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“No, I mean get out of the city…out of the country. Away from the press. We could book a private flight out tomorrow and go back to Mystique Island, where we got married. Where we may have conceived. Spend a long weekend. Just you and me.”
“Traveling’s okay for the baby?”
“Yes, until the final trimester.”
The idea is just what we both need. “Let’s do it then.”
The ocean breeze cools mysweat-covered skin after a long run on the beach. I’d left Dee sleeping under the mosquito netting with the balcony doors open, the sheer curtains blowing, the dapple of sunlight on her face and hair. She looked angelic. An innocent version of the hot siren who had worn me out last night, twice. The memory still vivid, my body responds. I start toward the house with the intention of waking her for another round before breakfast when my phone rings. As much as I wanted to shut out the world for our short getaway, too much was happening back in Chicago to be unreachable.
“What?”
“Hello to you too,” Asher says, dryly.
“It’s not even 8:00.”
“It’s 7:00 here.”
“What is it?” I repeat, irritated by the interruption.
“Listen, I appreciate that you and Dee need some time away, but with your continued silence, the speculations are running amok.”
“So, manage it.”
“What do you think I’m doing? But it’s like trying to hold a dam together with toothpicks and cheap glue. It’s crazy here, Mick. And last night, Paul O’Malley posted that he’s writing a book.”
“Yeah, okay,” I offer dismissively.
“It’s not okay. He claims that he was getting close to a story when your father tried to shut him up. You can imagine the media play this is getting. What comment do you have?”
“None. I’m not dealing with this now.”
“You have to, Mick. I can only sayhe’s taking timeandplease respect his privacyfor so long.”
“I’ll be back in two days.”
“Two days in the media is two months. O’Malley’s post is stirring the pot.”
“Say what you need to buy more time and I’ll decide how I want to respond on Monday.”
“Dammit, Mick.” His exasperation reaches me from thousands of miles away. “I’m trying to get you quickly out of the spotlight and you’re making that a near impossible task.”
“That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”
“Not nearly enough. I’m owed stress compensation.”
“I’ll send you a bottle of wine.”
“Yeah, that should really cover it.”
“Stop whining. I’ll call you Monday.”
I disconnect and look out over the ocean. Asher was right. I need to respond. I’d put off the looming decision for far too long. If Malcolm had survived, a police investigation would have required me to, willingly or not, reveal the closeted truth about the years of abuse and blackmail. But Malcolm’s death has negated that. The case is closed.
Only Dee, her friends, and my family know the real history between Malcolm and me. What others are saying is purely gossip and guesswork. The most popular social media BS was that we were estranged because of my attachment to Cayo. Malcolm was said to have been jealous. Not mentioning him in my interview, coupled with receiving an award in Cayo’shonor, had built Malcolm’s jealousy and resentment to a violent boiling point. He’d snapped. Lost his mind. Only Malcolm wasn’t crazy. Nor was he jealous. He was vengeful, he wanted me to pay. He hadn’t snapped. He’d plotted and planned. He had delusions of being invincible and above the very law he’d taken an oath to uphold. He hadn’t counted on Stiles.
Nonetheless, the prevalent narrative had enough red meat for the appetites of the press and public. I could latch on to those bits of truth and leave out the rest.
It does the job. Malcolm still goes out in a stain of his own making. His reputation had died before he had. What good was the whole truth now?
