Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(77)

“It could be he was lying to you.”

“He had no reason to lie to me. I was on his side anyway.”

“And I suppose he didn’t shoot Special Agent Patrick O’Malley either.”

Elena Randolph blinks and looks toward her Honda.

“Do you know about Special Agent O’Malley?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“First tell that asshole to step away from my car.”

I turn toward Gino and tilt my head. He backs off.

“Arlo would never talk about that shooting. He’d just shut down.”

I frown, try to get back on track. “You and Arlo started dating?”

“Yes.”

“Did you love him?”

Elena smiles. “What difference does that make?”

Touché.

“Where is he now?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you saw Arlo?”

“At graduation.”

“Were you two still a couple?”

She shakes her head. “We broke up.”

“May I ask why?”

“He found someone else.”

I feel as though I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, but I don’t.

“So you saw him at graduation?”

“Yes.”

“And that was the last time?”

“That was the last time.”

“Did you hear where he went after graduation?”

“No. Those are the rules with the underground. The fewer people who know, the safer he is. My part in his life was over.”

Dead end.

Except it didn’t feel like a dead end.

“I have no interest in hurting him,” I say.

Elena glances inside the salon. Everyone is still staring at us. “How were you able to buy my debt so fast?” she asks.

“It’s not hard.”

“You own a Vermeer.”

“My family does.”

She meets my eyes and holds them. “You’re superrich.”

I see no reason to reply.

“I told you that Arlo left me for someone else.”

“You did indeed.”

“I’ll give you the name under two conditions.”

I steeple my fingers. “I’m listening.”

“First, you promise if you find him to hear him out. If he convinces you he didn’t do anything, you let him go.”

“Done,” I say.

It isn’t as though this promise is binding. I believe in certain degrees of loyalty and “my word is my bond” stuff. I don’t believe in all of it. I am bound by what I believe is best, not some false promise or faux loyalty. Either way, it is easy to say, “Done,” mean it or not.

“What’s the second condition?”

“You forgive all my debts.”

Confession: I’m impressed. “Your debts,” I say, “total more than a hundred thousand dollars.”

Elena shrugs. “You’re superrich.”

I have to say. I like it. I like it a lot.

“If the name you give me ends up being a lie—” I begin.

“It’s not.”

“Do you think there is any chance they are still together?”

“I do. They seemed very much in love. Do we have a deal?”

It’s going to cost me six figures, but I lose and gain that amount every minute when the markets are open. I am also philanthropic, mostly because I can afford to be. Elena Randolph and her salon seem like a worthy cause.

“We have a deal,” I say.

“Mind if we orally confirm that?”

“Sorry?”

She takes out her phone and makes me record my promise. “Just putting it on the record,” Elena says.

I almost tell her that my word is my bond, but we both know that’s nonsense. I like her more and more. When we finish the recording, she puts the phone back in her purse.

“Okay,” I say. “So who did Arlo Sugarman leave you for?”

“I didn’t understand at the time,” she says.

“Sorry?”

“It was the seventies. We were at an evangelical school. It just wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?” I ask. “Who did he leave you for?”

Elena Randolph picks up the photocopied image of the medieval group from her old yearbook. She points—but not at Arlo. She points instead at the lead singer on the far left. I squint to see the blurry black-and-white image better.

“Calvin Sinclair,” she says.

I look up at her.

“That’s why we broke up. Arlo realized he was gay.”





CHAPTER 27



I hate that I care about Ema so much.

I never wanted children because I never wanted this feeling, this feeling of horrendous vulnerability, where someone else’s welfare has the ability to destroy me. I can’t really be harmed, except via my biological daughter Ema. To have her in my life now—she sits across from me as we dine in my apartment overlooking Central Park—is to know worry and pain. Some would say this feeling, this parental worry, makes me more human. Whatever. Who wants to be more human? It’s awful.