Honey stepped from the car—a foolish move, no doubt, but she was keen to take control.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the stranger said, flicking on the light. “I just wanted to chat for a second.”
Honey’s heart was jabberwocking, but she kept her voice steady.
“Is this how you usually start conversations, by sneaking into old women’s garages?”
“Come on, you’re not that old.”
In this instance, flirtation—Honey’s favorite currency—would get the man nowhere.
“Who the hell are you?” she said, knowing exactly who he was.
“I’m Jocelyn’s friend,” he replied. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“This is beyond ridiculous. Please get out of here.” Fear turned to anger. She marched over to the wall and pressed a button to reopen the sliding door. It rose slowly, groaning like a constipated bear. But, mercifully, the sun streamed through.
The man, unfortunately, stayed where he was. “I just wanted to apologize. You know, for that misunderstanding with Joss.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, it seems she thought I had something I wasn’t supposed to—but she was confused. Good kid, but not quite all there, if you know what I mean.”
The man was backlit, standing in the open doorway, the sun much brighter than the tiny electric bulb. Honey couldn’t quite make out his face.
“If I could just get the backpack,” he said. “That is, if you know where it is.”
Honey did know; it was in the trash bin right beside her, along with the emptied-out Taster’s Choice container.
“I have no idea where your backpack is,” she said. “Joss hid it in my yard, so you’ll have to ask her.”
“Yeah, I already did—and we both looked and it’s not there.”
As he moved closer, Honey flinched. “I’m quite a good screamer.”
The man held up his arms, as if to prove his innocence. “You’ve got me all wrong. I just wanted to talk.”
As Honey’s eyes adjusted, she could see that he was smiling. Surprisingly, he had excellent teeth.
“I’m Lee,” he said, extending one of his hands.
Did he expect her to shake it? She rebuffed his aggressive cordialness and asked him once again to please leave. “Now.”
His green eyes flashed, staring at her as if it were a contest—who would look away first. Men’s gazes were always so revealing; they never failed to tell you one of two things—either that you meant something, or that you meant nothing at all. Despite this one’s smile, Honey could read his assessment of her: that she was weak, expendable. He held his astonishing virility over her like a weapon. She could almost smell the arrogance. What this man was up to with Jocelyn, Honey couldn’t imagine. A taste of metal filled her mouth, and her tongue grew sharp.
“So what was in the backpack? Your schoolbooks?”
The man laughed, the tattoos on his neck flaring. He was older than Joss, and undeniably handsome. Nothing was more irritating than when bad people had good faces.
“Well, if you happen to find the pack,” he said, “please let me know.”
Honey nodded coolly.
“Again, I’m sorry to bother you. I really didn’t mean to scare you.”
He seemed genuinely apologetic, and Honey wondered if she’d misjudged him. But then, instead of backing away, he moved toward her again.
“You don’t think someone could have stolen it, do you?”
“How would I know?” Honey eyed a shovel hanging on the wall.
“Because I noticed a guy at your place this morning. He looked pretty whacked out.”
“No one has been at my house today, I assure you.”
“Yeah, he came by while you were out. Young guy, long hair, driving a BMW?”
Clearly, he was referring to her grandnephew.
Honey was trapped against the wall. She was about to reach for the shovel when her phone began to chirp. Immediately the man froze, and Honey took full advantage of his hesitation. “Out,” she said, as if to a dog. “Out!”
Miraculously, he obeyed, and as he stepped outside Honey pressed the button to shut the garage. The phone was still ringing, and when she looked at the screen she saw the name Nathan Flores. It took her several seconds to realize it was the painter.
Oh God. She had no desire to talk to him; she’d forgotten to go to his exhibition. But, as she could still glimpse the intruder’s feet standing in the driveway, fear got the better of her.
“Hello?” she said, fleeing into the house.
“Are you okay?” the painter asked. “You sound out of breath.”
She sat on the couch, certain she was going to pass out. When the boy asked again if she was all right, Honey found she had no access to deceit, to subterfuge.
“I just can’t take it anymore,” she said.
“Take what?”
“I’m so tired.” Suzanne’s words in her mouth. “And I’m sorry I missed your opening, dear. It’s been a rather trying week.”
“You didn’t miss it. It’s this weekend. I just thought I’d call to remind you.” His voice was so gentle, so different from that of the man in the garage.
“It was kind of you to call,” she said, placing the bullets on the coffee table—“but unfortunately I won’t be able to make it to the gallery this weekend.”
“Well, the show is up for almost a month, so maybe at some point you can stop by.”
In another life, Honey thought, yes, I might.
“I’ll try,” she said. “No promises.”
“You sound different,” the boy said.
“Do I?”
“Not that I know you that well—but, yeah.”
She had absolutely nothing to say to him, yet she also had no desire to hang up. The silence between them was a kind of oxygen.
“Do you know I own a Redon?” she finally said. “Also a Morandi.”
When the boy didn’t respond right away, Honey realized that he probably had no idea who these artists were. But then he said, “I wrote my thesis on Redon.”
Silence again.
And then: “Ilaria?”
“Yes?”
“Please come to my opening.”