Page 141 of Two Kinds of Stranger

I’d had that choice once.

I chose different.

Not a day goes by when I didn’t wonder what would have happened if I’d chosen an easier life, saved my marriage, and been there for my kid.

My cell phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize.

‘Hi, is this Eddie Flynn?’ said the male voice.

‘Yeah, it’s me. Who is this?’

‘Chuck Buchanan, of Buchanan and Duff, attorneys. I’ve got a referral for you. Homicide case. Fair warning, this one is difficult.’

‘Is the client innocent?’

‘She’s pleading not guilty, if that’s what you mean.’

‘No, it’s not what I mean. Is she innocent?’

Silence on the phone.

‘She’s innocent.’

I stopped walking. Looked up at the dark skies covering the city.

‘Sounds like I’m your guy,’ I said.

57

Logan

Logan raised his right foot off the rail, crossed his arms in front of his chest. . .

And jumped.

In mid-air, as he fell, he locked his feet together.

Felt the wind rushing over his body.

Right before he hit the water, he raised his knees toward his belly, then, both feet together, he kicked down, punching through the waves as he disappeared into the water.

Daily cold plunges meant he didn’t feel the shock of cold water any more.

But this water wasn’t cold.

It was the warm, azure blue of the Indian ocean.

Logan swam to the surface, the blazing sunlight hitting his eyes as he gazed back at the yacht he’d just leapt from. There, standing on the deck, was Grace.

She wore a silk sundress over her bikini, and she smiled down at Logan.

He swam back to the boat, grabbed the ladder and climbed back on board. He grabbed his swim shorts and squeezed most of the water from them, then found a chair on the deck and sat down to dry in the hot sun.

They were a mile out from the coast of South Africa.

Far away from New York City.

That final day in Manhattan, Logan had known his odds of taking out Joe Novak were very slim. That night, once he’d left the apartment he’d shared with Grace, Logan had made a phone call.