“Good,” I say, my voice tight. “Now leave.”
“Mateo Garza is a player. He’ll take you for a ride. Send the tabloids after you. Then he’ll leave. Trust me. I’ve been following the guy for years.”
It’s strange. The words shouldn’t have any effect on me. I don’t have any romantic ideas about Mateo. Even if I did, in the deep-down place where my womanhood can’t help but recognize a handsome man, they’re only temporary. I would never be with a man like him. In fact, I will never be with a man at all. My safety and my independence mean too much.
“Get out,” I tell him. “Don’t come back.”
He backs up a few steps, but his hands go to the camera. The shutter clicks. This asshole is taking photos of me, and I know what it’s going to look like. The same as I did on that news website. Me, hysterical and furious. “See you around, Emily.”
Somehow the way he says my name sounds disrespectful. He wanders down the road, which winds down to the bottom of the cliff.
I cross my arms over my stomach and watch him go.
Only when he’s out of sight do I return to the house. And lock the door.
The idyllic moment with the kitchen door open and the mama bird feels miles away.
“What was that man talking about Uncle Mateo for?” asks Paige.
Part of me wants to collapse from the pounding fear. And the intense relief of having him gone. But I force myself to present a calm façade for my daughter. “He’s not a good man. He’s a reporter stirring up trouble. Nothing is happening between me and Uncle Mateo.”
I get out plates. I pour glasses of water from the Brita. Paige and I sit down at the table with our muffins. My palms are slick with anxiety. This conversation is going to be a big deal. For me. For Paige. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to have it with her yet.
“Paige, I wanted to tell you about something.” I peel the cupcake wrapper off my muffin. “If any man or woman approaches you, and they’re a stranger, don’t talk to them.”
“Is that man coming back?”
“He might. He’s not supposed to, but sometimes people do things they aren’t supposed to.”
“And then they go to jail.”
I pause, not sure how to answer. I don’t know if she’s saying that because of the threat I made to the paparazzi. Or because her uncle is on trial for murder. Or simply because she’s used to jail as a regular part of Monopoly. “Sometimes. Sometimes they go to jail.”
“Are more people coming?”
“They might.”
“Why?”
Paige takes a bite out of the top of her muffin.
In an ideal memory, in an ideal life, I would never have to say these things to my daughter. I would never have to feel this fear. This anger. I would never have to hide it, so she won’t be scared. In my ideal memory, it’s muffins and blue skies forever.
“Other people know about some of the things that happened with your uncle Joe. They know I’m writing a book about it. It makes them want to take pictures.” A stab of regret. “I probably shouldn’t be writing it, Paige. I think it was a mistake.”
“But you’re a writer, Mom.” Paige eats another section of the top of her muffin.
“I brought this on us. It’s because of my book that they want to know more about us. I shouldn’t have done it.” That’s not exactly true. I know that even as I say it. Joe Causey’s trial is naturally public information. A dirty cop who murdered his sister’s husband will always be salacious news. And Mateo Garza will always be a topic of interest. This guy even said he’s been following him for years. It’s more about him than it is about me.
Paige screws up her face and shakes her head. “You said I could do anything. The same way you can do anything, like writing a book.”
“As a job. That’s what I meant. You can choose to be anything you want for a career.”
“You didn’t say it was just jobs,” Paige argues. “You said anything.”
How can I have said that to Paige, and meant it, if I can’t live that myself? Guilt heats my face. Part of living fearlessly in this new version of myself is that I need to speak my truth. I can no longer be in hiding. Not just physically hiding, but emotionally hiding from what had happened.
I’ve spent enough time doing that.
Besides, the advance from the memoir paid for Coach House. Beau offered to rebuild and cover everything. I couldn’t accept. I didn’t want to be controlled by or beholden to a man again. He wouldn’t have held it against me, but I didn’t want it, down at my core.
I wanted this for myself.
I need to be independent.
Well, now I am. Now I’m alone in Coach House with my daughter while a strange man lurks outside. I haven’t gone back to the window to see if he’s gone. Part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me would rather retreat. Pull down all the shades and pretend we’re not home.
But I’m done hiding.
Done.
“What I mean is that we have to be on the lookout for ourselves. I’m always going to protect you the best I can, but there are times you might be alone. I want you to know what to do. You don’t have to speak to strangers, even if they ask you questions. You come find me right away. Or someone else you trust.”
“Like Uncle Mateo?” she asks.
“Like Uncle Mateo,” I agree. “Or Uncle Beau. Or Jane. Your teacher at school. We need to look out for ourselves, and part of that is knowing when to ask for help.”
“If someone comes to talk to me, I should ask for help,” Paige repeats. She puts her rocks out on the table. Five of them in one fist. “Is that what you do when someone comes to talk to you and you don’t know them?”
“Sometimes I do.”
Sometimes, like when I came out of the courthouse and let Mateo usher me through that shitshow. But I’m spinning another pleasant memory to Paige. I’m giving her the neat dichotomy of stranger danger vs. safe person. People we know aren’t always safe. Rhys was a prime example.
Paige has eaten the entire top of her muffin, leaving the bottom in its wrapper. “Can I have another one?” Her blue eyes light up. My chest unclenches. I go to get Paige a second muffin and peek out into the yard. There’s no sign of the reporter anymore. No cars out there, either.
I’ve been at the mercy of a man before. I’ve been at the mercy of his money. I won’t be at the mercy of this asshole, or anyone else. Asking for help is one thing. Relying on a man for safety and survival? No.
I have to stand on my own. It’s the only way I can live.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mateo Garza
Not only is my agent being deliberately stupid about this, not only has my five minutes with Emily Rochester become national news, but they went to her house.
Some asshole went to her house. I pace around the beach house and try not to become a complete madman. It’s been, what, two days, and there are people at her house? It’s not a matter of shutting it down from LA anymore. The vultures are already here.
Even if I leave, I can’t draw them away from her. I was the crack in the door. Emily is the prize. They won’t stop until they draw blood.