28. Gayson

Gayson

A fter the impromptu barbecue yesterday, which turned into an all-out Nerf war once I discovered Henrietta's stash, I went back to my apartment. Not hearing from Maggie has been driving me crazy. I spent the morning cleaning my already spotless place, yawning from the lack of sleep. With so much on my mind, falling asleep had been a challenge. Once I finished cleaning, I paced. And I paced. And I paced some more.

It did absolutely no good. So I left.

With nowhere specific to go and too much of a coward to call Maggie myself, I ended up across town at Miranda's condo building. The hallway smells faintly of lemon cleaner, and my footsteps echo off the marble floor as I approach her door and knock, taking a step back as it unlocks.

Miranda stands there in a silk robe, her hair in a messy knot on top of her head. I have to fight the urge to laugh in her face—I've never seen her so disheveled. Before either of us can say a word, a man appears.

"Bye, babe. Call me," he says, pecking her cheek, but Miranda's eyes never leave mine.

She doesn't bother replying to the guy as she steps aside to let me in. She can probably tell from the scowl on my face that I'm in a foul mood. I'm here because Miranda is the only one who will meet my moodiness without judgment.

She closes the door behind me. "Don't ask. You won't see him again," she says.

I chuckle as I head to the leather couch. The vanilla scent of her home wraps around me, mingling with a slight smell of smoke and freshly ground coffee beans. Her home is perfectly furnished, all grays and blacks, sleek furniture, and modern art hanging over the gas fireplace. It's like a magazine spread.

"So, a true soulmate then?" I tease. Though I want to ask about Roger, I don't. Whatever I walked in on is obviously not on her mind if she's seeing someone else.

"We fucked. He's gone. Get over it."

I laugh again. "You want coffee?" I'm already on my feet, and Miranda follows me to the kitchen.

"Why are you here, Gray?"

I shrug. "Bored, I guess."

"Glad I can entertain you." She grabs the coffee beans from her freezer and slaps them against my chest. The cold of the bag makes me shiver, and I let out a small snicker of amusement before getting to work starting a pot.

"You've been talking to Georgie," I say.

She runs a hand through her hair, untangling some of the mess. "Yeah, he's a cool kid. Not nearly as whiny as the twins."

She must not know my son like I do. George can certainly whine when the opportunity strikes. Knowing she's taking the time to keep in contact with him though, it does warm my soul. Miranda might try to act tough and aloof, but I'm starting to see the truth; she's a sucker for this new family like the rest of us. "You were with that cop last night?" she asks.

The lines on my forehead crease even further. "No. After our little party, I went home."

Miranda turns and raises an eyebrow. "So, is it kaput then?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it." The coffee pot beeps, and I grab two mugs from the cupboard above it. My cousin might be a mess with her personal life, but she certainly knows how to keep her place in order. Everything has a spot and is nearly as clean as my home.

"Okay, I'm not even gonna touch that one. Fuck who you want, Gray. I do."

I laugh and take a seat at her breakfast bar in one of the cloth-backed barstools. The fabric is cool against my skin. Miranda fills her mug before sitting next to me.

"Yes, I'm aware. You should buy stock in Tinder."

"Slut-shame someone else, ‘cause I don't care," she says.

I tilt my head before taking a sip of coffee, the rich aroma swirling up to my nose. "You're in a mood," I say.

" Roger showed up last night. I wasn't taking his calls, so he came over. He needed the day off today, and I had to make Rex run the tour. On a Saturday." I didn't know a name could sound so villainous. But the way she said Roger certainly fit the bill. Definitely nothing going on there.

I nod without asking anything else. Her mood makes more sense now. Rex isn't exactly a people person. His tours are fine, but Roger's are far better.

"Tilly's going to see Papa today," Miranda says. I know she's changing the subject, but I'm immediately drawn to the information.

"Should we go?"

"No. But apparently, a particular little detective is going."

Maggie is going to visit my grandfather. Is this what she meant when she said I wouldn't like her after today?

"Any idea why?" Miranda shakes her head. "She told me I wouldn't like her after today," I say.

"Oh? She's clairvoyant. How nice. Ask her for lotto numbers," she snips.

"Like you need it," I say, eyeing her home. Miranda and Tilly have certainly done well for themselves. I've seen their business books, and the pair are well off. Millionaires. They pay me well, so I'm not complaining. But I can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Turns out, criminals pay their accountants far better than non-criminals.

"True. Well, for you then. You could use a payday. I hate that you're driving that piece of crap."

I laugh. Only my bougie cousin would think of an Infiniti as a piece of crap. "You could just give me a raise."

Her head snaps my way. "Could we? I mean, you run the books," she says. I shrug. I don't want to seem ungrateful; they do pay me fairly. We both drift into silence until she suddenly stands up. "I'm gonna shower, and then I'm taking you shopping."

My head reels at the news. "What? Why?"

"Because you need a distraction, Gray, and I'm sick of seeing the same four outfits on you. We can buy stuff for Georgie too."

I know when it's pointless to argue with Miranda. "Fine." She claps her hands together, clearly enjoying the prospect. The woman does love her shopping.

"Great. And that way, if Roger calls, you can run interference." She pats my shoulder and heads down her hallway.

When she's gone, I go to her couch to watch TV while I wait. As I reach for the remote, I notice a stack of mail haphazardly arranged on the coffee table. Frowning, I start straightening the pile. It's about the only thing in her home that isn't perfectly organized. That bothers me far more than if the entire apartment were in disarray.

As I'm tidying up, a few pieces of mail fall to the floor. Stooping down, I pick them up. When I see what they are, my hand nearly drops them again.

Photos—strange ones. The view is far away, grainy from how zoomed in they are, but the same woman is in each picture.

When I flip to the last photo, my hand starts shaking.

I'm looking at my wife.