As for me, yeah, this is happening fast. And maybe I have sworn off men. But he’s not just any man. My heart seems to know him. And if I seem too trusting, well, I’m going with my heart. It’s never felt this way before.
He drives uptown and through the Midtown Tunnel. We’re in Queens, not a borough I know well. Soon he pulls up to a small house in what appears to be a fairly decent area.
I’m surprised he’s in a house, not an apartment. “Have you lived here long?” I ask.
“My grandfather owned the place for years. He left it to me when he died a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “Life.”
“Yeah,” I say, not sure how else to acknowledge that sad bit of truth.
He helps me out of the truck and guides me to the front door. “This is it.” He opens the locks with his set of keys and lets us inside.
He flips on lights, and I take in the small house. There’s an entryway and a den with a big-screen television. To one side is a pass-through kitchen.
He tosses his keys onto a table in the den. There’s not much in the way of décor. A leather couch, a table with papers spread all over. A bookshelf lined with mysteries.
I notice a photograph in front of the books and step over for a closer look. In a four-by-six frame, there’s a picture of a woman about my age, her hair about the same color as Zach’s. She has a wide grin on her pretty face, her arm around a younger Zach as he glares for the camera. They look too much alike not to be related.
I feel him come up behind me, his body emanating heat at my back. He clasps my forearms in his hands.
“Your sister?” I ask.
“Yeah. That’s Grace.”
“She’s beautiful.”
His fingertips tighten against my skin. “She was.”
I swallow hard. “What happened? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Stunning silence surrounds us, and I sense his tension reverberating from inside him. “You don’t need to tell me.”
“We didn’t grow up with much money, but we did have loving parents.”
I’m immediately struck by how opposite our lives have been. I grew up with money but no love. Zach had love but no money. I’d take his situation any day.
“Mom died of cancer when I was sixteen,” he said. “Grace was eighteen.”
He doesn’t turn toward me, and I think that maybe it’s easier for him to open up without facing me. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“Thanks.” He pauses before continuing. “Dad was a plumber, and he sort of drifted after that. He retired early. He didn’t have much saved and ended up in Florida. Grace went to school on loans. I held down part-time jobs until I graduated high school, then went to college the same way, on loans and scholarship.”
I wait, knowing the worst is yet to come.
“Problem was, Grace didn’t come to me when she needed money. Instead, she started working as a call girl, for a woman named Miss Black.”
I blinked, startled. I try to turn around, but he anticipates the move and holds me in place, his hands on my shoulders. I’m right. It’s easier to talk without looking at me. I allow him this.
“Go on.” I don’t judge his sister. It’s not my place. I just listen. I mean, who knows what I’d do or who I’d turn to if my parents cut me off completely.
He exhales long and hard. “Obviously I didn’t know, or I’d have stopped her. She told me she was working as a hostess. I was so busy with getting my PI license and trying to take care of myself, I just believed her.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “What happened?”
“He— I mean, a client happened.”