“I do,” I say.
“Then call it.” She smiles. “Mr. Tate is not here at the moment, and he’s appointment only.”
“Do you know where he goes on Wednesdays and Sundays?”
She blinks.
Ugh, fine. “Can you leave a message for him then?”
“Absolutely.” She clicks a pen. “What is it?”
“Tell him that…” I shake my head. “That’s okay. Thank you.”
I return to the waiting Uber and try not to think about the first night we met.
I really need to talk to you about something important, Jameson.
He doesn’t answer.
Until the following morning.
Right at 11:01.
Okay. I’ll be back at my place tonight.
Later that evening
I slide my finger under another flap of new mail that bears my father’s name, making sure that the bedroom door is locked.
There is no letter this time.
Only grayscale pictures of my two oldest brothers walking in and out of businesses, copies of checks, and photos of them standing near a fire pit in the middle of nowhere.
On the last picture, which features the two of them sitting on the trunk of my father’s Rolls-Royce, in faint gray handwriting are four words.
“No body, no crime.”
ABET (V.):
TO HELP SOMEONE COMMIT A CRIME, INCLUDING HELPING THEM ESCAPE FROM POLICE OR PLAN THE CRIME.
JAMESON
Scarlett is sitting at my dining room table when I get home, wearing a tight gray dress I can’t wait to see pooled on my floor.
I can’t believe we haven’t had sex since The Hamptons…
She’s “made” dinner—an array of open Chinese takeout boxes mixed amid hard plates and silverware.
“Good evening,” I say to her.
“Good evening.” She frowns. “How are you today?”
“Fine.” I load a plate with rice. “You were fine last I checked three hours ago, correct?”
“Yes.” She eyes me as I add spoonfuls of chicken. “I guess I’m just surprised to see you in the flesh for a change.”
“So, you’ve been hiding the fact that you’re angry with me?” I ask.
