Page 18 of The Wolves Come at Night
Unable to juggle everything, she’d sold the business to Richard’s friend Alan Rooney, who, alongside his husband, Santiago, had turned it into a hugely successful, now nationwide business. Richard would have been so proud—both of the bakery and its new business model, and how his people had rallied around his precious wife once he was gone.
Alan and Santiago never did an interview without mentioning Richard and Avery. There was a dedication page on the website, and a small logo of a bicycle on all of the packaging, an homage to Richard’s favorite pastime. (Avery thought it morbid, considering he’d died while on the bike, but didn’t say anything.) The profit-sharing scheme they’d cooked up meant Avery didn’t have to work if she didn’t want to, and gave her plenty of cash to take care of the children, in addition to her own healthy paycheck from the hospital.
And there was a fresh cooler of everything bagels and lemon blueberry muffins on the front porch every Sunday. She didn’t have the heart to tell them once the children were gone, she gave them away. Sometimes she’d run them to the shelter on Fourth Avenue, or she’d drop them at the retirement home down the street.
They were trying to take care of her still, but the constant reminders—that logo, the stylized R coiling around the bagel she saw everywhere (even the hospital cafeteria stocked the brand); the periodic requests for interviews when the bakery opened a new branch; the way the children’s faces fell when they were forced to drive by the original building housing the bakery; the dividends—all of it was too much for one woman to bear.
She’d thought of moving from New Haven, maybe finding a cottage by the sea, but this was her home. Eventually, her heart would heal. She wouldn’t be picking off the scab daily.
She told herself that, year in and year out, as the children grew older, one by one, went off to college, started their own lives, and she rattled around the big old house alone, exhausted from her shifts, too sad to sleep. Alone.
She took the letter and her wine to the table, berating herself for the thoughts of Richard, as she inevitably did when she saw anything related to how they’d met.
It had taken such strength to send Carson off to Vanderbilt. It was different with the boys—Rory and Jules were always independent, raucous, happy, full of life, throwing footballs in the kitchen and borrowing the car keys for nights out with their friends. Carson was so much quieter. A sweet, bookish girl who was more content to read, even as a little one. A dreamer, her baby girl. Avery prayed nightly her lovely, fragile daughter wouldn’t meet a handsome, studious young man or woman and fall in love. Love did nothing but cause pain.
She turned the envelope over and pulled out the sheet of paper, half-smiling thinking about Carson wandering lonely as a cloud around campus, her nose in a book. Instead, there was a thick, heavy notecard with a small sprig of ivy at the top. On it were three lines of block print that made Avery’s heart stop.
WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER
TWO MILLION
NO COPS
Ten
Avery dropped the paper with a cry of revulsion. What the hell? Surely this was some sort of terrible joke. She yanked her phone from her bag and speed-dialed Carson’s number.
“You’ve reached Carson Conway. I’m sorry to miss your call. Please leave a message.”
So polite. Even her voicemail message was well mannered, unlike the boys’. Rory’s was “You know what to do.” And Jules’ was simply “What up?”
“Carson? It’s Mom. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
She sent a text, too, waiting, waiting, waiting for the three dots that said her darling daughter was writing back.
When they showed up, she nearly sang for joy.
Then the text came.
Two million. Clock’s ticking.
The cry from her lips startled the cardinal from the feeder outside the kitchen window.
“Dr. Conway?”
Avery screamed and jumped, her hand clutching the phone to her chest. Teddy, Alan and Santiago’s teenage son, stood at the entrance to the kitchen, holding an envelope.
“You scared me, Teddy.”
“Oh, Dr. Conway, I’m so sorry. The door was open, and I rang the bell. Someone dropped a letter for you at the bakery, I told my dads I’d drop it by on my way home.”
He took a step toward her, and Avery took a step back, slamming into the Sub-Zero, the handle digging hard into her back. “You can leave it there, Teddy. Tell your dads I said thanks.”
Teddy frowned, but listened, setting the envelope on the table. “You sure you’re okay, Dr. Conway? You look upset. Do you need me to call anyone?”
“I’m fine, Teddy.”
She went through all the motions of what fine might look like — smiling, ushering him to the door, closing it behind him with a little wave— then went back to the kitchen and stared at the envelope on the table as if it might bite.
