Page 96 of My Beautiful Sin

My guess is that Ronan likes strong women, too, but I don’t say anything because I’ve finally realized what it is about Reggie that seems familiar—her deep set, Bette Davis eyes.

That’s got to be it, I think as they wave goodbye and head back toward the festival. Uncle Peter was a huge classic movie buff, and Bette Davis was one of his favorite stars. I tell myself I’ve solved the problem, and yet the question still lingers. Something else, I think. More specifically, somewhere else. I know her from somewhere else.

But where?

I’m just about to share my frustration with everyone at the table when Brandy gasps, then knocks over her wine. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, but as she mops it up, I see that her hand is trembling.

“Bran?”

She lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, all I can see is the fear reflected back at me. No, not fear. Terror.

“Brandy,” I repeat, this time more softly. “What is it?”

Her lips move, but no sound comes out. It doesn’t matter. I can discern the word from the movement of her lips and the fear in her eyes. Him.

I reach across the table and take her hand. “Him?” I repeat? “Walt?”

She’s shaking, and I twine my finger with hers. “He can’t hurt you,” I say. “You’re safe.”

It’s just Brandy and me, everyone else forgotten, and so I jump about a mile when I hear Devlin’s voice, low and harsh. “Dark hair, blue shirt, nursing a Scotch?”

Brandy swallows and nods.

“It’s him,” Devlin says, and the words aren’t a question. “He’s the guy who—”

“Yes.” The word is lower than a whisper, and no sooner does it pass her lips than Devlin’s chair scrapes back and he’s crossed the room. Before I can even blink, he has Walt by the collar, lifting him up so that the guy’s toes are barely brushing the ground.

I don’t even realize that I’m out of my chair until I’m right beside them, and while the guy protests and the bartender threatens to call the cops, Devlin drags him toward the door, with Walt whimpering for help as shocked patrons stand by with their hands over their mouths or their phones out, filming it all.

I race that direction, pushing blindly through the crowd as I try to get to Devlin. Then I see Lamar coming out of the restroom, and I shift my trajectory toward him, calling his name and pointing toward Devlin. “It’s Walt,” I say, and to his credit, Lamar assesses the situation in an instant. Brandy doesn’t talk about what happened with Walt much with either of us, but Lamar knows the basics. He’s even spent some time over the years trying to track the guy down. Trying to find justice and closure for Brandy.

Now, I see his face harden as he flashes his badge, shouts for the bartender to call 911, then bellows for the crowd to get out of his way. It works, too. The bar’s patrons scatter, as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.

“Hurry,” I cry, as I catch up with him on the sidewalk. “I’ve never seen Devlin so furious.”

“Right there with him,” Lamar says, his voice rough with emotion. “She’s sure?”

He glances quickly over his shoulder, and I nod. “You would be, too, if you’d seen her face.”

“Where the hell did they go?” We’re beneath the awning, and from this perspective, everything seems like a normal night. People strolling. Laughing. Talking.

But about half a block down there’s a small crowd, and a hell of a lot more lit phones than I’d expect. I take off with Lamar right at my heels.

“Police,” he calls as he approaches. “Police. Clear the scene. Coming through.”

Devlin and Walt are behind a trash bin, and my first coherent thought is that Devlin looks unharmed. My second is relief that, considering the size of the bin, I doubt there will be many good pictures floating around. Only last do I consider Walt, whose face is swollen and bloody, with a split lip and one eye already swelled shut.

“He attacked me,” Walt sputters, seeing Lamar. “This fucking cocksucker jumped me. You are going down, man,” he says to Devlin. “My dad’s gonna make your life fucking miserable.”

“I think you’re the one going down, my man,” Lamar says, getting in close with his badge as I take Devlin’s arm and pull him off the guy. “Maybe you weren’t aware, but we don’t really have a statute of limitations on rape in California.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Well, let me tell you, then. What’s your last name?”

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” he says, then growls as Devlin pulls his wallet from his back pocket.

“William Alexis Tarkington,” Devlin reads, then tosses the wallet on the ground.