ERICA STOPS COLD ON THE curb, not trusting her own eyes. Is it really Greg? Yes, it is. And seeing him—so handsome, so fit, his skin tawny and burnished by the Australian sun—instantly rekindles something inside her. Raw physical attraction, yes, but also a surge of tenderness. She was in love with this man. Is she still? Can they get back what they lost? Can she forgive him? Erica struggles to get her bearings.
Greg crosses the sidewalk to her. “You look shocked to see me.”
“Sydney is a long way away.”
“Too far.” He reaches out to hold her, and an image of Laurel Masson flashes in her mind; she tenses up and takes a step backward.
They stand there with so much to say and nothing to say. Part of Erica wants to invite him up to her apartment to fall into his arms. Another part of her wants to slap him across the face.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to go to a café or . . . ?”
“How about the park?”
“The park is good.”
They walk in silence, entering the park at Seventy-Second Street and finding a bench in Strawberry Fields, the garden dedicated to the memory of John Lennon, who was assassinated across the street in front of the Dakota apartment house. The centerpiece is the circular Imagine mosaic—and although it’s only yards from the hustle and bustle of the city, there’s a quietude here that Erica finds renewing. At this moment, however, quietude is the last thing she’s feeling.
“Erica, I came back to apologize. I made a terrible mistake. But I can’t face losing you.”
She turns on him. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you slept with Laurel Masson.”
“Don’t I know it? I kick myself a hundred times a day. You have to believe me, Erica; she means nothing to me.”
“You still work together, don’t you?”
“We do. But I’ve made it very clear to her that it’s over.”
“You’re going to go back to Sydney. You’re going to get lonely. She’s a beautiful woman . . .”
There’s a pause, and then he turns and looks at her with those soulful green eyes. “Let’s go down to City Hall on Monday morning and get married.”
Erica jerks back on the bench, as if pushed by an invisible hand. They could be married in less than forty-eight hours. Man and wife. On second thought, it’s the twenty-first century—let’s make that “woman and husband.” Husband who cheats. Within months of their being separated. Then she remembers their history—Greg’s support during her early days at GNN, his bravery that fateful day in Miami, when he was shot and gravely wounded. His kindness and strength and bemused irony. The smell of his pine soap. Her confusion deepens. She’s no longer sure what she feels.
“I’m not ready to take that step, Greg. You know I’ve been through this before. And Dirk at least had the excuse of my drinking for his affair.”
“You can’t forgive me?”
“I honestly don’t know, Greg.” She looks down at her hands: they’re intertwined, curled and twisted together like a knot. “Trust is . . . it’s easy to lose and hard to regain.”
“Oh, come on now. I didn’t commit a murder.”
He doesn’t get it.
They sit there in silence for what seems like a long time. Greg is sorry, but his apology feels perfunctory. It’s as if by flying back and showing remorse and proposing a City Hall marriage, his affair would be erased. But it isn’t. She feels betrayed and humiliated and deeply hurt. She remembers the night she realized he was sleeping with Laurel Masson, the way her stomach hollowed out, her world hollowed out. Trust doesn’t come easy to her—how could it when she couldn’t trust her own mother and father? To have it stomped on, publicly really, when you consider that tweet of Greg and Masson arm in arm. Erica feels a flash of anger. “I was on a date today,” she says.
“I don’t think I need to know that. But, lucky guy, okay, lucky guy. What more can I say?”
And now Greg looks a little lost, like a kid, a boy who has been hurt and doesn’t understand why. And Erica, for the first time since she saw that tweet, feels a rekindling of her deep affection for him. He’s a good man. The man she was going to marry. Her throat tightens. Being a grown-up is so complicated and so sad and sometimes we hurt each other when maybe we don’t need to.
Greg leans forward, elbows on his knees. He takes a deep breath and says, “The network goes live in six weeks. I can’t possibly get away before then. Will you at least wait until I come back before making any final decision?”
That’s not really asking for very much. Goodness knows, Erica has a busy couple of months coming up. She nods. He smiles. The mood between them lightens. “You must have terrible jet lag,” she says.
“It is awfully light for the middle of the night.”
Erica puts her hand on his and squeezes. “I miss you at work.”
“That’s not where I want you to miss me, but I’ll take what I can get. What are you working on?”
“Something important.”
“Say more.”
“Well, I’m hitting more walls than I’d hoped, so I may be on a wild goose chase, but in a nutshell? I’m not sure Mike Ortiz is fit to be president.”
“You know, I’ve never been that impressed with him. He’s wooden and rote, and doesn’t seem like the brightest crayon in the box.”
“His wife, on the other hand, is terrifying.”
“Hey, I’ve got a couple of ears here if you want to avail yourself.”
Erica realizes, with something of a jolt, that while she may not trust Greg with her emotions, she trusts him completely when it comes to work and her investigation. She gives him a quick overview.
When she’s finished he’s quiet for a moment and then says, “You know, where there are this many unanswered questions, there’s usually fire.” He turns to her, his animation growing. “It really sounds to me like something very creepy happened to Ortiz when he was a prisoner. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. What was done, who did it, and why are three big unknowns. The stakes here really couldn’t be higher. And when you’re dealing with ambition on this scale, well, ruthless is a mild word for what people will do. You have to be very careful for your own safety, Erica. Assume they know everything you’re doing. And call on me 24/7. You’ve got a tiger by the tail. And it’s a rabid tiger.”
Erica feels a fear rat scurry up her spine. But then again, danger is part of the job description. “Yeah, I think I should head home and do some more digging.”
Erica and Greg walk out of the park and down two blocks to her building. They reach the entrance and turn toward each other.
“Thank you for coming,” Erica says.
“I’m coming back.”
Part of Erica still wants to fall into his arms. Part of her doesn’t. It all feels unresolved, but looking at the vulnerability in his eyes, what she feels most strongly is tender regret.
Back in her apartment, Erica sits at her computer and Googles Dave Brennan, the former marine who led the workshop on Chinese afterlife mythology that Peter Tuttle took just before he killed Markum. Brennan has a website that details his spiritual growth and awakening after he returned from the Iraq War and suffered PTSD. Casting about for meaning and solace, he developed a profound interest in Chinese religion, spirituality, and mysticism. There’s a phone number, and she calls and gets his voice mail. His voice is resonant and spectral, even hypnotic. Erica leaves a message.