Things We Do in the Dark(109)

He pulls out his phone and shows her a picture. Sasha is beautiful, because of course she would be. She has Drew’s smile.

“And you never wanted to get married?” Paris asks.

“Not really,” Drew says. “It turns out I’ve got some of my own stuff to work on. My mother says—” He cringes. “I never thought I’d be a guy that starts sentences with ‘My mother says.’”

“Belinda is an amazing woman. Tell me.”

“It’s been suggested,” Drew says, sticking his hands in his pockets, “that the reason my relationships don’t progress to the serious stage anymore is because they don’t measure up to the relationship I imagined I would have had with you.”

“Oh.” Paris feels her face flush. “Do you … agree with that?”

He looks down at her. “Now that I’ve seen you again, I probably do.”

For the first time, she realizes it’s possible to feel devastated by grief and elated with happiness, all at the same time.

“I’m not ready,” Paris says, but she doesn’t look away. “I may never be ready.”

“We can talk about it when you’re back in Toronto.” Drew grins. “We’ll go to Junior’s.”

“How do you know I’m coming back?”

“Because of Ruby,” Drew says. “You have unfinished business with your mother.”

A brief silence falls between them.

“How much does she want?” he asks.

“Ten million.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You want my advice?”

“You know I do.”

“Don’t pay her a dime. There’s no proof that you killed Mae, because you didn’t. You set a fire. You’re not a murderer.”

He gives her another hug, and kisses her forehead. She remains in the driveway until the taillights of his rental car disappear.

She didn’t murder Jimmy. She didn’t murder Mae.

But she is a murderer.



* * *



After Zoe finally leaves and the house is quiet, Paris opens the cardboard box of Jimmy’s fan mail. It only takes a couple of minutes of digging until she finds it.

My dearest Joey, Congratulations. You’ve been exonerated. Quelle surprise.

I have to tell you I’m losing patience. I appreciate you’ve been busy, but there are still ashes in an urn that aren’t yours. And we both know what you did to Charles.

Ten million. This is my last letter. Which means this is your last chance.

All my love,

Mama

Paris finds a pen and a blank piece of paper. She scrawls a quick note, which she mails right after she writes it.

Be there soon.

J





PART SIX


I’m only here to witness the remains of love exhumed

—BARENAKED LADIES





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


She can’t go into the Golden Cherry, and she can’t go into Junior’s. She’s supposed to be dead, after all. As she sits in Drew’s Audi in the parking lot behind both buildings, she gets a text.

Lineup. 10 minutes. Jerk or curry?

Both, she replies.

He sends her back a pig-face emoji. She sends him a picture of her middle finger.

The back door to the Cherry opens, and she sees a man come out. Six five, thick, naturally tan complexion. His jet-black hair now has a sprinkling of salt to it. She finally looked him up on LinkedIn—private browsing, of course—and learned that he’s been Cherry’s business partner for the past ten years.

She watches Chaz for a while as he moves things out the back door and into a van. After he’s finished, he reaches around and rubs at a spot on the right side of his lower back. That spot always did bother him, and it’s weird how familiar that gesture is to her, even after all this time. Then he stops and turns around.

He always did have that uncanny ability to sense someone watching him. Her instinct should be to hide her face, but she doesn’t. Instead, she rolls the window down so they can see each other better.

Chaz freezes. Recognition slowly lights his face, and he breaks into the widest grin she’s ever seen on him. They look at each other across the parking lot. He doesn’t approach. She doesn’t get out of the car. Instead, he puts his hand over his heart, and she does the same.

Thank you, Chaz.

Drew jumps into the driver’s seat of the car at the same time Chaz goes back inside. The smells of jerk spice and curry fill the car, and her stomach rumbles in response.

“Heard that.” Drew puts the car in drive. “Where do you want to eat this?”

“Take me home,” she says.



* * *



Twenty-five years later, 42 Willow Avenue does not look exactly as she remembers it.

It’s brighter. The old brown brick has been painted a cream color, and the rusted balcony walls have been replaced with wrought-iron railings. The building lobby has been renovated with new doors, new tile, new everything. It actually looks like a nice place to live now, and the park across from the building is clean, with two new play structures for children that weren’t there before.

She looks up to where apartment 403 is, wondering who lives there now. There have probably been many tenants over the past nineteen years, all with different stories to tell. Hers was just one. Being here brings up vivid memories of Ruby being taken away that night, and while she’s worked hard not to think about it, it isn’t really possible to forget something that changed the entire direction of her life.