THIEF: Part 3 (2 page)

              “Killian and I are just thrilled you could finally visit!”

              I manage what I hope is a happy-to-be-here smile as Aunt Jane rushes down the driveway towards me.She lives two hours away now, in a fancy colonial with plenty of room for guests—at least, that’s what the excessive number of voicemails she’s left me say.

              Jane strangles me in a hug, then steps aside and motions for Killian to greet me.She’s expecting us to hug, I can tell.Thankfully, Killian reads my mind and settles for a handshake instead, like a normal person.I already like him.

              “My kids are coming into town this weekend, too,” he says while, against my resistance, carrying my bag inside.“Hayes is twenty-seven, Fiona’s twenty-one.”

              “Not much older than Erin,” Jane says, as though she’s said something really profound.I think she’s assuming we’ll automatically become best friends, the way parents of toddlers cram their kids in one playpen and call it friendship.

              “Huh,” I say, noncommittally.When we get inside—the foyer two stories tall and filled with light—Killian sets my bag on an antique-looking bench.

              “We’ll show you your room after dinner,” he explains.He puts his arm around Aunt Jane’s waist; it’s strange to me, only because the gesture is so normal, and Aunt Jane’s past romances have always been anything but.“Can we get you something?Iced tea, bottled water, wine?”

              “Tea, please.”It’s also weird how he says “we.”My aunt’s never let herself be part of a “we”like this.

              Aunt Jane pulls me into the parlor while Killian heads for the kitchen.“So,” she beams, sitting in a wingback chair across from me, “what’s new?How was the trial?”

              “Short,” I answer.“Ruled in my favor.”

              “That’s wonderful!”She gives Killian a kiss when he comes in and hands her a glass; I settle for a vague smile as he hands me mine.“I’m not surprised, though,” she adds.“Gordon really didn’t have a case.”

              “That’s what my lawyer said, too.”

              “Bet the verdict got him good and steamed.”

              “Probably.”I think to earlier this week, sitting in that courtroom with my hands soaked from sweat, my heartbeat louder than anyone speaking.Then, boom, it was over just like that.I’d won.

              I looked over at Gordon for the first time since the trial began.He didn’t look how I’d expected—menacing, or threatening, even.He’d looked…confident.Eerily sure of himself, like this wasn’t going to be the last I heard from him.

              Like it wasn’t just about the car.

              “How’s the, uh….”I sip my tea and wince.Killian loaded it with sugar, the way Aunt Jane likes, but it’s almost straight syrup to me.I set it down as politely as I can.“How’s the wedding planning?”

              Jane lets out a dramatic sigh.“I’m ready to just call the whole thing off and elope somewhere, Erin Caitlin.You don’t even know.”

              Killian rolls his eyes.“She says that every single day.”

              “I believe it,” I tell him, and Jane fake-glares at each of us.

              “Well, anyway,” she says, smoothing her skirt, “we’ve decided on December 31.And I know what you’re thinking, no one will show, being New Year’s Eve and all—”

              “That’s what I said,” Killian grumbles.

              “—but,” she emphasizes, then turns to me again, “our reception will be themed.‘New Year’s in New York.’Everything lit up like Times Square, cocktails everywhere, plenty of food: doesn’t that sound fun?”

              “It does, actually.”My answer surprises Killian and myself.I’m not into weddings, but receptions are a different story.

              Killian looks like he’s about to debate this, try to get me back to his side of things, when the doorbell chimes.It’s a musical one, the kind that skitters through the entire house like birdsongs.

              “I’ll get it.”Killian heads for the foyer, and Jane follows.I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, so I stay put, idly sipping on my too-sweet tea.

              “Erin,” Killian says, “this is my son, Hayes.”Hayes nods hello and shakes my hand.“And this,” Killian continues, “is my daughter, Fiona.She’s graduating from Brown in December.Early tract.”

              “Just one semester, Dad,” she says modestly, shaking my hand.“Nice to meet you.”

              “You too.Congrats.On Brown, I mean.Well, and Jane.”I pause, stumbling back over my words.“The…the wedding.”

              Fiona smiles politely and thanks me, then sits next to her brother on the loveseat.“Are you a student, Erin?” she asks.

              “Um…no, not exactly.”I sip my tea again and let the sugar cramp my mouth.“After high school I just…went straight into working, I guess.”

              “Oh, okay.”She nods, as if this is interesting, and I know it isn’t.“What do you do?”

              “Nothing, right now.”I realize this sounds so stupid—who’s ever “doing nothing?”—so I add, “I’m between jobs.”

              “Oh, okay,” she says again.This is how most of my potential female friendships begin and end: polite interest, then awkward silence.

              The whole evening drags on in the same fashion.Jane and I catch up, Killian and his kids catch up, then, once in a while, we each try to politely ask someone outside our respective bubbles how their life is going.Even when dinner comes and goes, conversation hasn’t gotten much easier.

              So when Jane asks me to help her with the dishes while Hayes and Fiona help their dad fix his computer, I’m grateful.Standing in the kitchen, with just her and no one else around, is like being pulled from the pool when the lifeguard finally realizes you have no clue how to swim.

              “What do you think?” she asks wryly.“They’re sweet, huh?”

              “Very.Are those Killian’s only kids?He must have had them…well…at an older age.”I know it’s rude no matter how I phrase it, but Aunt Jane doesn’t seem to mind.

              “He was up there in years,” she says.“Thirty-eight with Hayes, forty-four with Fiona.But he’s got three others, all in their thirties.Apparently Fiona was a huge surprise.”

              “What happened to his wife?”Also rude.But it’s Jane, so I don’t feel guilty.

              “Breast cancer,” she answers gravely, “about six years ago.Poor Fiona was barely fifteen.”

              I feel a little sad for Fiona, but not too much.I’ve lost my mom and never even had my father, no siblings to share the experience with, either.

              And now, in more ways than I’m willing to admit to myself, I’ll lose Jane.

              “You heard from that Silas boy yet?”Jane whips a towel at my butt, but I know it’s a serious question.

              “Nope.Can’t track him down.”I don’t add that every time my phone rings with an unknown number, I answer as fast I can, only to be greeted with some automatic billing reminder or a telemarketer’s sales pitch.

              “Well, you know,” she says slowly, “Hayes is single.”

              “Thanks,” I say, “but I’m not interested.”

              “Just putting it out there.”

              “Noted.”

              I’ve always loved my back-and-forth with Jane, even when the topics aren't things I want to discuss, because I couldn't do this with Mom.We were never big sharer types, but near the end of her life, it’d gotten worse.Ever since the day I told her what Gordon had done to me.

              Jane was the kind of woman I’d always wanted for a mom—smart, independent, tenacious.She got knocked over sometimes, but she never let anything keep her down.My mother, on the other hand, created storms and then bitched about the flood.Her poor taste in men, her drinking, her relationship with me—all of it was salvageable.But she hadn’t seen things that way.

              “I do have a date soon,” I offer.Jane almost drops the plate she’s drying, she’s so excited.

              “With who?” she squeals.“Anyone I might know?”

              “Alex Meegan.”I reach for my water glass by the sink, suddenly parched.“Um…you know.Kyle Meegan’s son.”

              “Well, that’s just fantastic news, Erin.”Jane looks as pleased as if she’d arranged the date herself.“It’ll do you some good to get out there again.Especially if all those news stories about that Silas boy are true.Him kidnapping his daughter and all.I’m not judging, just to clarify.I’m just pointing out, even if you do manage to find him again, he’d more than likely wind up in jail for a while, anyway.”

              “So you have seen the news?”

              “Only recently,” she says, dismissively.“I’m sorry I’ve been pushing you to make things up with him.If I’d known all that…”Her voice trails as I hand her another plate to dry.“Sometimes people are pretty far from who they seem to be, I suppose.”

              The heavy feeling I’m now so accustomed to—the sadness, anger, and yearning all rolled into one—sits in my chest again.I’d managed to forget about it all day, but it always finds its way home.

              “Is it a blind date?”

              “Kind of.”I hand her a dripping bundle of silverware.“I met him really quickly, after the trial.Just long enough to say hi.”

              “If he’s anything like his dad, I bet he’s a cutie.”

              I make a face at this; Kyle isn’t bad-looking, but he doesn’t have the strong chin or dark features his son has.He’s more mousey, with a larger, kind of bulbous nose, while Alex’s is squared and upturned a little, a masculine version of his mother’s.I’ve stared at her portrait on Kyle’s desk enough to recognize it.

              “He’s cute,” I answer.

              I feel Jane stare at me.“But…?”

              “But what?”I shrug, grab a scouring pad, and pretend there’s a spot on a pan I can’t get.“I said he’s cute.”

              “But,” she repeats, “he isn’t Silas.Is that it?”

              I keep scrubbing.“I’m glad he’s not Silas.Silas lied to me, Aunt Jane.He framed me.And then he just…”I don’t expect my voice to crack, but it does.“…left.”

              Jane reaches over to my soapy hand and squeezes it.“It’s all right, hon.You don’t have to pretend with me—if you still care about him, you can tell me.”

              My excuse readies itself, but instead, all I get is a deep, drawn-out sigh, before the truth comes forward.“I still love him.And I don’t know why.”

              “It’s not really in your control.”

              I shake my head.“But it should be.I mean…I’ve never thought of love as something that just happens to people.I always figured people chose to be in love, you know?Connections, attraction—sure, those things happen out of our control.But love?”I throw the scouring pad down into the water, barely making a splash.“I never thought I’d have this problem.”

              Jane laughs with her head back.“Oh, sweetheart, you sound just like me at your age.”

              “I do?”

              She nods, grinning.“In fact, it was that attitude that kept me bouncing from man to man all these years.But look what happened.”She holds up her ring hand; the recessed lighting of the kitchen makes the diamond look even bigger than before.“Fifty-five, about to become a wife and stepmother for the first time in my life.You think I ever thought that would happen?”

              “About that,” I say slowly. “Not that I don’t like Killian—I do, he’s awesome—but…what is it about him?”I use my wrist to push hair out of my face.“That made you change your mind about marriage, I mean.”

              “If I knew that,” she laughs, “I’d have looked for him a hell of a lot sooner.”

I smell it around one a.m.—skunk-like, a little sweet, a little acrid, and definitely coming from inside the house.Somebody’s smoking pot.And, through the vent in my wall, I hear someone crying.

              The guest room Aunt Jane and Killian gave me is huge, and it takes me a good five minutes to navigate my way to the door in the darkness.I ease it open; the crying, and the smell, are coming from downstairs.I follow the sound to the sunroom at the back of the house.Aunt Jane, always chasing glamour, called it a solarium, but it’s just a large porch with a lot of windows.As I get closer to the French doors, I see that every window’s open, the room flooded with moonlight and smoke, no breeze to filter it out.

              “Hello?” I whisper, greeted with a quiet gasp of terror that makes me jump too.

              “Oh…Erin.It’s you.”Fiona sits cross-legged on a chaise, a bowl in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

              “Sorry,” I stammer, “I didn’t mean to…I mean, I heard someone crying, and…”I take a minute to get my words figured out.“Are you all right?”

              She nods, but her face gets this crumpled look that says she isn’t.

              I don’t know what to do here.I’ve never been comfortable comforting people.It, like weddings, just isn’t my thing.But I do have decency and enough social skills to know I can’t just leave, so I sit on the wicker loveseat across from her.The cushions hiss as I sink into them.

              “You don’t have to tell me why you’re upset,” I say softly.“If you want to, though…you can.”

              Fiona sighs, her body sagging.“Boyfriend troubles,” she says, finally.She holds up her phone, then tosses it onto the ottoman between us.“I’ve been trying to call and text him all night—ever since my flight landed, actually.He won’t answer.And he thinks I don’t know why, but I do.”

              “Oh,” I answer, because I’m not sure there’s much else I can say.It seems rude to flat-out ask.

              Fiona takes a hit off the bowl, then offers it to me.I haven’t smoked in months—long before I met Silas, back when I was still shoplifting for the hell of it—but I’m surprised to find the motions come back easily.My first drag catches in my throat a little, but the second feels smoother.I hold it in my lungs as long as I can, then sputter it out.“Thank you,” I cough, handing it back.

              She takes another hit.“It’s just,” she starts, speaking through her teeth, “I’ve been hearing all these rumors.”She lets the smoke out.“Ever since last semester.And he’s started getting really distant, secretive, you know?”

              I nod; I may not know what, exactly, she’s talking about, but the secrecy part is something I know all too well.

              “He’s gay,” she says, staring straight ahead into nothing.I don’t know if she’s telling me, or herself, but her shoulders straighten as she says it.“I kept hearing rumors—even his brother said something to me.But I didn’t want to believe it.All the signs…”

              I think of all the red flags of liar-dom I missed with Silas.Our fault or not, it’s easy to feel stupid.I nod solemnly and let Fiona go on.

              “I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on me.Like, even right now, right this second.”Fiona produces a bottle of wine, something pricy from her father’s wine cellar, and takes a few long gulps.She passes it to me, and I partake gratefully.I like pot okay, but wine is more my thing.It’s a deep red, almost black, and so dry my eyes water.The familiar warmth spreads out in my chest, and I relax a little, taking a few more sips.

              “Are you going to confront him?” I ask.It just slips out—not really the thing you ask a stranger.But, I reason, we’ll be cousins soon, or something.And Fiona’s high as a kite, I’ve got a buzz—why not?

              “Guess I have to.”She bites her thumbnail.“Two years.That’s how long I’ve wasted with him.”She looks at me.“And somehow, I feel like the bad guy here.”

              I nod.Again, this is familiar territory: in addition to intermittent anger at Silas, I feel it towards myself, too.For shutting the door on him that day.For refusing to see the signs earlier.For falling for him at all.

              “You know what’s really weird?”

              I watch Fiona take another sip from the wine, then take one myself, shaking my head.

              “What’s really weird,” she says, “is how he was really, really good at sex.”

              This is unexpected.I laugh, dribbling wine, and Fiona laughs with me, a little bitter-sweetly.

              “No, really,” she says.“I mean, he just had this way with…”She looks around, even though we’re still the only people here, and whispers, “He could make me orgasm, like, five times in a row.No one’s ever been able to do that.”

              I offer a polite, but impressed, nod.

              “He never seemed to have a problem getting off, either.”She goes back to pouting, pulling her knees to her chest.“Now, though, all I keep wondering is…was he ever really there?You know?Was he ever really thinking about me, or just some guy?”

              The silence seems to be waiting for my answer.“Maybe,” I say carefully, licking the wine from my lips, “it’s not that black-and-white.Maybe it’s just more complicated than that.”

              Fiona finishes the bowl.“Maybe,” she says, though I can’t tell if she buys it.“How about you?You got a boyfriend?”

              I shake my head.“Not lately.”

              “Yeah?”She puffs the smoke from the side of her mouth.“What happened?”

              The wine is really kicking in; I realize, all at once, I’ve had at least half the bottle.My words tumble forward.“He lied to me about his whole life, basically.That he had a daughter, that he’d been an alcoholic…then he framed me for theft.”

              “Ouch.”Fiona lies back on the chaise, her hair fanned dramatically around her.“Yours wins.”

              “Nah.”I wave her off.“Unequivocal.”

              “You still love him?”

              I know my answer is yes, but I take a minute to answer, like I have to think about it.“Yeah.I don’t know why, but I do.”

              “Would you take him back?”

              “Honestly?”I prop my head in my hand, resting on the armrest.“I have no idea.I mean, on the one hand, I love him—I can’t turn it off.And the sex was incredible, the best I’ve ever had and probably will ever have.”A fleeting memory crosses my mind—our first sexual encounter, the day he ambushed me in the stables at the ranch; the chills surging through my muscles as he’d worked his fingers against my G-spot—and I almost whimper from it, right in front of Fiona.I bite my lip and hold back.

              “But,” I finish, “he hurt me.More than I can forgive right now, if ever.And I don’t think I could forget it, even if I did forgive him.”

              The truth hangs in the air between us.I wait for the world to crash around me, but of course, it doesn’t.I’ve known the truth all this time; I just didn’t want to admit it.

              Fiona gives me a gentle smile.“Thanks, Erin…for talking to me.I don’t have many friends at school.”She bites her lip.“Any friends, really.”

              “Me neither.”

              “How’s it happen?”Fiona laughs under her breath.“Winding up friendless?”

              She’s already shutting her eyes as she says it, the wine and weed making her sleepy.It’s a hypothetical, of course.But the jittery strangeness of being twice buzzed makes me want to answer, anyway.

              “Too busy to try,” I say quietly, “or…just not meeting the right people.People who get you.I think we grow up thinking friends just happen.But maybe they’re something you only get when a bunch of little things go right.”

              “Hmm,” Fiona answers, but I can’t tell if she agrees or thinks it’s insightful, or if she’s just drifting off and talking in her sleep.

              I tap out her bowl into the garden just outside the sunroom, then put it, along with the empty wine bottle, in the duffle she brought downstairs.Before I head back up, I whisper, “Goodnight.”Fiona snores in response.