The carefully constructed narrative of my life and my circumstances was a pile of ash at my feet. And I had no one to blame but myself, for jumping to conclusions.
As for Arya, the woman had been lied to by every man she even remotely cared about. It made me feel shitty, but not shitty enough to ruin my whole life to do right by her.
“Great. In that case, dump Arya and move on with your life,” Arsène said, in the same sensible tone he might use to suggest diversifying my investment portfolio.
I tossed a piece of raw tuna into my mouth. “Fine. I don’t even have to do that. All I need to do is never call her again, since she sure as hell never calls me.”
Riggs smiled behind the rim of his beer bottle. “And that obviously doesn’t bother you at all.”
Prick.
Arya didn’t call the next day.
Or the one after it.
I dissected our latest interaction.
The way she’d confided about Nicky. The pain in her voice. The crinkles in her eyes.
It seemed like she genuinely cared. Then again, as established, Arya was a pretty good actress when she wanted to be.
My suspicion that she hadn’t noticed the missing book had evaporated. There was no way something like that could have escaped a woman like Arya. Meanwhile, Atonement burned a hole through the wood of my bedroom parquet. I refused to read it. Doing so was admitting defeat, in a strange way.
I kept telling myself it was a good thing that Arya hadn’t called. I could always send her the book via courier and get this shit over with. I couldn’t see her again. Any more time spent with her brought her closer to the truth. And even if it didn’t—what was the point? I’d wanted to get her out of my system. I had. Case closed.
The trial was going well.
My career plate was full.
So why was I still hungry?
One week had passed.
I went to the gym and the Brewtherhood. She was never there. She didn’t show up in court either. I was beginning to regret the temporary mercy I’d shown her by warning her off the case.
The woman wouldn’t budge. Was it pride or self-preservation? Either way, it earned her more of my admiration.
There was a perfectly good chance I could have carried on like this for another month or so. I was a competitive bastard, just like her. We always made everything a game to be won. Even as kids. But one day, while I was hitting the weight section at the gym, I noticed her on one of the flat TV screens. She was a guest on a morning show.
She looked like a dream. So much so, the first few seconds, I didn’t even decipher what she was saying. Just bathed in the fact I’d had her underneath me, not too long ago, writhing and begging for more.
She wore an off-shoulder dress with a fitted bodice and butterflies on it. I dropped the weights I was holding and strode to the TV so I could hear her better. The hostess, a woman whose age could be anywhere from thirty-eight to fifty-nine with a blonde bob and a lot of fake tanner, asked her about the PR crisis a certain British royal couple was facing. Arya answered all the questions thoroughly and professionally. I wondered what had inspired her to go on TV in the first place, but then when her interview was over, the hostess plugged Brand Brigade and couldn’t stop gushing about it, proclaiming that she was one of their very happy clients.
Free publicity. Mystery solved.
That same day, I went to Barnes & Noble and bought a copy of Atonement. They only had the one with the film poster on the cover, white paper instead of crème. But that was sufficient for what I needed. I tore a page from the book, dabbed it in tea, and let it sit to dry on my office window for a few hours before tucking it into an envelope along with a small note.
I have something of yours. If you want to see this book alive, follow my steps and don’t try to go to the police.
Step 1: Meet me at the Hayden Planetarium tonight at six thirty.
Don’t be late.
—C
I picked up the phone on my desk, pressing the button to call my secretary.
“I need you to send something across town. Now.”
At six twenty, I spotted Arya outside the planetarium. She stopped pacing, showered in a pool of icy blue lights reflecting from the building behind her.
In the movies, and maybe even in the books Arya was so fond of, the heroine always looked uncertain and demure, waiting for her beau to arrive. Not so with Arya Roth. The little hellion was on the phone, pacing back and forth, telling whoever was on the other end that she’d make a Birkin bag out of his skin if he didn’t find her the reporter who’d leaked that juicy item about one of her clients. I stood on the sidelines, taking her in, and it finally dawned on me why I couldn’t stay away—because we were frighteningly alike.