HOURS LATER, I SIT ALONE in a narrow room lined with black-paned windows at L’Abbatoir, an industrial-chic restaurant around the corner from my office. The waiter, young and trendy with a silver ring in his ear, pours me a glass of Chablis.
“Tough day, Ms. Truitt?” he asks. I’m a regular here. Tonight, though, I’m not hungry.
“You could say that.” If he only knew.
“Jilly, I thought I might find you here.”
I look up. “Hey, Jeff.”
He sits down and the waiter brings him a glass. “I got your message, downloaded the audio file with Raquella’s confession. Unbelievable. What happens now?”
“First I tell Edith she can stop worrying. I just sent her a text letting her know she’s safe, that she can come back.”
“Ah, the case. Tomorrow I take the confession to the police. Cy will have no choice but to ask Justice Moulton to set the verdict aside and release Trussardi. Raquella will plead guilty to first degree and go to prison for the rest of her life. End of story.”
“You’re not going straight to Cy with the confession?”
“No way. He broke all the rules. And then he pushed Lois under the bus. It’s over between us.”
“He didn’t push Lois under the bus—she fell. And word is that she’s expected to pull through.”
“If you say so.” I sit, considering. “I’m glad that Lois is okay.”
Jeff leans forward. “There was something else on that recording, Jilly. Something about you.”
I tell him, not everything but enough. A mother found and lost. A father found and discarded. My only aunt, and I’m sending her to prison.
As Jeff listens, his eyes widen. “I concede,” he says when I finally wind down. “This time it wasn’t just another case.” He brightens. “But life goes on. Debbie’s been trying to reach you. Some politician charged with strangling his daughter, big case, big money. Desperate to see you, only you.”
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
Jeff starts to protest, then stops himself. “Okay, I’m off. Jessica awaits.” He bends for a quick hug.
“Goodbye, Jeff. It’s been great working with you.”
“What are you talking about? See you Monday, boss.”
Relief mingles with deep joy. So he’s staying.
He shoots me a smile. “Look after yourself, Jilly Truitt Trussardi.”
I’m alone again. The wine in my glass has grown tepid. Rain streaks the windows outside. I need to move on, but there’s nowhere to go.
I nose my Mercedes aimlessly westward toward Georgia and Stanley Park, then double back onto West Hastings, past the stately Vancouver Club, where women couldn’t enter the front door a few years ago, past the shops and swank hotels of Coal Harbour. I bear ever eastward and downward into narrowing strips of street, where windows are broken, lights are garish, and people in alleys hook and snort and do whatever they have to do to get through the next hour or two.
My eye catches the tall figure of a man on the sidewalk—jeans, suede jacket, long black hair swinging loose like a girl’s. He’s got his eye on me or maybe he likes the car. I should pass by, but I slow, pull to the curb. My finger touches a button, and the window rolls down. He leans in, and my breath catches at his beauty—skin of creamy copper, eyes of liquid black. He moves closer. He says nothing for a long moment.
“Need some help, sister?” he asks.
My throat thickens. He has taken it all in—my diamond studs, my Armani jacket, the Prada bag on the seat—and has seen me for what I am: a sister and in need. I shake my head. In the rearview mirror I see the red and blue lights of a police cruiser; a siren shrieks. I reach into my pocket and pull out my walk-around money—two hundreds—move my arm toward the man. His hand closes over mine.
“Be kind to yourself,” I say.
He looks at the money in his hand, looks up, eyes wide. “You too, sister.”
The police car is on my tail now. I pull forward slowly, ready to stop. I know what they’re thinking: a drug deal. But the cruiser moves on to a more compelling incident up the street. I round the corner, head south into Chinatown and onto Union Street, gentrified condos springing up where Sammy Davis Jr. used to sing, only the shabby green tribute to Jimi Hendrix left to bear witness to the people who lived, loved, and made music here. I swing up the viaduct and exit into the shining-glass jungles of Yaletown, my town.
But I’m not ready to go home. I pull into a taxi zone in front of Le Provence. On my left, the glistening pleasure boats rock gently in the marinas of False Creek; on my right, happy couples exit restaurants, chatting and laughing. Jilly Truitt, you have to be at the jail at nine to see a desperate man charged with killing his child. Go home and get an hour’s sleep before you start again.
My hand reaches for my bag; my fingers rifle the contents—I find my iPhone. I scroll through my contacts, find Michael St. John. My finger sits poised above the screen for a long moment. Then I throw the phone back in my bag. Someday, maybe. Mike’s moved on from his dark place, but I still have a ways to go.