Chapter One

“I KNOW WHO you are and I saw what you did.”

The voice on the phone was tinged with acid, yet came out a little shaky and short of breath.

Despite the fear and acrimony in the voice, Trey Goodall hoped that the caller, a man named Jimmy Dale, was making a feeble joke, a lame reference to an old black-and-white thriller from the ’60s. Trey wasn’t ready for his game to be over.

“That’s funny, Jim. Did you watch that movie when you were a kid too? Back in the days of black-and-white TVs and Chiller Theater?”

“I’m not trying to be funny, Trey.” Jimmy halted, obviously frustrated. A slow grin creased Trey’s features. Jimmy sucked in air, obviously holding a sob in check.

There’s something delicious about when they cry.

Despite the delight in Jimmy’s pain, Trey feared it might come to this. This one, he knew, was too smart to stay in the dark for long. Sooner or later, Trey always got found out. He had a trail of broken hearts—and shattered bank accounts—behind him to prove it. Still, later was better because he could usually walk away with a little something in his pocket.

“Then what are you trying to be, dollface?”

“Oh, please save the terms of endearment—”

Trey interrupted. “Another movie reference! Bravo. When do I get a chance to play?”

His question, predictably, was answered with silence on the other end. Trey pressed the phone closer to his ear, listening for further telltale signs of tears, of trauma, of despair. Not that his aim was to instigate any of those emotions, but Trey was like a dog—any attention was good.

Finally, Jimmy spoke. “I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again.”

“Aw, you’re breaking my heart here.” Trey threw open the door to his motel room on Aurora Avenue. Outside, in the waning purple-gray light of dusk, a couple fought, seemingly to the death, in the litter-strewn parking lot. The woman had bleached blonde hair, a handful of which her companion had clutched in one hand. She wore an old flannel shirt, the sleeves cut off. It had come open and her dirty bra showed. The guy was a brute, big and hairy, and obviously had never learned how to treat a lady.

A kid of about eighteen, at most, sat on the curb in front of a parked rusted-out SUV. He was wearing a hoodie, ripped jeans, and a pair of work boots. His head was shaved and this, combined with his whitish pallor and skin-and-bones physique, made him look like a concentration camp survivor. A rheumy, bloodshot gaze moved dully over to Trey. The kid made a lame attempt to hide the meth pipe in his hand.

Trey slammed the door. He deserved better than this sordid dump. He should have been living in a luxury condo downtown overlooking Puget Sound, or maybe a house on Bainbridge Island with expansive mountain and water views.

Instead, here he was on Seattle’s Aurora Avenue, in one of a cluster of rundown motels where the clientele consisted of addicts, prostitutes, and those seeking to party with a capital T in one of the rooms.

He didn’t deserve enduring the chance of bedbugs or crabs. He didn’t like living amid cigarette-burned carpets and mold and hair decorating the bathroom fixtures.

“Stop.” Jimmy sucked in some more air. The guy’s gonna need an asthma inhaler soon. But Trey supposed he was trying to gain a measure of control. Jimmy was wounded, and of course he wanted to hide it, but he couldn’t. “Your heart can’t be breaking because you haven’t got one to break.”

“Ouch.” Trey chuckled, as though to demonstrate the insult was simply water off a duck’s back.

But it wasn’t.

Trey would never let on, but the reference cut like a knife to his very real heart, which was a broken thing.

In his mind, a vision arose. Trey chased it away as quickly as it appeared—but there it was: a vision of his mom, back in Trey’s old hometown of Wellsville, Ohio, burning him with her cigarette and laughing as Trey tried to be brave, tried desperately not to scream or wince because he knew if he showed his pain, his fear, it would only make things worse. Now it was his turn to try to buck up, be brave. “Things not working out the way you expected?”

There was no mirth in Jimmy’s laugh. Trey wanted to ask which was better—bitter laughter or abject tears. But he kept quiet and waited. He’d been through this before. Caught. Discarded.

There was always another sucker in the wings.

“What I expected…” Jimmy trailed off and started again. “What I expected was maybe a relationship. I’m forty-seven years old, Trey. I’ve spent my whole life pushing love away so I could build my career. Now I have a thriving law practice and make more money than I really know what to do with. But you know all that. You knew all that, I figure, before we even met, when you were researching me. I know you don’t have it in you to feel compassion or empathy, but all the money and success in the world doesn’t change the fact that I come home every night to a professionally decorated condominium in the clouds. Alone. Wishing I’d spent more time seeking love instead of that almighty dollar.” He drew in a breath that sounded like a shudder. “Ah, what do you care? You wanted my money. You’re not alone, but you were greedier and sneakier than most.”

Jimmy stopped and Trey listened again for some sign. Would it be worth it to try to save things? Maybe woo Jimmy with the old lines—this was all a misunderstanding. I really love you, man. I started off with bad intentions, but then you caught me. Can we start over? Sometimes crap like that worked. Trey was smart enough, and experienced enough, to know it wouldn’t here.

It’s too late, baby.

“Was any of it true?” Jimmy wondered.

Trey was getting bored. He had no use for this man with whom he’d shared so many recent days and nights. He was worthless now that he’d exposed Trey for who he really was. What Jimmy didn’t know, and didn’t need to know, was that what he’d discovered about Trey was only the tip of the iceberg.

It’s time to move on.

Trey glanced in the mirror over the bathroom sink and nodded approvingly. He still had it. Pushing fifty, but looking at least a decade younger, he was gorgeous. Black wavy hair, ice-blue eyes, full lips, a body taut and packed with muscle. He could always dazzle, and all the magic hadn’t escaped.

There’d be someone else.

And with that someone else, he might hit that elusive jackpot.

The laptop was already open on the desk. And there were eleven new messages.

For once, Trey might as well tell the truth. “No, kid. None of it was true. You’re pathetic. Weak. I feel sorry for you, more than anything else.” He said the words casually, as though they were discussing the weather or how the Seahawks were faring this season. “You’re a fool. A fool for love.” Trey chuckled.

And that broke Jimmy. He began to sob harder now, the grief confirmed and kicking its way to the surface.

Trey listened as the sobbing grew in volume and agony. This is a drag, a bore. He stared longingly at the door, wishing this would be over. How long did he have to listen anyway? Just to be polite? He cut to the quick. “You’ve been played,” Trey said softly. “Get over it.”

He hung up. The computer’s glow reminded him that it was time to find someone else. The right one. A chime alerted him he had yet another message.

But there would be time to attend to that in the morning. Time also for reading. He glanced down at his nightstand. A mystery novel, Cookie Cutter by Alfred Knox, lay there in its mass market paperback edition. It had a stark white cover with only an illustration of a heart-shaped cookie cutter which dripped blood into the crimson title. Below it, a stack of old magazines with articles about Knox, who lived only a few miles south.

Right now, though, Trey needed a little oblivion. He crossed the room and opened the door. The kid with the meth pipe still sat out there on the curb. He didn’t even bother to hide his glass pipe now.

Trey cast his most winning smile. “Wanna come inside?” He opened the door wider, stepping back and confidently waiting as the kid stood.

 

JIMMY STARED DOWN at the iPhone, not believing he’d been so casually hung up on, and so much worse, cruelly tossed aside. As though he was no one, never mind the fact that he’d spent about every night with Trey Goodall for the past three months. He’d been naïve and foolish to believe he was finally, finally going to have a real relationship. They’d talked of love, of living together, even of marriage one day. Jimmy had gobbled it all up, thanking his lucky stars he’d found such a handsome and charismatic guy with whom to share not only his bed and his table, but his life.

He’d been floating in a bubble, high in the sky. Bubbles have the most awful tendency to burst though.

As one does in the twenty-first century, they’d met online. The wooing was so fast it nearly took Jimmy’s breath away. He’d assumed he was too old, too fat, too bald, to warrant such adoration and attention, especially from a man who was model good-looking. The next few months were a whirlwind of dinners out at places like Canlis, Sushi Kashiba, Altura, and Le Gourmand. There were weekends in Vancouver, or Whidbey Island, or holed up at the nearby Four Seasons, ordering in room service and massages. There were gifts—so many gifts—clothes, watches, sunglasses, even a new MacBook Pro when Trey said his old Acer had died.

And many, many loans. Fifty here, a thousand there, it all added up. Fool.

Of course, Jimmy had paid for everything and had the credit card receipts to prove it. Thanks to Trey, he would be digging himself out of debt for a long time to come. He hadn’t thought anything of spoiling Trey. Why would he? He’d thought they were a forever couple. What did it matter? Now he felt like some stupid lovestruck teenager with more money than sense.

Except now, after Trey had gotten to him, he had a lot less money.

Jimmy moved to his balcony to overlook the lights of the city and the black expanse of Elliott Bay. Every light in every window mocked him, each one representing a normal life, lives free of betrayal and heartache.

He’d reached the end of his rope. He was a dupe, a mark, a loser—someone who’d never find love. He wasn’t even deserving of it.

His track record proved it, over and over. Since his college days, every guy he’d seen for more than a few dates had been a disappointment. There were cheaters, druggies, and alcoholics, drop-dead gorgeous ones who were also drop-dead boring, liars, and even one who dumped him, when Jimmy thought things were going so well, via text message.

Inside, he felt as black as the watery abyss that stretched out before him.

Was it time to end it all?

As things with Trey began to deteriorate, and if Jimmy was honest, that deterioration had started much earlier than he had consciously realized because he was in denial, forgiving Trey when he caught him in a lie, or digging deep in his pocket to pay for an evening out because Trey forgot his wallet. Jimmy blinded himself to the late-night texts Trey would receive.

The evidence had all been there, and he chose to look away. Who was it who said when someone shows you who they are, believe them?

Maybe he got what he deserved.

Jimmy stepped back and plopped down on one of the Adirondack chairs he had on the balcony, shivering in the cold wind. He felt numb, the tears all having been shed.

It would be easier, he thought, to simply give up, to stop trying. His future looked bleak. All of his tomorrows held the promise of more of the same: work, TV, tossing and turning through the night. He was getting old, and even the potential for finding love grew less plausible with each passing day.

Loneliness and despair loomed in front of him like some twisted and dirty yellow brick road, one that led to the witch’s tower instead of Emerald City.

Why not take the easy way out? With each passing day, his options became fewer, his hope diminished.

After all, who would mourn his passing? His parents, once back in Wisconsin, were both dead, his dad in 1999 from a heart attack and his mom in 2007 from cancer. His only sibling, an evangelical Christian brother named Gus, never spoke to him anymore since he didn’t agree with Jimmy’s lifestyle.

Gus’s kids had been indoctrinated fully against him and wanted nothing to do with him. Coworkers? There were a few who would care, especially Myra Ghent, his assistant, but he knew that within a month or so life would go on in the office, and he’d be scarcely a memory.

What was the point?

Jimmy had wrestled with depression before, so this contemplation of suicide wasn’t new. He’d pondered, at life’s lowest and blackest points, how to do it. Jimmy had always been a romantic. It was exactly this quality that led to despair. Yet he never learned. Still, when he thought about taking that final step, he’d always thought of a romantic way. He used to think pills would be a good choice with soft lighting and opera playing in the background. But then he’d learned how pills often failed, and the results could be vomiting, nausea, and worse.

Simple was always best. A quick slit of the wrists with a sharp razor might sting for a moment, but if you were submerged in a warm bath, you might not experience too much pain before your eyelids fluttered shut one last time. Couple that with flickering candles strategically placed and perhaps “Un bel di Vedremo” from Madama Butterfly queued up on his Bluetooth player.

Perhaps a white ship would appear to him to take him away. On the other side, Mom and Dad would wait. His boyhood beagle, Corky, would rush to him, tail wagging.

Jimmy opened the drawer beneath his bathroom sink, pawing through expired prescriptions, Band-aids, facial masks, toothpaste, and more detritus until he found what he was seeking—a new razor blade, still sheathed in cardboard. He’d bought a pack once upon a time when he needed one to scrape some goo off a vase he’d bought at Crate and Barrel. He held it up to the light, thinking it was strange how something so innocent could be so deadly, his guide to another world, an afterlife, if one even existed.

At this point, Jimmy didn’t much care.

He sat at the edge of the clawfoot tub he’d prized so much when he remodeled his main bathroom and turned the taps, adjusting the stream so it was barely below too hot. He stood and watched as the water rose, steaming.

He took the blade out of its sheathing and set it on the side of his tub. Next to it, he placed a Jo Malone candle with an orange bitters scent. He found a box of matches from Revel and lit the candle.

Now, all he needed was music. He switched on the Bluetooth speaker he kept in the bath and picked up his phone.

Wait. Should he write a note? Blame Trey? He shook his head as the idea rose and quickly vanished from his mind. Who would care? And what difference did it make, really, when he’d be dead soon?

He brought up Spotify on the iPhone and was going to search for opera playlists or perhaps Maria Callas when a thought, completely unexpected and unbidden, came to him.

He’d grown up next door to a family of Baptists and he’d often attend Sunday services with them because he had a secret crush on their adopted son, Keith, but he always remembered one Sunday when there was an a capella solo of the old standard, “Amazing Grace.”

“Maybe just one more time,” Jimmy said aloud, hitting the search icon in the app. He typed in the gospel favorite and one of the first results was LeAnne Rimes’s version.

He sat down on the edge of the tub again and hit the screen to start the song playing.

And, oh my Lord, what beauty came forth. A crystal clear voice, completely without—nor needing—accompaniment, emerged from the Bose speaker. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say this was the voice of an angel. That voice, more than the words, reached deep into his soul and brought back his tears.

But now they were different tears, because this gorgeous rendition reminded him of how beautiful and sustaining life could be. The melody, so simple, wrapped around his heart and held it gently in a warm embrace. And the lyrics? The line that really got to him, that seemed to be reaching out and speaking only to him, was the one about grace leading Jimmy home.

On his knees, he listened to the entire song, weeping like a child. These were not tears of loss or sadness, but of release, and of recognizing it was not too late.

When the song was over, he wrapped the razor thickly in toilet paper and tossed it in the trash.

He drained the tub, blew out his candle, stopped Spotify from playing anything else. He retreated into his bedroom, threw back the duvet, and climbed into bed.

He knew he’d sleep.

And come morning? Well, who knew what the world might bring?