Chapter Forty-Nine

The next hours were a blur of interrogation as first EMTs and then the police descended. Once I was pronounced okay, I was sequestered in the backseat of a patrol car where I told my story over and over again. Trey told his story too, but he did it in an ambulance—where nobody would let me near him.

Steve had taken me seriously about calling Garrity, who arrived on the scene not long after Trey and I were separated. To his surprise, I threw my arms around his neck. To my surprise, he hugged me back. Then he sat me back in the cruiser away from the cameras popping off all around us.

"How's Trey?" I said.

"He'll be okay. But I tell you what, if you ever need to slip somebody a mickey, go with Pellegrino. Bitter, fizzy, dark green bottle. Impossible to detect. He's shaking it off now, but it hit him harder than it would have normally—empty stomach, dehydrated from being sick. He knew something was wrong, but before he could get a call through to anyone, Charley cracked him from behind."

Garrity also told me that they'd rushed Landon to the hospital and that he was going to be okay. This news actually cheered me. It meant he would face a judge and jury. And it meant that Trey wouldn't.

"I knew that man was bad news the minute he stepped into my kitchen," I said.

"Of course you did. In the end, it's never a surprise. That only happens in the movies."

And then Garrity started explaining things, like what the procedure would be when I gave my official statement, what I would need to turn over to the cops—the gun, my clothes, etcetera. I only half-listened. My attention kept drifting to the ambulance. Garrity noticed.

"He's gonna be fine. And so are you."

"I know."

And then I heard a familiar voice, argumentative and strong. "She's my sister, damn it, let me see her!"

Garrity smiled wanly. "Oh yeah. Eric's here."

I made an exasperated face, but it was just pretend. Eric slid into the car, right beside me. He took my chin in his hand, turned my face left, turned it right. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, stop yanking me around."

"I just found out, but I'm here. And I'm sorry I haven't been, I really am, but—"

"Eric?"

"Yes?"

"Please shut up."

I leaned into him, pressed my face into his warm crisp shirt. He felt like home, like all things familiar and easy, and he hugged me back, abrupt and fierce. I felt tears prickling, so I let him go. "Will somebody please let me see Trey?"

Eric looked at Garrity, who nodded, and then he put both hands on my shoulders. "We'll get you there in a second. But first I want you to listen to me and listen good. You're still in shock—"

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You won't feel it for a while, not while everything's crazy, but once your life calms down again—"

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I squeezed his hand. "I'll deal with it. I promise."

He seemed mollified. And I knew he was right. I knew enough about post-traumatic stress to know that it crept up in nightmares and flashbacks. And I hoped that it would, I really did, that the enormity of what had happened would crash down on me at some point.

Because at that moment, I felt nothing.

* * *

I endured yet another check-up at the ER while two deputies waited in the lobby. I could see the backs of their heads through the window.

"Like I'm gonna make a run for it," I complained.

Marisa wasn't happy. In the florescent lighting, her hair looked dishwater blonde instead of platinum, and she was pissed as hell. I didn't want to be alone with her, but Eric was filling out paperwork, and Garrity was running interference with the cops, and Trey was in a different room.

She spoke without preamble. "What happened?"

I told her the whole story, and her pissed-off intensified into something volcanic. She tamped it down, though, pushed her hair behind her ears.

"Why?" she said.

"Because if Eliza had revealed Charley's secret, that would have been the end of her marriage, and most importantly, the end of the Beaumonts' partnership with Senator Adams. That camp would have never tolerated an illegitimate lesbian drug-dealing—"

"Point taken."

"And they would never have tolerated Phoenix either, not after that."

"But how did Landon know she was going to tell?"

"He had her phones tapped, her computer too. He beat her after she showed up at the Mardi Gras ball with Dylan, but apparently that just made her decide to spill it once and for all. So she called my brother. That's when Bulldog got in the way. Eliza tried to meet Eric one more time, and Landon found out. That's when he killed her. Then he erased all evidence that Phoenix had her under surveillance. Then he planted that gun on Bulldog and tried to kill him. And then when Dylan decided to talk to the police—"

"I can fill in the blanks. But why did Charley still keep Landon around if she knew he'd killed her daughter?"

"She didn't—he told her Trey had done it, that Trey was the one’d who roughed her up at Mardi Gras. He also convinced her to be an alibi for everybody who was at Beau Elan on Friday. He told her it was the only way."

Marisa had other concerns. "Phoenix is fucked. We'll never get out from under this."

I didn't argue with her.

“Trey won't even see me," she said. "He's up to his elbows in this shitshow, and he won't explain, not even to save himself."

"Can you blame him? You got Landon to get Simpson to spy on him."

"Trey's a pragmatist. That kind of thing doesn't bother him."

Right, I thought. Trey seemed invulnerable, the Ice Man with the bulletproof heart. But I knew what a façade that was.

"Landon screwed the pooch," I said. "I can't argue that. But depending on how you slant things, you could have a genuine hero in the next room. If he can be convinced to help your ass out of this, that is."

Marisa considered. "What do you think it will take?"

"Let me see him, and I’ll tell you."

She pushed the call button without a second's hesitation.

* * *

I found Trey sitting on an examining table, holding a cold compress to his head. He still wore his tuxedo shirt and pants, but the tie was gone, and his shirt was wrinkled and untucked.

"Your hair is a mess," I said.

He put a hand to it. "I know."

I stood in front of him, very close. "How are you?"

"Concussed."

"Which means?"

"Dizzy. Weak. A bigger headache than before."

I put my hand to his forehead. "Is that from the conk or the tranquilizers?"

"Both. The EMTs also think I was overdosed with migraine meds the night before."

"That's what had you so sick?"

"I had all the symptoms—disorientation, agitation, nausea and vomiting but no fever."

"So that wasn't food poisoning, it was deliberate poisoning?"

“Correct.”

And he and I both knew who'd done it—Landon. Trey kept a bottle of his medication in his desk drawer at Phoenix, unlocked, where anyone with access to his office had access to his prescriptions. And as we'd discovered, Pellegrino was the perfect disguise for all manner of drugs.

"He overdosed you the night Dylan died, at the meeting I wasn't allowed to come to."

Trey nodded. “One of the detectives theorized that my being sick would have given him an excuse to come to my apartment. He needed to retrieve the files Marisa had sent home with me and see what other information I had."

"Or perhaps set you up in some way." And then I remembered. "You were supposed to be alone that night."

"I was, yes."

"But you weren't alone."

"No.” Trey met my gaze direct. “You were there."

I smiled at him, suddenly relieved. His expression was open, almost vulnerable, despite the wrinkle furrowed deep between his eyes.

"Are the police finished with you?" he said.

"For the time being. But you know what? I don't want to talk about that right now."

He nodded, wincing. "Okay."

“There’s something else I want to talk about, some unfinished business.” I moved my hand to his face. "You still trust me?"

“Of course.”

"In that case, I have a proposition for you." And then I put my mouth next to his ear and told him about it.

His eyes widened. "You’re not suggesting now, are you?"

"No, Trey, not now. Later."

"Tonight?"

"No, not tonight."

"Why not tonight?"

"Because you're concussed. And poisoned."

"Overdosed."

"Twice. Two times."

"But that doesn’t contraindicate sexual activity," he protested. "Does it?"

This last question was directed to the doctor who'd moved to stand beside me. He was young and scrappy-looking, like a rock musician or a street fighter. But he had a white coat and stethoscope, so I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He got out a penlight. "Is that a trick question, like that old joke?"

"What old joke?"

"Look left." He shined the light in Trey’s eyes. "You know, the one where the man asks the doctor if he'll be able to play the piano after surgery, and the doctor says sure, and the man says, good, I always wanted to be able to do that. Now look right."

Trey complied. "I don't know that joke."

"It's an old standard." He looked intently into Trey's eyes. "Any double vision, blurring?"

"No."

"Nausea? Vomiting?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"Some."

The doctor stepped back, folded his arms. "You're going to have a major headache for a while, and all I can give you is acetaminophen. And considering your history, we want to admit you overnight so we can watch your vitals. But after that, I'll tell you what I tell everybody else with a mild concussion—no caffeine, no painkillers, lots of rest. No strenuous activity for a while."

Trey cocked his head. "Strenuous?"

"Your call." The doctor clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave. "Lie down for now, and then we'll get you in a room."

And then we were alone, face to face. He lowered the compress onto the table. There was so much to talk about. But it would wait. We had time.

I moved closer, very much closer, and took his hand. He didn't flinch or stiffen like I was expecting, just kind of froze. Then he put his other hand on my back, resting it between my shoulder blades. He patted softly, tentatively, like he wasn't sure it was the right thing to do.

But it was.

* * *

That night I slept in a very uncomfortable chair in the lobby, right between Garrity and Eric. The next morning, Rico showed up with a box of hot Krispy Kremes to share and an espresso shot cappuccino for me. They released Trey right before noon. He immediately wanted to retrieve his Ferrari, but Garrity insisted he and Eric would take care of that. I volunteered to drive Trey home in Eric's Jaguar, and to my surprise, both Trey and Eric agreed to let me do it.

As Eric went to bring the car around, I saw the story on the TV in the lobby. All the reporters wore black or gray and mused intensely about the notoriety of celebrity. Trey didn't stay to watch—a nurse continued pushing his wheelchair to the outpatient pick-up area. I started to follow, but Garrity touched my elbow.

"I meant to tell you," he said. "They found Nikki."

"Oh no! Was she—"

"Dead? Not on your life. She was hiding out with relatives in California. Once she talked to the cops, she bolted to someplace safe."

"Smart woman."

"Too bad she was the only one."

I couldn't argue. But I hadn't been thinking as much about Eliza as I'd expected, probably because it was too painful. I'd wanted an innocent victim that I could somehow avenge, but she wasn't that. No glory for the victors, no garlands, no laurel crowns. But it was over. I was grateful for that at least.

"One more thing," Garrity said. "You might be getting a call from a friend of mine, a cop."

"Crap. What have I done this time?"

"It's nothing official. It's just that he got engaged recently, and his fiancée is skittish about having weapons in their house. I told him you could help, but then, that was before all this went down."

I noticed that Eric had the car waiting, that he and Trey were standing beside it, deep in conversation. Trey had his arms folded, but then Eric clapped him on the shoulder, and they shook hands like men sealing a land deal.

Garrity was still talking. "It's not like he wants her to be Annie Oakley or anything, but—"

"What does the fiancée want?"

Garrity smiled. "That's a good question. Tell you what, I'll have her give you a call on Monday. If you're feeling up to it."

Would I be? I tried to access the memories—the dead girl across the street, Charley being shot right in front of my eyes, the feel of the hot metal against my temple and the cold metal in my hands—but all I got was blank numbness. I knew that would change. But for the moment, I was grateful for it.

"I don't know what I'll be up for," I admitted. "But tell her to call me at the shop. I'll be putting some flower boxes out front, marigolds maybe. My mother loved marigolds."

* * *

I drove Trey home. He stared out the window the whole way. Once I saw him put his hand to the glass, count to five, almost like a meditation.

"We're going to have to talk about Gabriella," I said.

He nodded. "And the cigarettes."

This caught me off guard, but I rolled with it, a skill I was going to have to practice. I pulled up in front of his building. "Are you sure you don't want me to come up?"

"I'm sure. I have a lot to think about."

He didn't get out, however. He just sat there, looking out the window. On the sidewalk, a construction crew passed. They were talking loudly, laughing, still wearing their orange hardhats. In the distance I saw the gleam of an I-beam, swinging in the clear sharp sunlight. Always going up, Atlanta was. Always something higher and better.

"I didn't see any of it," he said. "I can tell when people are lying, but I can't see real deception. I would have been able to figure it out before the accident. But now I can't…I simply can’t."

"Nobody could have seen this. Landon was too good at covering his tracks."

"I know Marisa wants to talk to me. But I don't know if I want to talk to her." He didn't look at me. "Phoenix is all I have."

"No, it isn't. And it never will be."

He turned to face me. There was something achy and tender and afraid in his expression. But strength too, and goodness, and bravery.

"This is where you kiss me," I said.

He leaned forward, touched his lips to mine. It was all I could do not to fall against him and bury my face in his shoulder.

But I let him go. And he did go, without saying another word. As I pulled away from the curb, he stopped at the entrance and looked back. I watched him in the rearview mirror, still standing under the awning as I turned the corner.

I hadn't even reached the stoplight when my phone rang.

"Did you mean it?" he said.

I took a deep breath. "Give me three minutes."

A soft click, then empty air. I swung into the left lane and made a U-turn.