47

Matt stared at the ceiling, biting his thumbnail, mind racing. Flopped on the white chenille spread of his hotel’s king-sized bed, still wearing his running shoes and the jacket he’d managed to retrieve. At two in the morning, after carding open his hotel room door, he’d slugged down the entire five-dollar bottle of fancy water on the nightstand, then filled it with tap water from the bathroom. He’d never been so thirsty. He hadn’t slept since then, not at all.

What to do? Now, the morning light through the window blinds made slashes of shadow above him. Like bars in a prison cell. The heater kicked on, humming. I have to figure out what to do.

There’d been no cops banging on his door—why should there be? No accusing phone calls from—whoever. Why should there be? Far as anyone in Boston was concerned, he was no one, with no connections. And certainly no connection with Holly Neff. Or whatever name she’d been using.

He almost dumped Holly’s little purse in the water after she’d gone in. Then worried—maybe it’d float, or wash ashore. He’d stuffed it under his jacket. Her keys, too. But like that old movie, there’d be no reason for anyone to link him to her. He was a stranger in town, and so was she.

What if the waitress in the bar remembers me? The guy selling newspapers at the post office? Are my fingerprints on her car? What if they are? No one has my fingerprints to compare them to.

His brain ached. Do they?

He’d spent the last five hours talking himself down from the ledge. It had all been an accident, right? An accident.

He flopped over, punching an oversized pillow into place, and stared out the window, unseeing. The movie of what happened kept playing in his head, over and over and over.

They had sat side by side on that molded-metal bench by the merry-go-round. He felt uncomfortable, awkward, the bench hard and cold and unyielding. Night gathered, making the wind chilly over the harbor. Seagulls squawked overhead, airplanes roaring their descent to Logan. Did anyone see the two of us there? Countless office and hotel windows overlooked the park, but who would have cared about the two figures by the water?

Holly had been clinging. Crowding him. Suffocating him. “You’re still not married,” she said. Putting her face too close to his. “And I know why. That’s why I’m here. To take care of everything. To make you happy. This is all for you. For you, Matt.”

She outlined her plans—and he listened to her explanation with escalating dismay and increasing alarm. She was completely nuts.

He had made one frigging bad choice. Back in B-school, he’d told Holly the truth. And now, this was his payback? Maybe he could talk her out of it. Convince her not to do it. Pay her off. Everyone had a price. But she kept talking and talking.

“Your father killed your ability to love.” Holly said this, solemn and sincere, her voice trembling with the strength of her belief. “He left you, deserted you, deserted your poor mother. That’s why you couldn’t love me. That’s why you can’t love.”

He couldn’t breathe. What was she, friggin’ Dr. Phil? She was—crazy. Wasn’t she?

“Your mother died because of him, and your life was taken away. Your family was taken away. Your father. And then your mother. That’s exactly what you told me that day by the river. You could have been the governor’s son,” she said. “That’s what you told me. Instead, you were the throwaway child. The child whose father destroyed everything.”

It was true. It was true. That’s what he’d said, probably. He could almost hear his own mother telling them that. But it was long ago. Long ago. Now, after all these years, he only wished to be a son again. He wanted his father back. Someday he could make it work. But he wasn’t about to tell that to Holly.

“I couldn’t let that happen to you,” Holly persisted. “He ignored you, he erased you. You said that word, erased. He killed your mother. Didn’t he? Didn’t he? So what do you think he deserves in return?”

Matt’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t take his eyes off this nutcase.

“But now, I have the power. The power to give you back your life. The power to destroy Owen Lassiter.”

What was he supposed to do? Call the cops? “You’re not planning to—”

Holly’s laugh, brittle and crystalline, floated out across the deserted park. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m not crazy. This is all so we can be together. You found me, and that proves it’s meant to be. But let me ask you—he does what he wants, takes what he wants, leaves his family behind. Does he just—get away with that?”

Matt couldn’t find the words to answer. Thought of his mother. His poor baby sister, who’d found her. But—

“When the time comes,” Holly continued, “the good Owen Lassiter will not be going to Washington. Oh, he won’t be dead, my darling Matt. He’ll just wish he were.”

She had rubbed up against him, her eyes shining.

“You’ll be free of him. We’ll be together. Won’t that be perfect?”

A double rap on the hotel room door jolted him from his memories. Holy shit. The cops. How did they find me? And why? He bolted to his feet, yanked off his jacket, mussed his hair, calculated excuses and alibis and denials.

“Maid service,” an inquiring voice came through the door.

“Later,” Matt called back. His voice didn’t sound like his. He was dizzy. Couldn’t feel his feet. Could not breathe. “Come back later.”

He collapsed back on the bed, struggling to tame his thoughts.

What made it worse, if that was possible—Holly’s plan was still under way, even with what had happened. She went public to that reporter, she had crowed, and the result was only a matter of time. To stop it all, now he’d have to go public somehow. Wouldn’t he? And when he did, the story would come out anyway.

Either way, disaster. Either way, he was trapped.

All of a sudden he could hear the sound of his own breathing. Maybe the sound of his own heartbeat. He’d gotten himself into this. Now he had to get himself out. He’d spent his days working the system, right? Market up, market down. Assess, calculate, make his move.

He sat up. Taking back control. Taking action. He had to. Maybe he could use this. Get his life back. The life he deserved.

He ran a hand over his face, thinking it through.

First he’d have to find the reporter, that Jane Ryland, and somehow convince her the story Holly was selling wasn’t true. She absolutely could not print it.

He’d also have to warn Owen Lass— He felt his fists clench and stopped himself mid-thought. No. He would say it.

He’d have to warn his father.

He stood, went to the window. Seeing the morning. A sense of peace came over him, a certainty. He’d already saved his father’s political life, hadn’t he? If you looked at it that way? Maybe he should let him know that. Matt felt his shoulders go back, his chin come up.

Maybe he should let Governor Owen Lassiter know, after all these years, what his own son had sacrificed to save him.

Yes. That’s what he would do.