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My hand trembles, and, for an instant, I almost lose my nerve.
Don’t do it. Don’t open that door again. After all, there’s no need to look. I already know what I’ll find at the end of that long, dark hallway.
“Don’t . . .”
The sound of my own voice startles me. But not even the warning spoken out loud dissuades me now. With the toast caught between my teeth, I use both hands to slowly type a name into the search engine.
Martin Edward Coyle.
The page fills with search results—most of them dated after my mother’s arrest. I see her name listed in nearly every record. And in all of those mentions of my beautiful, kind, and loving mother, she is described primarily by her crime. As if her conviction has become an appendage of her entire identity.
Brenda Leigh Coyle, charged with the shooting death of her husband in their home on the afternoon of August 21 . . .
Brenda Leigh Coyle, who confessed to the brutal killing of her husband, Martin . . .
Brenda Leigh Coyle, now serving a life sentence after pleading guilty to premeditated murder . . .
>
More than a few of the articles depict my stepfather as an innocent victim. Online obituaries written by his relatives and well-meaning church members praise him for his strong work ethic and his commitment to the community. Those are the ones that nauseate me the most. None of them tell the real story of who he was. None of them shine a light on the kind of monster he was behind closed doors.
The fact that I didn’t turn a spotlight on his true nature myself when I had the chance is a regret I’ll carry with me forever.
It might have saved my mother, if she had only let me testify.
If she had only let the case go before a jury instead of pleading guilty to avoid a trial, I might have been able to spare both of us the pain of these past nine years.
A knock on the apartment door jolts me from my drift down the darkest corridors of my past. I jump, dropping my half-eaten toast onto the counter.
“Just a second,” I call out as I shut down the tablet and stow it in a kitchen drawer.
I’m not excited about seeing anyone dressed as I am, but I assume it’s only Manny or one of the maintenance men since no one gets in or out of the building besides them, unless they live here. Making a hasty attempt to straighten my extra-large T-shirt over my baggy sweats, I pad my way into the foyer to answer the door.
I put my eye to the peephole and suck in a sharp breath.
Oh, God.
My stomach starts fluttering—half in surprise, half in mortification. Reluctantly, I pull open the door.
“Nick.”
“Good morning.” His sexy smile scatters every unpleasant thought to the furthest corners of my mind. He’s standing there in dark jeans and a black blazer. His starched white button-down is unfastened at his throat, but even dressed in business-casual, he looks like a cool million bucks.
More precisely, two-point-four billion, my subconscious corrects.
“Um, hi. When did you . . . what are you doing here?” I try to sound unaffected, but my stammered greeting betrays me. I’m dying a little inside and trying not to gape at him, well aware that I must look like a sleep-deprived bag lady in my paint-speckled, baggy clothes and messy ponytail. “I thought you weren’t due back for a couple more days.”
“I told my London team to handle things for me and I flew home early. I just got in from JFK a few minutes ago.” Despite my bedraggled disarray, his eyes drink me in slowly, appreciatively. “I’m hungry. Thought you might be too.”
“Hungry,” I murmur. He watches my mouth as I say it, and I don’t think I’m imagining the flicker of interest that seems to light in his gaze. My pulse responds to him instantly, kicking into a faster tempo even while reason cautions me to keep my head. “You mean, go out for breakfast? I’m not exactly dressed for that.”
“Then we’ll stay in.” His sensual lips curve in a wicked smile. “Actually, I prefer that idea even more. And we can decide about breakfast afterward.”
I laugh, but I’m still not ready to let him in. “It’s Monday, Nick. Some of us have to work for a living.”
“Call in sick.”
I hold his stare, wondering if he has any idea how tempted I am. “I can’t do that.”
