Page 90 of Sirens
“Is that so?” McGarvey asked.
“Absolutely,” Chazz continued, undeterred. “Just ask her about the time we stole that antique clock from old man Jenkins’ house. She never told the Feds about that one, did you, baby doll?”
The air between Maggie and McGarvey grew thick with tension, as if an invisible fog had rolled in from the ocean. The once-joyful atmosphere that filled the lighthouse after their passionate tryst and the Madame Katz mystery resolution was replaced by a cloud of doubt and disbelief.
“I’m not saying I haven’t made mistakes,” she said, gazing up with him. “But I’ve learned from mine, and I’m not the same person I was back then.”
McGarvey was silent for what felt like an eternity.
“It’s not the fact that you made a mistake that bothers me. It’s that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”
His eyes flickered, and for a moment, Maggie saw a shadow cross his face. His usually warm brown eyes turned steely, and the corners of his mouth tensed. He clenched his jaw, and his posture shifted ever so slightly into something more rigid.
She stared at him, her heart sinking like a stone tossed into the harbor. His handsome face, which had so recently been alight with desire and laughter, now bore an expression of steely professionalism as he assessed the situation before him. She felt the weight of his gaze on her, and it was colder than any New England winter.
“Look,” she began, desperately trying to find the right words, “Trent, I know this is a lot to take in, but?—”
“Ma’am,” McGarvey said, his use of the formal title like a slap in the face, “please step aside while I take him into custody.”
“What? You’re arresting me?” Chazz sputtered, looking between them incredulously. “For what? I ain’t done anything.”
“Violation of parole,” McGarvey replied, his tone firm and absolute. “You crossed state lines when you left New York.”
The color drained from Chazz’s face. He gazed at McGarvey, horror creeping onto his features as the reality of the situation sank in. “N-now hold on a minute,” he stammered, panic tingeing his voice. His eyes darted around like he were a cornered fox, seeking an escape route where there was none. “Maggie, baby, tell him!” he pleaded, his voice an octave higher. He reached out to grab her arm, but McGarvey stepped in his way, puffing his broad chest out like an iron shield.
“You don’t want to do that,” he growled, his eyes flashing with warning.
Chazz hesitated for a moment, sizing up McGarvey. He could bluff his way out of most things, but, staring down the barrel of the deputy’s cold gaze, he decided discretion was the better part of valor.
“All right, all right,” he said, holding up his palms. “I’ll go quietly.”
Maggie’s heart ached as she watched the man who had just hours ago been her passionate lover now handle Chazz with the precision of a seasoned law enforcement officer. The intimacy they had shared seemed like a distant memory, replaced by the stark reality of their current situation.
As she watched them disappear into the night, Maggie’s legs gave out beneath her, and she crumpled onto the damp grass.
The desolation that settled over her was as cold and unforgiving as the waves crashing against the nearby cliffs, the lighthouse’s searching scarlet beam a mocking reminder of the safe harbor she’d found, and lost, in the arms of Trent McGarvey.
SEVENTEEN
Skate
GETTING OUT OF TROUBLE; A CRIMINAL MIGHT SKATE FROM HIS CHARGES IF A WITNESS DIDN’T SHOW UP FOR TRIAL
A cloudof steam billowed around Trent as he paced by the police car, his breath visible in the chilly air, the sound of his boots on the gravel and the pop of gum from a visiting transport deputy a symphony of impatience as they waited to whisk the Bostonian bad boy back to his concrete suite on the other coast.
Trent had always loved the rain, but today it felt like a cruel joke, adding to the weight of his thoughts. Weeks had passed since his explosive fight with Maggie, and here he was, escorting the man still legally attached to her out of his goddamned life.
“Let’s hope we never see each other again,” he said, his tone dripping with thinly veiled disdain. Chazz, hands cuffed, leaned against the car with an air of resignation.
“No chance of getting off for good behaviah?” he asked with a smirk, his thick accent flavoring the air with a hint of East Coast arrogance.
Trent’s jaw tightened, and his fingers instinctively curled into a fist before he caught himself. He had to be the embodiment of law and order, not some lovesick vigilante with an axe to grind. But Chazz’s words clawed at him, stirring up the murky waters of his emotions.
The pink-faced fucker’s smile died as he glanced up at Trent’s carefully expressionless face.
“Should’ve treated her better,” Chazz muttered. “But you know how it is, brother. Can’t be lookin’ soft in front of the guys. Spent too much time trying to be the king, forgot that my queen deserved better.”
“Don’t call me brother,” Trent said.
