Page 86 of One of Us Is Guilty

‘You want to come back to the apartment for lasagna?’ asked Tony.

‘No, thanks,’ I said, looking at the dragons. They eyed Cory hungrily as he lay unconscious on the table. ‘I lost my appetite.’

I didn’t tell Tony that Denise had brought me one of her lasagnas for lunch just after she started at the firm. While it was a nice thought, Denise wasn’t much of a cook. The lasagna didn’t really work as food, but I remember thinking at the time that it would make great loft insulation.

Denise loved Tony, and so she loved cooking lasagna for him.

Tony loved Denise, and he loved eating her lasagna.

And that made me happy.

I left the Lizard’s house, fired up the Mustang and dialed Christine’s number on speaker as I headed back into Manhattan.

The call went to voicemail. She wasn’t talking to me.

‘Christine, the picture and the article will be taken down within the hour. The rest of the videos linking to it will all be deleted within a day or two. I took care of it . . .’

Hesitating, I tried to decide what else I should say. What kind of apology could I make that I hadn’t made before, a thousand times over.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I love her so much. I love you too. You know that. I just . . . I don’t ever want anything bad to happen to anyone because of me. You were right to move on. You were right to get me out of your lives. If you want, I’ll stay away. For as long as you think it’s right. You don’t need to go to court. I won’t fight you. I just want you both to be safe. I hope Amy is okay. I hope you’re okay. Give my best to Kevin. He’s a good guy. And he’ll be a better father to Amy than I ever could.’

I hung up, stared at the road ahead.

As I went over the Queensboro Bridge, the lights from the city blurred and swam.

I blinked the tears out of my eyes, wiped my face.

Sometimes driving is strange. I didn’t have a particular place I needed to be, and no destination in mind, but somehow my hands turned the wheel and I found myself headed downtown, and then toward Chelsea.

By the time I pulled up at the curb outside a Korean noodle shop, the rain was beating the hood of the Mustang. I got out of the car and hustled into the noodle bar. It only took a matter of seconds, but I still had to stand on the entrance mat and brush rivers of rainwater off my coat. I ordered a bowl of the chicken ramen and a diet soda, then took a stool at the counter facing the window. The food didn’t take long. I leaned over the bowl, letting the heat from the broth warm my face, but I still felt my wet shirt clinging to myback. I would dry up soon. I wasn’t bothered by it. The cold reminded me I was alive.

As I ate, I glanced up at the apartment building facing the noodle shop.

Third floor. Seventh window from the right.

A lamp in that apartment cast a warm glow on the ceiling. The rubber plant that sat on the window ledge of that apartment had grown since I’d last been here. People who aren’t doing so well tend to forget the little things. I took the relative health and prosperity of the rubber plant as a reflection of the wellbeing of its owner.

I ate my noodles, used the big wooden soup spoon for the broth and then popped the tab on my diet Pepsi. The broth was salty, but I liked it that way. I always ordered the same thing here.

Sat in the same place.

Stared at the same window.

Then something happened that I didn’t expect.

A young woman in a long brown overcoat left the building. The rain had eased a little, but she waited by the entrance for a few seconds until a tall young man in a black overcoat came out and opened a wide umbrella. She linked arms with him and smiled. He smiled back.

The last time I’d seen the young woman she was standing outside her little run-down rental home in the Bronx, some years ago. She was staring at a large leather bag I’d left on the front step, with a white envelope on top of it.

The envelope had her name on it.

Hanna Tublowski.

I’d watched her read it, then stare at the leather bag, then look around for who might have left it. That’s when I’d hit the gas on my old Mustang and drove away before she could see me.

I had once represented a man accused of attempting to kidnap her. I’d gotten him off, even though I’d realized at the end of the trial that this man was guilty. The jury acquitted him, and the firstthing he did was go after Hanna again. I stopped him before he killed her, found her bound and badly wounded in his house. Before the cops showed up, I had broken my hands on the guy’s skull, but it didn’t stop me from beating on him, driving my busted hands and elbows into his ruined face until I almost passed out. He survived, and my legal career very nearly didn’t. Harry had saved me. At that time of my life, I didn’t want saving. I’d let that young woman down. I hadn’t listened to my instincts, but more importantly I hadn’t listened to someone who really was a victim. And they had been hurt, badly, because of me.

I carry a lot of scars. Bullet and knife wounds mostly.