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Next, I give Chrissy a call, informing her that I’m dropping out of The Seagull. She doesn’t answer, and I go straight to voice mail, which is a huge relief.
Finally, I text Lucas, Rahim, Renee, and Sloan a heartfelt apology.
Dear Seagull Cast,
I know you’re going to hate me, and to be honest, you have every reason to.
What I’m about to do is put myself first and disregard your best interests.
I’m going away for a while. As some of you know, I lost my husband almost a year ago.
Well, what you don’t know is that in recent weeks, I’ve lost much more than that.
I lost my hope. I lost my faith in humanity. I lost the precious memories I have from my late spouse. I lost everything. But I think I’m beginning, for the first time in years, to gain something too. Perspective.
Even if I stayed, I’m not sure I would’ve made a valuable contribution to Calypso Hall. I know Penny will do an amazing job as Nina.
Though I do not expect you to forgive me now, I hope that one day, in the distant future, you will.
Love with all my heart,
Winnie.
I am being selfish. I am putting myself first. I am taking a leaf out of Arsène’s book.
The last step is to do what I should’ve done the week after Paul had passed away.
I pack a small bag, buy a one-way ticket to Nashville, and turn my back on New York City for good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ARSÈNE
I avoid going back to my apartment after my rendezvous with Bumpkin. Staying in the city, in proximity to the scene of the crime, would be a mistake of epic proportions. Instead, I opt to stay at the Scarsdale mansion, working remotely, at a safe distance from her.
One of us needs to make logical decisions here, and that someone isn’t the charming, strongheaded woman I left in a Hell’s Kitchen apartment. Winnifred is lovely, in the same way a piece of art is—enticing beyond my comprehension. Better left for someone else to appreciate. I have nothing to offer a woman in the romance department. Even if I had, she’d be an unsuitable partner. And I am, after all, a man who prides himself with following reason.
I don’t make my way back to my apartment until the end of the week, when I finally decide to drive back to the city. I saunter into my building, dipping my head in acknowledgment as I pass Alfred at the reception.
“Mr. Corbin, there’s a parcel waiting for you.” He raises a finger before I get into the elevator. He crouches down behind his desk and produces a small cardboard thing. I take it.
“Did I have any visitors while I was gone?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Fantastic, even. Bumpkin got the message. No calls. No unexpected drop-ins. Good girl.
I make my way up the elevator, enter my apartment, and fling the parcel onto the dining table. Probably work-related shit. It can wait.
I forget about it for the next few hours while I catch up on emails and get a phone call from Riggs, who is in Naples sampling more than the Italian food, and from Christian, who for some reason has appointed himself as the designated responsible adult and asks how I’m doing like he is my mother.
It is only shortly before I go to bed that I’m reminded of the parcel waiting in my dining room. I pick it up and rip it open carelessly. The first thing to drop out of it is a sequence of sheets . . . ultrasound pictures?
Confused, I turn over the package and glance at the sender’s address for the first time. Winnie Ashcroft. I turn over one of the ultrasound pictures.
First scan. 6 weeks. G + P = PJ!
Well, then. Turns out, there was something interesting lurking in the Ashcroft household after all. Where did she find it? And why on earth am I so indifferent to the idea of Grace being pregnant with Paul’s baby?
Paul’s baby. The meaning of the words sinks into me now. Grace had always insisted we use condoms. I guess she didn’t extend this rule to Paul. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be so sure about the father’s identity.
So Grace wasn’t against forgoing contraception. She was against forgoing contraception with me. Perhaps the idea of a Corbin sperm swimming inside her repulsed her.
Wondering about the timeline of this entire shit cluster, I examine the pictures more carefully. I see the timestamp printed on the bottom of the ultrasound page. Three weeks after Italy. After Grace was emotional, distraught, not herself.
Three weeks after she’d asked the driver to pull over so she could throw up in the bushes and made me wonder if she genuinely did give a damn about Doug dying.
The pieces fall together. Including the period in which she must’ve lost her baby. First, she’d disappeared. I thought it was because of the will, but it was because she was going through loss and grieving. Then, she came back unexpectedly the night Riggs was supposed to crash at my house, waiting for me, eager to please, to entertain, to win me over. A decision had been made then. Paul wasn’t a safe bet anymore. Maybe he decided to stick it out with Winnifred, after all.
