BLACK WIDOW (Book #1 of The Black Widow Series) Page 10

  “What happened?" I asked.

  "Elena is a professor of art history in Evanston. She was always dragging me to these stupid dinners and events with the other hoity-toity professors. I hated it and she knew it, but I went because she loved her job and I loved her. That's what you do. Until one day, I learned she wanted someone else sitting beside her instead."

  For the first time since I'd met him, his voice had a bitter, biting edge to it. I could certainly understand why. "So let me get this straight. You put her through school, moved halfway across the country for her dream job, and then she cheated on you with another man?"

  He looked away, but I didn't miss his answer. "Woman."

  "Ohhhhh," I said, surprised. "I guess that came as a shock?"

  "Honestly, I never saw it coming. Apparently, I was so bad at marriage I turned her into a lesbian." He smiled and chuckled, but both were forced. "Not the best day of my life." He watched me as if he was measuring my reaction to this new piece of information.

  Before that moment, if you'd asked me if Scott was an insecure man, I would have laughed in your face. If anything, he was overconfident, pursuing me even after I'd repeatedly told him no. But watching him now, I couldn't help but wonder if some of his masculine bluster was a façade.

  I acted even before I could think about it, spurred by the need to make him see what I saw. Facing me, he was so close I could feel practically every breath he took. I leaned over and placed my lips on his.

  He didn't react at first. His mouth held a rigid line beneath mine. My hands found their way up to his shoulders and then around his neck. My lips whispered a silent prayer as they moved gently against his. After my confessions of the evening, I wondered if he'd changed his mind about me. Or maybe he was still thinking about his ex-wife, comparing the curve of my lips to hers.

  I laced my fingers through his hair and tugged it gently, and it spurred him to life. His lips softened and then just as quickly became more insistent. His tongue swept across my lower lip, and I parted my lips in response, welcoming him. I wanted to erase any memory of her from his lips and his mind.

  His hands found my face as he took ownership of my mouth, all reservations gone. We kissed like two broken people in search of a missing piece of themselves. Every sweep of the tongue was a confession of loss, and every brush of our fingers a promise of redemption. My last experience with a man had left me feeling used, a means to an end. It had left scars. Rather than breaking them open, as I'd expected, Scott's touch seemed to heal them.

  The butterflies in my stomach awakened from their long winter of hibernation. They fluttered their ticklish wings, urging me to take a chance. My usually argumentative common sense had gone oddly silent. The same instant I realized I wanted more—could handle more—the kiss was over. He pulled away and looked at me.

  "Well, it's official," I said before he could speak. "You didn't turn her into a lesbian. She did that on her own."

  Twenty minutes and two more kisses later, I closed the door behind him and rested my forehead against it. I stood there until I heard the roar of the motorcycle fade into silence.

  He had my number now—in more ways than one—and had promised to return in the morning when I woke up to take me to get my car. He'd taken my keys and insisted, despite my objections, that he would move my car into his parking garage so that nothing would happen to it overnight.

  On my way to the living room, I took a detour by the dining room to straighten the frame on the buffet. My common sense chose that moment to reappear.

  You idiot, she admonished. When this doesn't work out, you're going to be a fucking mess.

  I shook my head to dislodge the negative thoughts. I didn't know where this thing with Scott was leading, but I was done fighting it. Our talk in the backyard felt significant. I was sure it actually was for me. Maybe for the both of us.

  Telling him about Chase's death had been a huge step for me. I had always carried the guilt of what had happened to him willingly with the knowledge that, in some small or big way, I deserved it. I sensed Scott understood and carried his own guilt over his failed marriage.

  I felt lighter as I moved through the house. As if he might have actually taken some of my guilt with him when he’d gone. If he’d left some of his own in its place, it didn’t feel nearly as heavy.

  I grabbed the red Valentina bag I'd carried to dinner and took it to my room. I flung it onto the chair in the corner to swap it out for something less flashy the next day. I slipped out of my black pants and pulled on my favorite flannel pajama pants, feeling as happy as the penguins on them. My hair came down, and then I twisted it up again into a messy knot on my head, secured with a ponytail holder.

  In the mood to celebrate, I went in search of my wine. When I realized I'd left it outside, I turned off the outdoor lights and looked for the one Scott had abandoned instead.

  Sunset Boulevard lay on the coffee table, but the book in my purse was the one I heard calling my name. I had just gotten comfortable in my spot on the couch when my phone rang.

  Thinking it might actually be Scott, I answered it without looking. I should've known better.

  "You missed dinner." My father was angry, as I'd known he would be.

  "I had a date.

  "Celeste," he growled.

  I was antagonizing him. Not forty-eight hours had passed since we’d gotten into a fight because I’d refused to go out with the hotshot new attorney he’d hired. I didn't care that Weston Kingsley had graduated from Yale at the top of his class. Or that my father had stolen him away from our biggest competitor. I didn't even care that he'd successfully negotiated a deal that would make this Smythe Luxury Hotels and Resorts’ most profitable year yet. He was a beady-eyed worm who gave me a case of the creepy crawlies.

  "Isn't this what you wanted?" I asked with feigned innocence. “You told me I need to get out more.”

  "Only under controlled conditions." He paused and then continued, "Weston was here tonight, but you already knew that."

  Sunday night dinners at my parents’ house were mandatory. Every week, I trudged next door whether I wanted to or not. Outsiders were almost never invited, but my father had made an exception for Weston. My failure to show had been intentional, though I would have missed the family dinner for Ryder anyway.

  "That's on you. I told you I'm not interested."

  "You told me you weren't interested in dating, period. Sounds like you've changed your mind."

  "Only under controlled conditions," I said with a smile that I was thankful he couldn't see.

  He huffed. "It's one date, Celeste. That’s all I asked of you. I'm not asking you to marry the guy, though Lord knows you'll probably try."

  After everything I'd been through, it was a low blow. He'd said it for one reason and one reason only—to be cruel. I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn't say something I'd regret. I wasn't like my father. Words could be sharper than knives, and I didn't wield them as weapons.

  "Listen," my father continued, in a more subdued voice. Having not gotten his way by yelling, he was changing tactics, trying to appeal to my rational side. "He's a good match for you. Smart, educated, has a good head on his shoulders."

  Everything Chase wasn’t was what I heard loud and clear.

  “You've played the part of the grieving widow like a real champ. It's time to move on. Anything over a year is an acceptable waiting period. Becoming a hermit isn't helping your image, let me tell you.” Keeping up appearances was as important to my father as keeping Smythe Luxury Hotels and Resorts' five-star rating.

  "I'm not worried about my image." It was only partially true. I didn't particularly like the way people talked about me, but I certainly wasn't going to let my father in on that little secret.

  "You should be. If you act like you have something to hide, people will think it's true. You certainly aren't helping matters by looking like you're going to a morgue every time you leave the house. Enough with the drama."

  I op
ened my mouth and closed it again. I wasn't playing the role of a grieving widow. I still was one.

  “You know exactly what I’ve done for you this year. The lies I’ve told. The money I’ve shoved under tables to keep you out of trouble. Do you really think you’d be standing here today if it weren’t for me? And all I want in return is for you to show up to dinner with a smile on your face and consider yourself lucky if Weston is interested.”

  He was on a roll, so I sipped my wine and waited for him to finish. “You always were the unreliable one, but it's time to get your head out of the clouds or there will be consequences. Imagine the questions you’d have to answer if everyone knew what I knew, Celeste.”

  My eyes began to burn. My head began to fog. All of my life, I’d dealt with his contempt. His never-quiet judgments. I was never enough, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. For years, I’d tried to win his love. His acceptance. But I would never be the daughter he wanted me to be. It was a fact I couldn’t change.

  “You will be at the benefit Friday night. This is not negotiable, Celeste. Your mother is beside herself because you didn't have the courtesy to call and tell us you weren't coming tonight. I had to give her medicine and put her to bed. You will not stand her up this weekend. You know how important this is to her. And Weston is coming with us, and you are interested."

  The fog in my head was now so thick I'd swear the clouds outside had moved indoors, yet I still managed an answer. "I’ll talk to mom. Tell her I'll call her tomorrow."

  My father huffed again. "One more thing. What was that god-awful racket a few minutes ago? It sounded like a motorcycle."

  "That was my date leaving. Don't worry. I was in very capable hands. He's a cop."

  I hung up, knowing that would give him a few things to think about. I curled into a ball on the couch, my book forgotten.

  HIM

  I stood in my overly furnished living room and turned in a circle, too wound up to go to bed. With twice as much furniture as it needed and not a single box unpacked, the apartment was a disaster. But I couldn’t do anything about it until I went to the bank and got this whole mess straightened out.

  I was looking for a box. One particular box. And after searching for it for nearly an hour, I was beginning to panic. I stepped around my old couch to look for it there when I didn’t find it behind a pair of cellophane-wrapped chairs.

  I’d marked the box specifically so I’d know it when I saw it, and I’d personally loaded it on the truck in Evanston. After my conversation with Celeste, I needed to find it. I was relieved to cross her off my list of suspects. Now that I had a singular interest in her, I needed a reminder of why I wasn’t such a bad guy. As I’d listened to her describe the guilt she felt over something that was clearly an accident, I couldn’t help but wonder if someone as good as Celeste could ever find happiness with someone like me.

  I searched each of the bedrooms next, ending in the master bedroom. The new bed hadn’t been slept in even though Sierra had insisted on putting on the new sheets that had come with it before she’d left the night before. Instead of the master, I’d slept in one of the smaller guest bedrooms where my old bed sat like a reject. The room lacked the windows with the view Sierra counted as the apartment’s main selling point, but I felt more at home there.

  The only concession I’d made was showering in the master bedroom because … well … with three showerheads, it was the most badass shower I’d ever seen. Aside from that, I was drawing a hard line with the apartment and its amenities, only taking advantage of what I had to. Rather than cook in the kitchen, I’d eaten out for every meal. The only things in the refrigerator were leftover pizza boxes and a few bottles of water that I could toss when it was time to move.

  When I still hadn’t found the box, I returned to the living room. I pressed my hands to my eyes and tried to think.

  It was time to start over.

  I returned to the front door and stood with my back to it. I would search the apartment again from top to bottom and front to back. My eyes swept the entryway and fell on what I assumed was a closet door. I had an ah-ha moment as I realized it was one of the few places I hadn’t looked.

  I flung the door open and, filled with relief, pulled the heavy box into the middle of the room. After ripping the tape off the top, I sat down on the floor beside it and began to dig through its contents, most of which were more than twenty-six years old. I was looking for a picture. A specific picture taken when we were fourth graders at Washington Elementary.

  I sifted through newspaper articles I didn’t want to read and maps of streets I didn’t want to revisit. And then I found it, sticking out of my fourth-grade yearbook. I pulled the photo out and stared at another set of green eyes, though these were so faded I could only recall their brilliant color from my time-worn memory.

  Just like that, I was ten years old again.

  “Watch this! I bet I can get to nineteen today.” Daniela’s smile was bright, her head tipped back, and her arms spread wide. Her hair, which usually hung over her shoulders, caught the wind as she spun on the sidewalk in front of her parents’ brownstone.

  “Show-off,” her sister muttered from the stoop.

  My brother patted the younger girl on the arm. “You got to fifteen yesterday. I bet you can hit sixteen today.”

  “I nearly threw up,” she said, clearly discouraged.

  “I might, too,” Daniela said, giggling. “That’s twelve.”

  I watched her through the lens of the new camera I’d gotten for my birthday and clicked the shutter.

  “Thirteen. Fourteen. Oh God, I’m done.” She fell to the ground in a heap. She lifted her head and nodded to her sister. “See you win!”

  I smiled and took one last picture of her. She looked like an angel, lying on the sidewalk with her hair fanned out around her head like a halo. A sweet, innocent fallen angel who I knew had thrown the game.

  I could still hear her laughing. It had been infectious, that laugh of hers. The kind that filled houses with happiness. Daniela had been one of those special people who lit up an entire room just by walking through it. Twenty-six years later and I still missed her.

  It wasn’t the last picture I’d taken of her, but it was the one on my mind after watching Celeste in her driveway tonight. The resemblance wasn’t as clear to me now. Maybe I’d just wanted to see it that way.

  My eyes fell to a newspaper article. It was one of the later ones, reporting the discovery of Daniela’s body. The date circled at the top of the page was more than five years after her disappearance and four years after the case had been considered cold and unsolvable. The latter was a fact I still had trouble digesting since she’d been found less than half a mile from our front doors and had been dead less than two days.

  She’d been just a few houses away, right under our noses, and no one had suspected. No one had come to save her.

  The unmistakable sound of a door shutting from out in the hall pulled me back to the present. I dropped the photo back into the box and pushed it away from the front door.

  I'd yet to meet or even lay eyes on any of my neighbors. My hall had been a ghost town, and it was starting to feel like I really did have the entire floor to myself. Curious for a glimpse of my new neighbor, I stuck my eye up to the peephole and thought for a moment the woman in the hall was an actual apparition.

  Standing in front of the door closest to the elevator—the one Sierra had said was the only privately owned apartment in the building—was a woman. Even with her back turned mostly to me, her hair down, and wearing a different outfit, I recognized Celeste. She flicked her dark hair over her shoulder and tucked the unmistakable red purse under her arm. The bag was large and shiny with a big red bow on it. Impossible to miss. Other than her emerald eyes, it had been the only bit of color she'd worn at dinner.

  That was no longer the case.

  She'd traded the conservative black pants and white shirt she'd had on when I left her for a red dress that matched
the bag. Her hair was also different. It flowed down her back in dark waves. Through the distorted peephole, I couldn't actually make out the features of her face, but I knew it was Celeste. I was sure of it.

  I stood rooted in place as if any movement might alert her to my presence. I didn't even take a breath as she locked the door and turned toward the elevators.

  I couldn't make sense of it. I'd left her at her house not two hours ago. So why was she coming out of the apartment next door? Especially when her car was parked downstairs in my extra spot?

  Did she have another one? Probably. Based on the size of her house, she probably had one for every day of the week.

  Unless it wasn’t actually her …

  I thought about the photograph in her dining room. If the past were any indication, the two women would definitely be able to pass for one another. When I'd asked if her sister lived around here, Celeste had said no, but maybe her idea of around here was different from mine.

  Either way, this had to be one of the biggest coincidences in the history of coincidences.

  Or not a coincidence at all.

  I stared, unblinking, as the woman stepped into the elevator and disappeared from sight. Turning slowly, I leaned against the door.

  If it was Celeste …

  The apartment. The motorcycle. Doubt niggled at me again. What had seemed impossible after dinner now seemed entirely likely again. Maybe instead of reading screenplays, she should be starring in them.

  I looked at my wristwatch. It was after ten. When I'd left her, she'd said she was ready for pajamas and her book. She certainly hadn't looked like she was going to put on a sexy red dress and go clubbing.

  Maybe it’s not her, I reminded myself.

  I ran through the apartment, threw open the door to the balcony, and leaned over the rail to peer down at the parking garage exit. I watched for a car to pull out of the garage. After only a few seconds, I spotted her. She wasn’t driving away as I'd expected but instead walking across the street. From seven stories up, I couldn't make out much in the dark but the red dress was hard to miss, especially when she passed beneath a streetlight.