As if reading her thoughts, he texted again. Did you make a plan to see Hope?
She had told him yesterday that she wanted to drive out east and make sure everything was okay there. No. Like you said, she asked for space, and I need to give it to her.
Maybe when you do visit, we can make a weekend out of it. Beer and Jenga reunion.
It was a reference to where they had first met, on the patio at Montauk Brewery, on opposite teams of a game of Giant Jenga, stacking blocks the size of shoe boxes into an increasingly precarious tower until the entire structure came tumbling down.
You can’t throw the game if you’re on my team, though. The first time they spent the night together, Scott had admitted to tipping the blocks intentionally so he and Lindsay could continue their conversation without interruption. Miss you.
You up for a guest tomorrow night?
Would love that. She knew he’d be dropping Nora off to his ex’s apartment on the Upper East Side after an early dinner. When she had asked recently if they could spend more time at her place, she had expected another push for her to move in with him, but instead, he had been staying more nights with her than not.
Can’t wait. Then more dots. Don’t worry about Hope. She’s a survivor. More dots. Honestly, I think it’ll be good for both of you if she gets on her own two feet.
Lindsay tried not to let the last comment get beneath her skin. In her experience, prefacing a statement with “To be honest” or “To tell you the truth” is a sure sign you’re telling someone else what to believe—such as what was “good” for her, in this instance. Honestly, Lindsay wondered why Scott could never seem to understand that she and Hope were more like family than friends. The doctors said Hope probably would have died if Lindsay hadn’t happened to take the scenic route through the preserve as she was heading home from NYU that rainy night. Lindsay assumed that the taillights off the side of the road belonged to a driver who had pulled over to wait for the storm to pass. When her own car began to hydroplane, she swerved into the opposite lane to avoid crashing into the parked vehicle. Only when she regained control of the wheel did she realize she was looking at an overturned SUV.
Running toward the scene in the pouring rain, she was certain the person splayed on the road in that awkward position had to be dead. She checked for signs of breathing and found none, but the emergency first aid training her father insisted on in high school kicked in. If a person’s unconscious, you check the ABCs—airway, breathing, circulation. She tried a jaw thrust, tilting the head back and pulling the sides of the jaw forward to clear the airway. When she suddenly felt the warmth of shallow breathing, she quickly called her father, who sent out the alert to police and paramedics. As the EMTs loaded the young woman onto the gurney, her arm moved, as if reaching for Lindsay. On impulse, Lindsay jumped into the ambulance, holding the woman’s hand until they got to the hospital.
When her father offered to drive her back to the preserve to get her car, Lindsay decided to wait until the next day. She needed to know if the woman was going to survive. At three in the morning, the doctors told her that the car’s occupant was alert and able to communicate but had no recollection of the events preceding the accident and was unable to tell them her name, date of birth, or address. Lindsay would learn the next afternoon when she returned to the hospital that memory loss was relatively routine after a head injury, and that patients typically recovered nearly all of their memories over days and weeks. Lindsay’s visits continued. With the summer off at home until law school began in the fall, she had enough time to spend nearly all of it with the girl whose life she had saved. And when the memories didn’t return after days, weeks, or even months, Lindsay was still there for her.
So, no, Scott would never convince her that they’d both be better off if they leaned on each other less. But she had made a promise to Hope, and she needed to keep it. She’d wait a few days before checking in with her to plan a visit. Until then, Hope would be fine. Like Scott said, she was a survivor.
3
Saturday, June 12, 10:45 p.m.
Nearly seventeen hundred miles away, NYPD detective Ellie Hatcher felt the weight of a warm, bare arm wrapped across her chest. Her skin felt clammy. She couldn’t move. She was pinned against the bed.
A scream jarred her awake. It took her a few seconds to realize that it had come from her own throat. The arm moved, and a hand stroked her shoulder soothingly. “Sssh,” a voice whispered, “it’s just a dream.”
Ellie opened her eyes and blinked several times before she remembered where she was. She registered the faint sounds of the ceiling fan—click, click, click—and crickets outside the window. Frogs? Some sort of tiny creature.
It was so damn quiet. Too quiet. At home, she was used to a constant symphony of sirens, car horns, and garbage trucks on Third Avenue, Ellie’s version of white noise, allowing her to disappear until she reemerged into the world the next morning.
She had no idea whether she’d been muttering, sweating, or kicking, but somehow she had managed to awaken Max, who could sleep through anything. She rolled over to face him. This was their first trip beyond the tristate area together. Hell, it was her first real vacation since making detective with the NYPD five years earlier.
“Are you okay?” His voice was sleepy. Even though they had showered before dinner, he smelled like sun, salt water, and coconut.
“I’m fine.” She nestled her head in the crook of his arm and placed one hand across his stomach until his breath became deep and rhythmic. He was already snoozing again. The fan continued to click as Ellie alternated between blanket-off and blanket-on, trying to find the right temperature.
It had been Max’s idea to come to St. Barts. He thought she was kidding when she asked where it was. Ellie had been outside the United States exactly three times: once in high school, when she and two of her friends decided one Friday night that it would be fun to drive to Mexico; once two years before, when she’d flown to Toronto to interview a witness in a shooting connected to the Russian mafia; and once to London with the only other man she had ever tried to live with.
At least Max had chosen a warm place with beautiful white-sand beaches instead of a rainy version of New York City. The original plan had been to come in March, but Max’s trial schedule had veto power.
She knew plenty of people would cut off a limb to enjoy a week looking out over turquoise-blue water with the best man they’d ever known. But the very fact that Max had chosen a place she still wasn’t sure how to pronounce—Was it Saint or Sahn? Bart or Barts or Barth or Barths?—was another reminder of how different they were. Max made a government salary as an assistant district attorney, but had friends who were partners at major law firms, with second homes in East Hampton and the Berkshires. He’d been to Paris multiple times and seemed perfectly at ease ordering foie gras and escargot on this trip. As far as Ellie was concerned, a beach vacation should mean tacos, barbecue, and margaritas.
She kicked off the covers once again. How in the world could the most expensive hotel she’d ever stayed in not have better air-conditioning? Say what you will about Kansas, but at least the Midwest understood the importance of climate control.