Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(30)

“Mrs. Quinn? The car is here,” the maid announces from the doorway.

“Thank you.” Marin looks at Garvey. “We have to go.”

He shrugs.

She turns away.

Then, for some reason—nostalgia? guilt?—he hears himself say, “I’ll miss you.”

Slowly, she turns back.

“I know I’m busy, but…it’s not like I don’t need you and the girls, Marin. You know that, right? You know that I’m doing this for all of us. For our future.”

Are you? her blue eyes ask.

He nods, as if that can possibly reassure her.

If only there was something he could do or say to convince her that he only wants what’s best for her—for their daughters—for all of them. That’s all he’s ever wanted. If he didn’t care so much—if he wasn’t so fiercely devoted to his family—he wouldn’t have done what he did years ago.

Love.

I did it for love.

But who could possibly ever understand that?

Marin?

No.

“I wish you weren’t going away now that I’m finally home again.”

“I wish you were coming with us.”

Touché.

Wishes are useless, anyway.

“Maybe…” Marin is still looking at him, her expression softening. “If you can slip away from the fund-raiser tonight, you can always meet us out east for a late dinner.”

“I’m the guest of honor. How can I slip away?”

In the pause that follows, the connection evaporates. Just like that.

“It was just a thought. See you, Garvey.”

She leaves without kissing him good-bye.

He settles back in his leather wingback chair again and aims the remote at the television. Fast-forwarding through the local news, he can easily tell at a glance which segments he missed. There’s one about juror selection in a celebrated trial, which doesn’t concern him, and one about yet another MTA fare hike, which does—though not at this particular moment.

Ah…that might be it. Seeing a familiar dead-body-outline graphic in the panel behind the anchor, Garvey stops fast-forwarding, backs up a few frames, and presses play.

“Police this morning are investigating a murder on the Lower East Side,” the anchorwoman announces.

The news desk gives way to a handsome, square-jawed reporter standing beneath an umbrella. Behind him is a graffiti-covered brick building. “The body of a man was discovered on the sidewalk here shortly after nine last night. He had been shot once in the back of the head. Robbery is not a suspected motive as the victim was carrying cash. He did not, however, have a wallet or any identification.”

Garvey leans forward, rubbing his chin, pleased.

“The victim is described as Caucasian, in his thirties or early forties, with short dark hair and a medium build,” the reporter goes on. “Authorities are asking anyone with information to please contact the Crime Stoppers hotline at 1–800–555–TIPS. For CBS–2 News, I’m John Metaxas, reporting live from Ludlow Street.”



“Whoa…what are you guys doing?”

Lauren looks up from the Van Morrison CD case in her hand to see Ryan climbing over the gate at the foot of the stairs. He’s barefoot, wearing only a pair of jersey knit shorts, and has a serious case of bed head.

“Morning, Ry.” She glances at the digital clock on the cable box. “I mean, good afternoon.”

He smiles or winces, she can’t tell which. “I was tired.”

“I know. It’s fine to sleep in, especially on such a dreary day.”

“What are you doing?” he repeats.

“We’re cleaning,” Lucy informs her brother from her perch on the floor beside the built-in bookcase.

“Are the maids coming today?”

“We don’t just clean before the maids come!” Lauren protests.

“We don’t?”

“Mom, we kind of do,” Lucy tells her.

Okay, point taken. They do tend to spend Monday nights running around straightening the house in advance of the Magic Maids’ Tuesday morning arrival.

“So, like, did a bomb go off in here or what?” Ryan asks.

Lauren follows his gaze to the piles of books, CDs, and DVDs scattered over the floor, along with a couple of throw pillows she never liked and a table lamp no one ever bothers to turn on.

“We’re going through the whole house and getting rid of stuff,” she tells her son. “So if there’s anything you know you don’t want…”

“Or anything you might want to keep,” Lucy adds slyly, “like your baseball cards…”

“What? You can’t throw away my—”

“She’s just kidding, Ry,” Lauren assures him.

“Yeah, we’re not really throwing anything away. We’re giving it to Trilby for some tag sale she’s having. I bet someone would pay a dollar for a crate of baseball cards.”

“Shut up, Lucy.”

“We don’t say shut up around here,” Lauren admonishes her son.

“We do when someone is threatening to sell someone else’s stuff.”

“Can’t you take a joke?” Lucy shakes her head.