“I am not,” I say through a sob. Swiping at my watering eyes, I add, “I’m just on my period.”
Shaking his head, Hank chuckles. “So glad we’re finally doing the sharing thing at eight o’clock on a Monday morning. I should’ve called in sick.”
I stand, round his desk, and throw my arms around his neck. Still in his chair, he pats my back in a fatherly way.
After a moment, he clears his throat. “Okay. This is the limit of my paternal instincts, kiddo. If you need more help, I’m gonna send you to Ruth in Human Resources because I literally have no idea how to handle emotional young women.”
I straighten and smile down at him. “You’re a good egg, Hank Hauser.”
He waves me off. “Quit trying to butter me up. You’re not due for a wage increase for another five months.”
A knock on Hank’s office door makes us turn.
A young man stands in the doorway. He’s Latino, good-looking, maybe late twenties, dressed in an expensive black suit and a white dress shirt open at the collar. He’s carrying a big bouquet of dark red roses and a flat black velvet box, about twelve inches square, tied with black ribbon.
“Juliet,” he says sternly, gazing at me like I’m being accused of a terrible wrongdoing.
Oh god. What’s this? “She’s out sick today.”
He quirks his mouth and shakes his head. “Nice try. You want these here?” He jerks his chin toward Hank’s desk.
Bemused at this new development, Hank makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “By all means, mister…”
“Diego. Just Diego.”
Diego is obviously not your average delivery boy. Aside from the suit, he’s also got that cocky swagger that I know all too well.
Made men all walk like they’ve got a million dollars in cash stuck up their butts.
He sets the bouquet of roses down, puts the black box next to it, then turns and heads back toward the door. Before he walks out, he stops abruptly and looks at me.
“He’s not what you think he is.”
We gaze at each other steadily. I feel Hank looking back and forth between us in concern, unsure if he should intervene or let this odd little drama play out.
I want it to play out. I’ve had enough of this “not who but what” BS.
“Tell me what he is, then.”
Diego glances at Hank. He looks back at me. His voice low, he says, “He bought my mother a house. Paid it off. Gave her the deed. Nobody in my family’s ever owned property.”
“That’s a touching story, Diego. My father once bought someone property, too. Gave him the deed, moved him and his whole family in. The house burned to the ground within a week, with everyone still in it. Guess who lit the match that started the fire?”
Hank’s mouth drops open.
Diego’s eyes flash. He says, “That’s fucked up.”
“It is. Bad people can sometimes act like they’re doing good things, but it’s only a game. It’s make-believe. If I were you, I’d tell your mother to find another place to live before your employer shows his true colors and lights a match.”
Hank stands, hands spread wide like he’s conducting an intervention. “Okay, this is getting weird. Diego, I think it’s time for you to—”
“What did they do?” says Diego, aggressively cutting him off. “The family who got burned in the fire—what did they do to deserve it?”
I say softly, “Oh. You still think it’s about honor, huh? This little club you’ve joined, you think it’s a brotherhood based on principles, when really it’s just an excuse for cruel men to grind people under their heels.”
We stare at each other. Hank looks on in dismay.
Then Diego says, “I come from bad people, too. My employer isn’t one of them. I thought he was at the beginning. But my ignorance doesn’t equal his guilt.”
At the end of my patience, I demand, “What does it equal, then?”
He gazes at me, dark eyes glittering. “I hope you figure it out. Because he’s worth it. And what he’s doing is important work.”
My mouth drops open. Being a gangster is important work?
Diego turns around and strides out.
After a moment, Hank says my name. He looks up from the black velvet box he’s holding. He’s undone the ribbon, and the lid stands open in his hands. He turns the box around so I can see what’s inside.
It’s a necklace. Diamonds glitter against black velvet, three fat rows of them nestled together around a large center stone, big as a robin’s egg and black as ink.
My gut tells me that’s a diamond, too.
Hank says drily, “So, this accountant of yours. Not only does he have loyal underlings and extraordinary taste in jewelry, he’s quite the romantic, too.”
He doesn’t bother to wait for me to respond, he simply holds up the small white card that came with the gift and reads aloud from it. “Thus with a kiss I die.”
More Shakespeare. It’s Romeo’s final line from the play, after he drinks the poison to join his love in the afterlife. A chill of foreboding runs through me.
Looking at me steadily, Hank says, “Must’ve been some kiss, Juliet.”
My laugh is utterly without mirth. “Yeah. It was a real killer.”
18
Jules
Deciding I won’t be of any use to him in my current state, Hank tells me to take the day off. He suggests I take a drive out to the country to clear my head.
He also tells me to call a therapist as soon as I can, but I know it’s not more talking I need. I need to do something.
Only I have no idea what that something is.
The first place I stop after I leave work is my bank. I rent a safety deposit box and leave the necklace in it. I’ll get an estimate of its value later on, after I can think straight again. I know nothing about diamonds, only that the bigger and brighter they are, the more they cost, so Killian’s present will probably bring a hefty chunk of change when I sell it.
I haven’t decided yet if I’ll give the money to charity or light it all on fire and watch it burn.
I make another stop at a convenience store to buy bottled water and fill up on gas, then hit the highway and start driving. I don’t have a destination in mind, but it feels good to go fast, look in the rearview mirror, and not see any big black SUVs following behind me.
It feels good for all of one minute, until I see a plane flying overhead and realize that’s not the only way Killian could follow me.
The man seems to have eyes everywhere, including the sky.
“Stupid satellites,” I mutter, pulling into the parking garage of a mall.
I park in the middle of a crowded row of cars, head inside, and hunt for a payphone. I find one near the restrooms and call a taxi for a ride. When the cab arrives, I slouch down in the back seat and tell the driver to take me somewhere pretty.
“Manchester-by-the-Sea,” he says instantly. “Pretty beach. Pretty marina. Pretty everything. Only a forty-minute drive.”
“Let’s go.”
On the way, I force myself to do everything but think about Killian.
I count the number of red cars I see. I count the number of churches we pass. I try to remember all the lyrics to “Let It Be,” by the Beatles, my mother’s favorite song. I engage the driver in Twenty Questions, grilling him about where he’s from, how he likes Boston, and what he thinks of the President.