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While I’m at it, I should probably look into getting a painter out, but before that, a roofer to take a look at the leak. A plumber to fix the guest bath couldn’t hurt either.
This house, like all things, is beginning to show its age. With its steeply pitched gable roof, elaborate masonry chimneys, embellished doorways, groupings of windows, and decorative half-timbering, it’s always felt a bit like something out of one of my novels. Dramatic, out of place, a little larger than life. Sure enough, it’s a big home. Too big, if you ask me. Especially now. I told Eve that when we first looked at it. If memory serves me, I called it a monstrosity. For her, it was love at first sight. For me, it looked like trouble.
But we could afford it, and we needed more space. That was how Eve usually won: by mixing just the right amount of logic with a little emotion. I’d just signed a three book deal with Dunham, my second, and it was worth three times what the first had been. The boys were one and four, and we’d just found out a third was on the way. Eve had barely come out of what she referred to as “the fog” when the pregnancy had surprised us both— perhaps to no one more than me, considering I’d been up at a lake rental for the better part of six months finishing a novel.
The boys were young. Caring for them was demanding and relentless. Without family around and with me writing nonstop, worried about the next novel, and with touring and whatnot, Eve had her hands in the clay by herself, so to speak.
It’s yours, she said, of the baby. Of course it is. We both knew it was a lie, but once a thing like that is done, it’s hard to go and take it back.
Obviously, in retrospect, it’s impossible to understand what a constant reminder that thing will be once it manifests.
So, I did what I always do when it comes to Eve. I put it out of my mind. Maybe I thought I could pretend; I am a writer after all. But more than likely, I was simply too focused on work to be bothered.
That mishap, not unlike so many others, lies buried beneath the dirt in the garden.
It’s one reason we’re still here in this once-charming, now tired, larger than life, godforsaken house.
Chapter Five
‘The Book Doctor’
Journal Entry
Consequently, I looked ridiculous. Dressed for sport, in runner’s wear—it was a joke. I’ve only ever known one good reason to run, and that’s if someone were chasing you. Thankfully, they weren’t. And at least…well…at least I didn’t look as ridiculous as he did.
Bent double, he was down like a sprinter, his nose inches from the humid earth. At length, he let out his breath in a long sigh and opened his eyes. Maybe he was down for the count. Maybe he was playing hot and cold.
They do this sometimes.
His jet-black hair glistened in the early morning light. I could smell the fresh scent of his shampoo. It smelled like apples.
“Get up,” I said, kicking him in the ribs. Not too hard, just enough to get my point across. He curled inward, folding into himself like a wounded animal. He was dressed well, in his expensive running Lycra, and it made me smile. I wondered if he thought about it that morning as he stretched the clothing over his tanned skin. Is this how I want to look when I die?
I’m going to go with a negative. That’s likely not what he was thinking. Men like Nick Golding only think of death in the abstract. Men like him believe they are untouchable.
As I hauled him up by his hair, I pressed the gun firmly between his shoulder blades. It was a feat, and then some, just getting him off the ground. He was not weak, at least not in this regard. Muscled and lean like a prized racing horse, he is also worth a fortune.
Not that he’ll be missed. Nicky-boy was not a good man. Nothing more than a common swindler with an Ivy League education. An infuriating combination, if there ever were one. He made his fortune ripping off the vulnerable. The elderly. The incurably sick. Anyone at all, but especially anyone with no fucks left to give.
As I lead him to the edge of the cliff, he pleaded. He’d give me anything, whatever I wanted, he’d do anything. He has money.
When the bargaining failed, he moved onto the good stuff. His connections. Threats. I’d never get away with this. Do I know who he is?
Cute, this one. “Of course, Nick,” I said. “Everyone knows who you are.”
For just a moment, his breath switched up. It’s always a bit of a blow when they find out it’s not random. It’s easier to accept an accident than it is the opposite.
“Jump,” I told him, gripping the back of his neck the way a mother cat mouths her offspring. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.”
“This is crazy,” he stammered, trying to gain his footing.
“Would you prefer a bullet, or shall we see if you can fly?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I do not kid.”
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