33

Ismay had been staring at Remy’s text for probably three minutes. She was sitting in The Human Bean, a coffee shop that always had a lineup and was located beneath a trendy art gallery.

She’d considered blocking Remy. His messages had devolved into angry missives that made her wince. But she was hoping he might say something she could take to the police. Detective Livingston had warned her not to engage with him if she thought he might be dangerous. But she couldn’t help responding to this.

“What are you doing?”

Startled by the interruption, Ismay looked up as Jack put down their drinks and took a seat at the small round table. “Texting Remy,” she admitted.

“What? Why?” he said, immediately alarmed.

“He seems almost...conciliatory today. It’s as if he still thinks there’s a chance I’ll take him back—as if he never tried to run us down or send me all those mean messages.”

“My question still stands,” Jack said emphatically. “Why are you responding to him?”

Because she could sense an opportunity. It was a slim opportunity, but it might be their only opportunity... “I’m thinking we play into his delusion, get him to believe he’ll come out of this just fine as long as he’s transparent about what he knows. Something has to give, Jack. I don’t think the police are going to be able to do anything about Bastian otherwise.”

Jack took a sip of his latte while studying her over the rim. “But you don’t really think Remy would ever tell on Bastian...”

“If I can get him to believe I might come back to him, he might...”

Jack winced. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“He’s going to get away with it. It’s not like they live here year-round, which makes the detective’s job that much tougher. What about the women who owned that underwear? Had he been peeping at them? Breaking and entering and fondling their things? Or doing something even worse? All it would take is for Remy to get Bastian to say where those panties came from. Then the police could follow up from there.”

“But that’s such a long shot...”

“Not if he thinks that by throwing Bastian overboard, he can save himself. If Remy continues to protect his brother, they’ll both forever seem suspicious. But if he makes it clear it was Bastian, he can protect his own reputation. And Remy cares more about his image than anyone I know. He’s always trying to prove he’s smarter or better than the next guy.”

“I almost feel sorry for Bastian, growing up with that,” Jack muttered.

“Except Bastian’s insufferable himself.”

“They both have issues.”

“So if I can drive a wedge between them, and I think I know how to do that, it might be just what we need.” She went back to her text chain with Remy.

Jack scooted closer so he could read what was going on. “You’re playing with fire,” he murmured.

Ismay ignored him. She had a feeling this might work...

She saw the dots that signaled he was writing something appear and disappear twice, but nothing came through.

“He’s thinking about it,” Jack said, looking tense. “What will he decide?”

She shook her head. “He and Bastian have spent their lives blaming each other for one thing after another, even Lyssa, right? We just need Remy to do it one more time...”

Finally, she received his response.

She held her breath, then added, I’m just trying to do the right thing. As hard as it is, I would hope you’d want to do the right thing, too.

She got nothing from him for probably five minutes. Then Remy wrote, Fine. I’ll see what I can do.

Ismay felt her eyes go wide. She set her phone down and tried to take her first sip of coffee, but her hand was shaking from the adrenaline pumping through her, so she put it down again. “I think he’s going to do it.”

The first thing Bo learned when he landed on Mariners was that Bastian Windsor had been arrested. Jack had texted during Bo’s flight to say that Ismay had convinced Remy to come forward, and what he’d told the police must’ve been meaningful because Bastian was already in custody.

Bo couldn’t help thinking of Annabelle, who was probably on her way to the island with an expensive attorney in tow, determined to go to battle on behalf of her son. He would’ve texted her to offer his condolences, but he hadn’t heard from her since Remy fired him, and he was afraid she’d assume he was gloating.

He wasn’t. She wasn’t to blame for Bastian’s actions, and he knew how mortified, embarrassed, and heartbroken she had to be. He believed part of the reason she overindulged her sons was to remain relevant in their lives. He got the impression she wasn’t fulfilled in her marriage. Mort was always so busy. She needed something or someone to cling to.

How did she do that? he wrote back, referring to Ismay. He’d told Jack not to tell Ismay he was returning. He wanted to talk to her in person. Only then did he feel he’d be able to determine if coming back had been the right decision.

She didn’t go back to him, did she? he wrote and held his breath, waiting for the answer. If she had, he’d get up in the morning and take the first flight he could get back to New Orleans, and all the money he’d spent to return to Mariners would be a waste. He’d also feel like a fool.

Bo felt a smile stretch across his face as he read Jack’s answer. He was still smiling when he released his seat belt and got his bag down from the overhead bin. It was after eleven o’clock. Because he’d booked his flights at the last minute, he’d had to take a circuitous route to Boston and had barely arrived there in time to catch the last flight of the day to the island. Before leaving Louisiana, he’d booked a hotel here in town so he’d have a place to stay when he got in. He hadn’t planned on bothering Ismay tonight. But if Jack was up, maybe she was, too, and Bo suddenly couldn’t wait any longer to see her.

That place was on the other side of the island, much closer to the cottage than downtown, but he could easily grab an Uber...

He read Jack’s message again, the one about Ismay being stuck on another guy and used his app to call for a ride.

Ismay felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Livingston hadn’t been able to tell her much, but he had indicated that what Remy had shared with him was specific and significant and should be enough to get a conviction—hopefully followed by some counseling. Several of the women whose panties were in that bag knew Bastian, but they’d never had any kind of contact with him that would give him access to their underwear. That meant he’d been breaking in and stealing it—and had probably been watching them, too. Some of them were locals, even older women, but others had been tourists who’d visited the island while he was around.

“To think I was staying in the cottage with him,” she said to Jack with a shudder. “I can’t believe Remy let that happen, knowing what he knew, but I’m going to keep my promise to not go to the papers.”

“Didn’t he say he was surprised by the duffel bag? That he hadn’t thought of the Peeping Tom accusations in years?”

When he’d called to tell her he’d gone to the police, he’d explained all of that. But still... “He did, but I told him Bastian tried to get in my room!”

“Even if he knew Bastian had a problem with women, he probably thought—because you were his fiancée—you’d be exempt.”

She held her wineglass loosely in one hand. “That’s a hell of a gamble to take. I’m still freaked out.”

“I don’t blame you.” He put down his soda and waved off the waitress when she asked if he wanted another. “I think he’s expecting you to come back to him now that you know he’s innocent.”

“I haven’t promised him that, but I did tell him I’d meet him for breakfast in the morning, and that we can talk. It’ll be the first time we’ve had an open and honest conversation about our relationship since I left LA.”

“What do you think he’ll say?”

“I’m guessing he’ll want to salvage what we can during the next two months, before his residency starts, or he wouldn’t have asked to see me.”

“Are you tempted?”

She pursed her lips as she examined how she felt. “No,” she decided. “Not even a little bit. Whatever happened with Bo... It changed me. I can’t go back.”

He crossed his legs out in front of him. The bar was getting busier as the night wore on, so he had to talk louder to be heard over the crowd. “Remy won’t like that answer.”

“He generally gets what he wants. But not this time.”

“Maybe I should go with you.”

“I’ll be fine. It was Bastian who pulled on the steering wheel. I feel bad I ever doubted Remy.”

“Have you heard from Bo?” Jack asked.

Her heart suddenly felt heavy as she shook her head. “You?”

“Just a few lines when I told him about Bastian.”

She finished her wine. “What’d he say?”

“He wanted to know if you’re going back to Remy.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That you’re holding out for him.”

She gasped. “Jack! I hope you didn’t! I’ve given him plenty of time to respond, and he hasn’t. He’s obviously not interested.”

“You don’t know that,” he said.

“It’s becoming clear.”

Jack was startled by something happening behind her. Then a huge smile appeared on his face. “Oh, yes I do,” he said.

“What—” she started to say but turned to look over her shoulder at the same time—and saw Bo walking toward her, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

“Sorry these look a little sad,” he said as she stood up and he handed them to her. “The street vendor by the airport was closing and didn’t have a lot left to choose from.”

She didn’t care if they were weeds. He was back. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

He grinned. “Well, you see, there’s a girl on Mariners that I just couldn’t leave behind.”

He was saying exactly what she wanted to hear. But she still had one question she had to ask him. “Did you shoot your father, Bo?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She knew that subject would require a longer conversation, but not when Jack was around and not tonight, when she was happier than she’d ever been. She put his flowers on her seat before throwing her arms around him. “I knew it,” she breathed into his ear.

Then he kissed her, and everyone in the restaurant started to clap, including Jack.

Annabelle stood on the patio of the apartment they’d recently bought in Hudson Yards, staring down at the lights of the busy Manhattan street far below her. Everything looked so tiny from her perspective—the people and cars were almost like ants as they zipped about. She knew what was happening on Mariners and that she should be rushing around, throwing clothes in a suitcase and catching a flight to the island as soon as possible. But she hadn’t moved from the patio for hours, since she’d received Bastian’s call. She hadn’t even gone in to get a coat, despite the fact that it was growing colder and colder as the night wore on.

Mort wasn’t home from work yet. She’d tried to call him so she could tell him that Bastian had been arrested. She needed his advice, his support. But these days there was none of that to be found. She’d only been able to reach his voice mail. When he finally came home—if he came home—he’d say he’d been intent on whatever he was working on at the office. But it was almost midnight. She knew the truth, knew he was seeing someone else—maybe a string of women. He hardly bothered to hide it anymore. She’d probably be looking at a divorce soon, she realized, and what a mess that would be.

Regardless, she couldn’t continue to dwell on the sad state of her marriage. She had a bigger decision to make. Did she allow Bastian to take the fall for Remy? Or did she tell the truth?

She tried to imagine the future if she came forward—the difficulty she’d continue to have with her “no good” son. Even if she got Bastian out of jail, he wouldn’t change. He’d still be far too self-indulgent, wouldn’t take hold and work, wouldn’t thrive.

And if she didn’t come forward? If she let him take the punishment Remy deserved? Remy had the intelligence and drive to make such a difference in the world—make her proud to call him her son. He could go on and become a doctor. And why not? Bastian would only have to serve a couple of years, if he got prison time at all. With a good lawyer, he might not get much more than a few months in the county jail.

But she knew that duffel bag didn’t belong to Bastian. Just hearing about it had told her Remy hadn’t stopped the behavior for which Bastian had almost been charged last time. And he’d just turned on his brother again. That he had no compunction about doing that, even at this age, was an alarm she couldn’t ignore.

Annabelle closed her eyes as an errant tear wandered down her cheek. She should’ve come forward years ago. Set things right. Maybe, had they sought counseling, Remy could’ve changed. Instead, she’d stepped in to erase that whole Peeping Tom incident, hoping against hope that it was just a phase, an aberration from his regular behavior that he would conquer with a second chance—or at the very least, he’d learn his lesson from what had almost happened to Bastian. He had so damn much promise!

But that wasn’t all of it. There was what she’d heard Bastian scream at Remy several years ago. He’d insisted Remy had shoved Lyssa into the bathroom so hard she’d fallen and hit her head on the tub, and that was the reason they’d started to fight. It was also the reason Lyssa hadn’t gotten out of the house alive.

Annabelle had chosen not to believe what she’d heard that night. The boys always said terrible things to each other. But she knew, deep in her gut, that it was true.

Her cell phone rang. She looked down to see her husband’s picture on the screen, but she ignored his call. She knew he’d want her to sweep it all under the rug again. He was largely the reason she’d done that last time. Appearances were all that mattered to him. They had to protect their name, his legacy. But she’d been better than that—once.

She pushed the button that would send his call to voice mail. Then she looked up the number for the Mariners Police Department, and when someone answered, she asked for Detective Livingston.

Ismay sat at The Charles W. Morgan, a restaurant that served fresh seafood in the evenings but also offered a weekend brunch. It was a fancy place, an expensive place, just the kind Remy liked. But she wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat anything. She was too nervous.

She’d spent last night at the hotel with Bo, since he’d already prepaid for his stay, and she wanted to get back together with him as soon as possible. He didn’t like that she was meeting Remy, said he didn’t trust him and tried to talk her out of going. But she felt she owed it to her ex-fiancé to meet with him and tell him how she felt, so he’d know there was no chance of a reconciliation and could move on without looking back.

It was a courtesy she would’ve appreciated if the tables were turned. But he was running late, and he wasn’t answering her texts.

The waitress stopped by her table. “Can I get you another mimosa?”

“No, thank you. My, um, friend will be here soon.”

She smiled as she walked away, but Ismay knew she had to be growing impatient and checked the time on her phone. Remy was usually punctual. So where was he?

He there? That text came from Bo.

Bo had a point. But he didn’t understand how moody Remy could be.

I’ll wait five more minutes and then leave, she wrote back, but when she glanced up, she saw Detective Livingston crossing the restaurant, coming toward her.

Putting down her phone, she shifted in her seat. “Hello, Detective.”

He gestured at the chair across from her. “Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?”

She twisted around to look at the entrance of the restaurant, but still didn’t see Remy. “No. Of course not.”

“Remy won’t be coming to meet you for breakfast, Ismay,” he said. “He’s been arrested.”

She felt like he’d just tossed a glass of cold water in her face. “Wh-what for?” she stammered.

“His mother called me late last night. And what she had to say changed everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was Remy who was doing the peeping way back when, even though Bastian took the blame. With identical twins, it can be hard for witnesses to get the details straight. But she got him off, so she didn’t think it would matter which boy it was. Then you found that duffel bag in Remy’s closet, and she knew the behavior hadn’t stopped—it’d only grown worse.”

“But... Remy wasn’t even around when that duffel bag was removed from the closet. How could—”

“He asked Bastian to get it for him,” he interrupted. “He was mad that Bastian made you move into his room and was afraid you’d find it.”

“And Bastian did it? Why didn’t he say no?”

Livingston shook his head. “Why do brothers do a lot of things?”

“You believe him?”

“I do. Bastian even showed me a text where he wrote back I got it. It’s in the attic. And that’s right where we found it early this morning.”

She set her napkin on the table. “Wait! You’re saying Remy was going to let Bastian take the blame again?”

“He felt his brother didn’t have anything to lose.”

“While he was about to become a doctor,” she said, catching on.

“Exactly. That’s why he thought his mother would go along with it again, too.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! What about my underwear? Why would Bastian take them unless—”

“He claims that was just bad judgment, a small way to get back at Remy for cheating with Lyssa. He was planning to have Remy find it in his things, so he’d think the two of you had become...sexually intimate.”

She gaped at him as she tried to absorb this information. “I—I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t blame you. But it’s clear Bastian both loves and resents his brother. It’s complicated, and we’ll probably never completely understand it.”

“So...did Bastian pull on the steering wheel when he saw me and Jack on the road?”

“I don’t think so. He claims Remy swerved right at you, and I, for one, believe him.”

Strangely enough, so did Ismay. She’d suspected it all along; she’d just let herself be talked out of it. “Why would his mother come forward now?”

“They were young back then. She convinced herself peeping was somewhat normal for a boy of that age. But the duffel bag and all the underwear inside it, as well as something Bastian yelled at Remy about Lyssa one night, finally convinced her that Remy has a serious problem.”

Ismay was almost afraid to ask. “What’d he yell?”

“She claims that Bastian was screaming at Remy for killing Lyssa, that Lyssa was yelling at Remy the night of the party, trying to get him to leave Bastian alone, and Remy lost his temper and shoved her so hard she hit her head on the bathtub.”

“Why were they in the bathroom?”

“She was crying. Bastian went in there to comfort her, and Remy followed them, causing trouble. The two boys started throwing punches and they nearly fell down the stairs. Then they stumbled into the living room, where they broke a bottle of tequila and eventually knocked over a candle.”

“And Remy’s been able to live with that?” she asked.

“That’s the other reason his mother came forward. As smart as he is, she knows he doesn’t feel the empathy and guilt he should.”

Ismay stared at the elegant white tablecloth. “And I almost married him,” she murmured.

“You’re a nice girl. I’m glad you didn’t. Now I’d better go. I just...wanted to let you know not to expect Remy to show up for breakfast.”

Ismay thanked him, then, stunned, sat at the table for several minutes after he left—until the waitress came by again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like another drink?”

“No, thank you. My plans have changed. I’ll take my check now.”

Once she received the bill, she paid it and hurried outside, where the sun felt reassuringly warm on her face.

Did he show? Another text from Bo.

No. I’m on my way back. And you’re not going to believe what I have to tell you, she wrote.

But she paused before walking the two blocks to the hotel. She wanted to take a second to text Annabelle; she had the number from when Remy’s mother had called her to advocate for Remy not too long ago.