No.

Celeste’s response was instant.

Should I call Sonja’s mother? Make sure Violet’s okay?

Celeste was overreacting, as usual. She was too protective of their daughter, overly doting, even cloying. No wonder Violet was such a mess, always upset or pissed off about something. But he had to soothe his wife.

She’s with her friends. She probably has her phone off. She’ll be fine.

He sensed the relief in Celeste’s reply.

You’re probably right. If you hear from her, let me know.

The cab pulled up on Park and Gabe paid the driver. The door was opened by his obsequious doorman. “Good evening, Mr. Turnmill.”

“No guests,” Gabe instructed curtly, hurrying through the lobby to the waiting elevator.

In his apartment, he poured two fingers of Scotch and swallowed it without ice. The alcohol burned in his chest, made his eyes water, but soon, he felt its relaxing effect. He fixed another drink, with ice this time, and sat on the sofa. Flicking on the TV, he roamed through the channels, but he was still antsy, still on edge. He kept hearing noises, muting the volume, moving to the door to listen intently. Logically, he knew he was safe. Natalie wouldn’t get past the doorman. But the gatekeeper could be tricked, manipulated, paid off.

His phone was buzzing. It would be Natalie attacking/disparaging/threatening him. It could be his wife, assuring him that Violet had checked in, that she was fine. But no, he knew it was his former girlfriend, spewing her venom and bile. The sound set his teeth on edge. He ignored it, drank more Scotch.

Fuck it. He was too wound up to stay here. There was a jazz bar on East Eighty-Ninth. Music always relaxed him when he was embroiled in a tough case and would do the same for him now. He could walk there, find a dark corner table, let the music and the booze work their magic. And then, when he was calmer, he’d walk home and sleep.

When he woke in the morning, Natalie would be dead.

45

Green Eyes

Nat should have gone home, should have washed the streaks of makeup from her face or taken a cold shower. She should have scrubbed Gabe’s blood from under her fingernails, eaten something, or called her mother. But she did none of those things. The anger vibrating through her being was arousing, almost sexual. It felt good to hate Gabe, to plot his destruction. It made her feel connected to him, in some fucked-up way. She wasn’t ready to let it go.

A block from where her lover had abandoned her crying and shrieking on the street was Ninth Avenue. Nat walked to it, headed toward Hell’s Kitchen and its array of bars and restaurants. She’d wiped away the smudges of mascara, blush, and bronzer with a tissue, leaving her face devoid of makeup. She no longer looked like the perfect, phony doll Gabe had fallen for; she looked like herself.

The venue she selected was an odd mix of old-timey saloon, hip eatery, and sports bar with mounted TVs airing MMA fights and baseball. But it would serve the purpose. She found a lone stool at the crowded bar and ordered a rusty nail and a shot of vodka. The tattooed bartender didn’t bat an eye at her strong order and didn’t ask for ID. Nat liked this place already.