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Though I do not expect you to forgive me now, I hope that one day, in the distant future, you will.
Love with all my heart,
Winnie.
I am being selfish. I am putting myself first. I am taking a leaf out of Arsène’s book.
The last step is to do what I should’ve done the week after Paul had passed away.
I pack a small bag, buy a one-way ticket to Nashville, and turn my back on New York City for good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ARSÈNE
I avoid going back to my apartment after my rendezvous with Bumpkin. Staying in the city, in proximity to the scene of the crime, would be a mistake of epic proportions. Instead, I opt to stay at the Scarsdale mansion, working remotely, at a safe distance from her.
One of us needs to make logical decisions here, and that someone isn’t the charming, strongheaded woman I left in a Hell’s Kitchen apartment. Winnifred is lovely, in the same way a piece of art is—enticing beyond my comprehension. Better left for someone else to appreciate. I have nothing to offer a woman in the romance department. Even if I had, she’d be an unsuitable partner. And I am, after all, a man who prides himself with following reason.
I don’t make my way back to my apartment until the end of the week, when I finally decide to drive back to the city. I saunter into my building, dipping my head in acknowledgment as I pass Alfred at the reception.
“Mr.Corbin, there’s a parcel waiting for you.” He raises a finger before I get into the elevator. He crouches down behind his desk and produces a small cardboard thing. I take it.
“Did I have any visitors while I was gone?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.”Fantastic, even. Bumpkin got the message. No calls. No unexpected drop-ins. Good girl.
I make my way up the elevator, enter my apartment, and fling the parcel onto the dining table. Probably work-related shit. It can wait.
I forget about it for the next few hours while I catch up on emails and get a phone call from Riggs, who is in Naples sampling more than the Italian food, and from Christian, who for some reason has appointed himself as the designated responsible adult and asks how I’m doing like he is my mother.
It is only shortly before I go to bed that I’m reminded of the parcel waiting in my dining room. I pick it up and rip it open carelessly. The first thing to drop out of it is a sequence of sheets ...ultrasound pictures?
Confused, I turn over the package and glance at the sender’s address for the first time.Winnie Ashcroft. I turn over one of the ultrasound pictures.
First scan. 6 weeks. G + P = PJ!
Well, then. Turns out, therewassomething interesting lurking in the Ashcroft household after all. Where did she find it? And why on earth am I so indifferent to the idea of Grace being pregnant with Paul’s baby?
Paul’s baby.The meaning of the words sinks into me now. Grace had always insisted we use condoms. I guess she didn’t extend this rule to Paul. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be so sure about the father’s identity.
So Grace wasn’t against forgoing contraception. She was against forgoing contraception withme. Perhaps the idea of a Corbin sperm swimming inside her repulsed her.
Wondering about the timeline of this entire shit cluster, I examine the pictures more carefully. I see the timestamp printed on the bottom of the ultrasound page. Three weeks after Italy. After Grace was emotional, distraught, not herself.
Three weeks after she’d asked the driver to pull over so she could throw up in the bushes and made me wonder if she genuinely did give a damn about Doug dying.
The pieces fall together. Including the period in which she must’ve lost her baby. First, she’d disappeared. I thought it was because of the will, but it was because she was going through loss and grieving. Then, she came back unexpectedly the night Riggs was supposed to crash at my house, waiting for me, eager to please, to entertain, to win me over. A decision had been made then. Paul wasn’t a safe bet anymore. Maybe he decided to stick it out with Winnifred, after all.
After I’d kicked Riggs out, when we tried to have sex, Grace had been in pain. The sex was awkward at best, and I wanted to stop. There were blood traces on the condom. She claimed it was stress. It wasn’t. The truth was, her body was healing from trauma.
I’m more disturbed by the fact I’d had sex with a woman shortly after her miscarriage than I am about how close Grace had been to leaving me.
So. Grace wanted to leave meandhave another man’s child.
This leaves me with the mysterious USB. The last piece of the puzzle. Bumpkin did well by sending these here. I’m surprised she didn’t try to hand deliver them herself.
