Page 57 of Nobody's Fool

“Much cheaper.”

“You’d have a job with good pay. I’d be able to find work.”

“True and true.”

“Henry could grow up with a real backyard.”

I tilt my head. “Is that a pro?”

“The NYPD would no longer be an issue,” she continues. “You’d be able to move away from your past.”

Silence.

“Sami?”

“You can’t move away from your past,” I say.

“Sure, you can. There is something to be said for out of sight, out of mind. Yes, you’re the same you—but the same you in a different environment is like adding a fresh catalyst to a compound. I know you have demons, Sami. We all do.”

“Not you,” I say. “You’re perfect.”

“Man, do I have you snowed. And I said ‘move away’ from your past, not ‘run away’ or ‘escape’ it. But here is the thing. I get you’ve dealt with demons. So have I. But whatever awful things we went through, it led to us, you and me, being here right now. It led to me having a baby and a life with the most marvelous of men. And you aremarvelous, Sami. So the mistakes, the pain, even the deaths—maybe we learned something from all that.”

Her hand is still on my chest. I put my hand over hers and we interlock fingers.

“Suppose,” I say, “that part of what I learned—part of what makes me ‘marvelous’—is that I can’t let it go?”

She takes a second. “Touché.”

“Do you want to go to Florida?” I ask.

“Hell no.”

“Then case closed,” I say.

I manage to fall asleep at five a.m.—and promptly at six, Henry wakes up with a cry. I whisper to my beloved that she should stay in bed, that I’ll handle the wee one, and Molly replies with a gentle snore and closed eyes. I swing my feet onto the floor, grab my phone from the night table, and head to Henry. My son is a happy baby. Even his current cry is soothing rather than alarming or shrill, designed, it seems, to gently wake his parents, rather than agitate them into action. As soon as I bend down over his crib, Henry realizes his basic need is about to be met, and so the crying stops immediately. He smiles at me and coos and figuratively wraps me around his finger. I lift him high, change his diaper, carry him into the kitchen, place him in his high chair. I toss a few Cheerios onto his tray, and as I start to prepare his breakfast, I check my phone.

The first two texts are from Arthur and came in at 6:04 a.m.

The first message reads:

Don’t kill the messenger.

I don’t like this. I scroll down to the second message:

At Tad Grayson’s request, I am forwarding this message to you: ‘Tell Kierce I want to show him the evidence. He should pleasecome to my mom’s place at 198B City Blvd on Staten Island. I’ll be around all day. A call would be appreciated so I know he’s coming.’

I hit reply, and type back to Arthur:

Why do I have to go to him?? Let him come to me.

The dancing three dots tell me Arthur is typing a reply. Then it arrives:

He’s taken over hospice care for his mother. She won’t be around much longer.

I don’t care about Tad Grayson or his dying, lying mother. To express this, I find the violin emoji and type, “Tell him to pound sand—and play the world’s smallest violin,” but I don’t hit send and end up deleting it in a rush of maturity. Then I start again:

If he has evidence, why couldn’t he tell me yesterday?

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