They’re still sitting there, and they’ll wait outside that container until Goldie decides she’s had enough.
“Flight leaves tonight,” I call.
James holds his hand up in acknowledgment. They’ll be there. Of course they’ll be there.
Don’t trust anyone.
I understood why Pops lived and died by that mantra, but I also knew that putting my trust in James Kelly would finally allow all threats to die. And by gaining my freedom, it seems I’ve also gained a family.
I smile and slip into the driver’s seat, looking across to my wife. She’s gazing at me, taking in my light, relaxed self. I put my hand on her thigh and she seizes it. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” she says quietly. I smile and pull away, looking up at the sun as Otis Redding comes on the radio and The Dock of the Bay joins us.
Epilogue
St. Lucia – Two Weeks Later
* * *
JAMES
* * *
Slumped back in the white rattan chair on the terrace, I watch Beau on the beach, returning after her walk with Rose, Esther, and Zinnea. I can’t see her face clearly. Can’t see her expression. Her smile. But it’ll be there. Peace looks good on my girl. And it feels fucking great on me.
Her pale blue sundress is flapping in the breeze, along with her hair, and her arm is bare. Except for the thick layer of sunscreen I rubbed in this morning, which I know will have been topped up throughout the day by one of the girls. I’ve missed her today. I’ve been busy, spent hours on the water with the guys, but she was on my mind every second. Every moment of my headspace dedicated to her. No plotting. No blood. No revenge.
Just Beau.
I smile as she approaches, her straw sunhat dangling from her hand, her feet bare and sandy. She clocks me in the chair and the corner of her mouth lifts as she walks the path, eyes on me. She drops her hat and climbs onto my lap, falling onto my chest and exhaling. No words. But we’re certainly getting better at speaking them. I let her be, quiet and still in my arms, as I look out at the ocean.
“Remember Rose and Danny’s wedding?” she asks, keeping herself hidden in the crook of my neck.
“No,” I reply, getting a nudge. “Which bit?”
“The bit when I was stupid drunk.”
“Oh, that bit,” I say, smiling. “When you blew out the brains of many dangerous balloons?” I feel her lips stretching across my skin, her hands pressing into my pecs gently.
“No, the bit when I told you I want a baby.”
God damn my heart for skipping a few beats, and I know she felt it. I’m really fucking surprised, not only because she remembers, but because she’s brought it up. I’ve not mentioned her drunk ramblings or the demands she made because . . . well, she was drunk. I’ve thought about them, though. Non-stop.
“Why are you tense?” she asks.
“Why are you hiding?” I throw back, and she stills against me. “I’m not tense.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Then let me see you, Beau Hayley,” I whisper, turning my face into her hair and kissing her. “Let. Me. See. You.”
She slowly eases away from my body, her hands pushing into my chest, and she looks at me with too much uncertainty in her eyes. And it’s all because of who I am and what I do. She shouldn’t love me. She shouldn’t understand me. She shouldn’t want babies and marriage and a happily ever after with me.
“Hi, it’s me,” I say, staring into her eyes.
“Who’s me?” she asks, her head tilting, a small, unsure smile on her lips.
“James Kelly.”
“What do you do, James?”
“Love you,” I whisper. “That’s all I want to do.”
“And when our kids ask us how we met?”
I sigh, taking the tops of her arms and stroking my way to her wrists. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Is the bridge far away?” She looks tentative, and I smile, unsure as she nibbles her bottom lip.
“It’s close, but we need to make sure it’s safe to cross.”
“I think it’s safe.”
“Are you an expert ex-bridge builder, as well as an ex-cop?” I seize her hips, edging forward. So the bridge is Beau’s body, and while it’s stronger, I’m not sure it’s ready for the strain of a pregnancy. “We should talk to Doc.”
“I feel okay.”
This is all good and well, but . . . “What about the marriage part? Are we skipping that bit?”
“I can’t marry you,” she says, her fingertip tracing the edges of the bandage on my shoulder. “Because you killed Dexter.”
Sledgehammer, meet my face. I stare at her, mute, as she watches me closely for my reaction. I know I’m giving her what she wants. Guilt. “I killed him before you asked me not to.” What the fuck am I saying? “How did you know?”
“Ollie called me.”
I am in no position to be agitated or pissed off. And yet here I am, really fucking agitated, and massively pissed off. “Where’d he find the body?” Or more to the point, how? Because Danny assured me it could never be found.
“He didn’t.”
“Then . . .” I pause, as Beau’s eyebrows slowly rise. “There’s no body, is there?” Of course there’s no fucking body. It’s undoubtedly been ripped to shreds by sharks.
“Only yours if you don’t tell me what happened.”
“Burrows didn’t call you?”
“Yeah, he called me. But not about that.”
What the fuck kind of conversation is this? “Beau, why are you saying things to intentionally stoke my temper? What did Burrows want?”
“You know what he wants. Me alive and you dead. Now tell me how you killed Dexter.”
“You really don’t want to know,” I assure her, and she withdraws, looking like she doesn’t know if she wants to know. “Really,” I reiterate.
“What did you do?”
“I killed him. That’s it. An eye for an eye, Beau. The end.”
“Did Danny know?”
Fuck. “No.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “We need to get ready for dinner.” And I need to put an emergency call in to Danny. “Come on.” I ease her off my lap and put her on her feet.
“That’s it?” she asks as I turn, making me halt halfway. “End of conversation?”
I close my eyes and gather myself. “I don’t know what you want from me, Beau. I can’t turn back time. I can’t change that, same as I can’t change him shooting you.”
“An apology, maybe?”
I face her. “For killing him?”
“No, James, for lying to me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say on an exhale. “All day long, I’m sorry.” For lying, yes. But for killing him? Certainly not.
Pushing past me, she enters the bedroom, saying nothing, leaving me full of doubt on the terrace. So now what? “I want you to block Burrows’s number.” So I say that? You fucking dumb-arse, James.