The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(26)
The Prescotts had always had money. The rambling shingle-style mansion they grew up in at the end of Lilac Lane had originally been their great-grandfather’s summer home. He’d been a famous writer who’d hosted infamous parties for his celebrity friends on those hallowed grounds. His son, Peyton’s grandfather, had been a spendthrift and burned through much of the family fortune.
In 1995, Peyton’s father sold off forty-five acres of the original fifty-acre estate, which was when all the modest homes on Lilac Lane were built and Steffi’s family moved in. Mr. Prescott then invested the money he raised through that development into other real estate deals in the tristate area. Now he’d become wealthy in his own right, restoring the family coffers.
His kids, Logan and Peyton, worked hard, but not in the corporate arena. They inherited their great-grandfather’s passion for words and art. Peyton wrote for travel magazines, and Logan was a documentary photographer. Although successful, their high-flying lifestyles were supplemented by ample trust funds. Neither, however, flaunted that privilege. In fact, in all the ways that really mattered, both were rather down-to-earth.
Just before the elevator doors closed, a huge man ducked inside with her. He barely smiled before turning to face the button panel. The doors closed. Sweat collected at her hairline as she squeezed into the corner of the elevator and . . .
Hot, smoky breath.
A gun!
Please, no.
Help. Help.
Live. Just live.
The elevator jerked to a stop, yanking her back to reality. This last concussion had really screwed with her brain. She couldn’t hold on to her thoughts—if there even were any—in those trances and didn’t know when the next would strike, or why.
The man strolled out without a word, unaware that her pulse was sky-high. She inhaled and jabbed the door-close button three times. Four floors later, her pulse had slowed to normal.
Surely, one mugging hadn’t made her afraid to be alone in an elevator with a guy. She’d been friends and colleagues with men her whole dang life. But she didn’t have time to worry about that now. Not with Peyton waiting just a few yards away.
When the elevator opened on the sixth floor, Steffi drew a final, cleansing breath before knocking on Logan’s door.
Peyton answered wearing a forced smile and gathered Steffi into a hug. “Steffi!”
Thank God the hug gave Steffi a second to adjust to Peyton’s new look. She’d butchered her waist-length blonde locks into a pixie cut. She’d always been thin, but now her legs looked more like arms. Steffi remembered how the stress from weeks of waiting for answers and preparing for treatment had killed her mother’s appetite and destroyed her sleep cycles. It’d wreaked havoc on the whole family.
Peyton gave Steffi a tight squeeze before releasing her. “Thanks for making the trek.”
Certainly not a trek, although driving into the city required nerves of steel. Blaring horns. Cabs weaving through traffic with less wiggle room than thread through a needle’s eye. And pedestrians ignoring the crosswalks, forcing her to slam on the brakes with alarming frequency. The streets of Manhattan were an animated obstacle course with life-and-death stakes. And if, by chance, you made it safely to your destination, you’d be treated to the final insult—a ridiculously steep parking fee.
“It’s good to see you.” It had been a year since Steffi had met with Peyton, shortly after the whole Todd debacle. Now the awkward friendship strife settled between them like a thick morning fog on the sound. Steffi pointed at Peyton’s shorn hair. “The new do is sharp.”
Peyton touched it with a shrug. “I figure it’ll be easier to deal with losing it this way.”
Steffi’s mind blanked at the stark reality of what lay ahead for Peyton, preferring to skim the surface rather than drown in heavy emotional conversation. Peyton, on the other hand, tended to overshare her emotions and the truth—or at least the truth from her perspective. Today Steffi couldn’t wade at the edges of intimate conversation. She’d have to swim straight to the center and hope no sharks dragged her under.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.” Unlike some of her memories, the ones of her mother’s last months—with ascites requiring weekly draining of the abdominal-fluid buildup—could resurface with amazing clarity. Peyton was almost twenty years younger than Steffi’s mother had been in this battle. Would youth and strength give her better odds? “How do you like your doctors?”
“I’m still trying to keep everyone straight. They’re okay, but numb. I’m just one of hundreds. There won’t be much hand-holding, despite my fucked emotional state. That’s Logan’s job now—taking care of me.”
Steffi seized an opening to steer the conversation away from gloom. “Is he here?”
“Not at the moment.”
The swanky pad, with its modern taupe-and-cream kitchen, floor-to-ceiling black-framed windows, and gray wood floors, reflected Logan’s personality. Hip, handsome verging on pretty, and a touch cool. The furnishings, however, seemed like a ragtag collection of things that didn’t quite go together. Had it not been for working with Claire, she might not have noticed. Logan probably didn’t care because he traveled so often; this place was more like a hotel than a home.
“Sweet digs for your recovery.” Steffi crossed to the wall of windows and looked down at the busy, crowded street pulsing with traffic and pedestrians and noise. “Everything at your fingertips.”