cherry tree beginning to blossom. I dropped down onto a nearby bench. The fountains in front of the Met were rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm. The water reminded me of that T. S. Eliot poem "The Dry Salvages," which Reed had us discuss during the writing club. "‘Not fare well, / But fare forward, voyagers.'"

"You're voyagers, too." He'd gestured around the drafty, cavernous room with the windows that wouldn't shut all the way even in December. "This place is only where you find yourselves right now." And then he put a hand on my shoulder as he passed—only for a second. "You have limitless potential."

The Met's dancing fountain abruptly dropped then, its cycle complete. And, in the stillness, I had a clear view across the street. To the black sedan, parked alongside the hot dog vendor. Like that car in the Village that had sped away. Maybe like the car that had run Doug Sinclair off the road. And also like a million other cars.

I stood. But as I stepped forward to take a closer look, the car pulled away from the curb. And then, once again, it was gone. As if it had never been there at all.