Set Me Free (22 page)

K
aye dropped
a stack of dirty plates onto the counter and glanced sidelong at me. She gave me a slight nod.

I nodded back, biting my lip, and stepped out of the kitchen into the crowd at the bar. I’d convinced Bill to roll out a few more appetizers and tap some new kegs, and it had brought in even more people than I’d hoped.

I caught a glimpse of Officer Lacroix in the crowd, his gaze fixed on me. He’d been waiting for me to come back out onto the restaurant floor, waiting for me to do what I’d promised—or threatened—to do, days ago.

I straightened my shoulders and crossed to my new table, my pulse pounding.

“What a delightful surprise.” James Emory smiled up at me, as distinguished as ever in a navy tie and shining cufflinks. No blonde companion was with him this time. It was now or never—before I lost my nerve. Before Owen left the island forever.

“Your usual?” I asked.

He inclined his head slightly. “Please.”

A moment later, I brought him a Manhattan, courtesy of Andy, who was bartending tonight. I also brought Kaye’s camera.

I hadn’t told her why I’d needed to borrow it. I hadn’t told anyone the details, apart from Lacroix. Not even Owen. Especially not Owen.

“Perfect, as always.” James sipped his Manhattan. “What do you have there?” he added in a tone of polite interest, nodding at the camera.

For a moment, consumed by fear of what I was about to do, I couldn’t speak.

All around us, the bar went on just the same: a group of people laughed; a song ended on the overhead speakers, and another began; someone dropped a dish and Andy called out that he’d get it.

With shaking hands, I switched the camera on. “I have something to show you.”

“Of course,” James said graciously.

I loaded the photos I’d taken and scrolled to the painting of Suzanna standing on the city street and the man watching her from the shadows. I turned the camera’s screen towards him.

He gazed down at it, but his expression didn’t flicker. “What’s this?”

“It’s a painting. One of Suzanna White’s. And this man here, in the doorway, looks quite a lot like you.”

James shrugged. “You think so?”

I knew so. I could see it with my own eyes. But I tried a different tack, scrolling to the second painting: the seascape of the setting sun, from Mrs. Gautier’s gallery. “This is another Suzanna White. The mate to this one was lost in the fire at the Artist’s Lodge.”

A woman at the high-top table to my right glanced quickly over her shoulder, her expression perplexed. She looked back at the woman with her, and I thought she might have mouthed:
Suzanna White?

James gave no sign that he’d noticed. “No idea,” he said lightly.

This time, wordlessly, I showed him the painting I’d found behind the big, blue tears. It showed James standing on the bow of a small but beautiful yacht, gripping the high, metal railing and casting a dashing smile down towards the dock. He looked like a catalog model, but the sky was ominous and dark, spattering rain across his buttoned-up shirt. In comparison to James’ cheerful expression, the mood of the painting was tortured.

I had always assumed Suze fell from a little fishing boat. There were tons of them around the island, after all. But the boat had never been found. What if it hadn’t been a little fishing boat after all? What if it had been a yacht—small enough for just one man to captain, but big enough to go a long way out into the stormy sea at nighttime?

“I have no idea what this one is, either,” James said, his voice hardening. “These have nothing to do with me.”

“You aren’t familiar with your own ex’s portraits of you?”

He did not respond, did not react at all.

“Let me help you remember,” I said. “You met Suze through her art, and started seeing her in secret.” I switched back to the seascape, painted a year after its mate. “Your affair continued for about a year, but then—I wonder if Suze wanted to go back to Owen. To be faithful to him, like she’d promised.”

The woman at the next table glanced at us again, and so did her friend. I marshaled my courage. I was not alone. I was strong. I could do this.

James’ mouth was a hard, flat line, his expression bored and annoyed. He sipped his Manhattan again, but for the first time, his hand trembled.

“You tried—tried to convince her to stay, I think,” I said. “You took her out on your yacht again, where she painted this sunset. And to New York, to show her around your auction house. But it wasn’t enough. How could it be?”

James’ gaze flicked up towards me suddenly. Just for a second, I caught a glimpse of sorrow, deep in the darkness of his eyes.

“Tell me what happened to Suze.” I meant to command it, but instead, it was a plea.

People glanced at us curiously, shifting in their seats. Someone whispered, “Did she say Suze?”

He got to his feet—assertive, in control, every bit the authoritative businessman, except for the twitching pulse in his throat and the anguish in his eyes. I stepped back, clutching Kaye’s camera to my chest like a shield.

The whispered questions fell silent. Everyone in the pub stared at us: Muscles and Rusty, both sitting at the bar; Andy and Bill at the beer taps; Margot and Kaye by the kitchen. Even Emily, in the very front by the hostess stand, had her mouth hanging open.

“Did you love her?” I asked him, my voice hoarse.

Seconds ticked by. James cast a quick look around the pub. He tucked his hands into his arms and shook his head.

“James,” I whispered.

He swallowed. A tear welled in the corner of one eye, and he dashed it away on the cuff of his sleeve. It caught on his cufflink and glimmered there, just for a moment, before it vanished.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly.

“Try me.”

“I could’ve had anyone,” he said. “But I only wanted her, and she wouldn’t have me. Not—not—”

“Not
just
you.”

“Not just me.” He bowed his head. “And then—not me at all. She left me. Rejected me, the same way you did. You…remind me of her, you know,” he added suddenly, his eyes searching my face. “In a strange way, I think you are almost like her echo.”

“I’m much more than that.”

He nodded distractedly. “I could’ve taken such good care of her, if she’d let me. She could’ve been famous across the world. Had her work displayed in the best museums. I could’ve given her everything she wanted.”

“But she didn’t want you.” She’d wanted her freedom and independence more than she’d wanted any man, even Owen. Perhaps she’d wanted freedom even more than success—she had never asked to be Beloved By All.

“You’re right,” James said. “She did not want me.”

“Tell me,” I said urgently. “If you cared about her at all. If you care about her spirit. Tell me what happened.”

“She was going to
leave
me,” he said, as if even now, he could hardly believe it. “We were out on the yacht late one night, and she said…she said it was over for good. I was so angry, I wasn’t thinking—I slapped her. It was raining, and the dock was wet. She slipped…she fell over the side.”

I’d expected to hear something like this—but it still hurt, deep and visceral. I could almost see Suze, standing on the bow of the yacht, surrounded by the stormy sea. James, his hand raised in the darkness. I could feel her determination to leave him, followed so quickly by shock, and terror. And I couldn’t help thinking about Rhys, pinning me to the floor, snarling:
God damn it, Miranda, I will teach you how to behave if it’s the last thing I do.

“I went in after her,” James said. “I looked for her for hours, but…” His voice cracked. Despite his expensive clothes, his perfect gym body, he looked very old and tired. Another tear rolled down his jawline. “There was nothing I could do. She was gone.”

“But you could’ve
told
someone. Even if you couldn’t have found her yourself, you could have called for help—”

“I was afraid,” James murmured, more to himself. “I was still young. I had so much to live for.”

“
You
were young? What about Suze and Owen?”

James laughed bitterly. “Larsen could’ve died in jail for all I cared. She was leaving me for him.”

“The trial, the threats, the pipe bomb—”

“It wasn’t my fault he was indicted.” His face flushed. “I didn’t frame him; it just
happened
. Why should I have interfered with it?”

I stared at him, my skin crawling.

“Look—I hired him after he was acquitted, didn’t I? It was as much as he deserved.”

“You hired him to work on your house. And you think that makes you, what—even?”

“I told you I don’t care!” James snapped. “I only cared about Suze! She was the only one—the only one—”

His hands wrapped around the edge of the high top, and he hurled it downwards. I jumped backwards instinctively, and the table crashed to the floor at my feet, slicing a line into the hardwood. Everyone in the pub gasped. My heart slammed against my ribs, but I glared up at James, refusing to let him scare me.

Before I could say anything, a huge figure loomed behind him.

Owen.

His face was stark, his mouth grim. I hadn’t seen him come into the pub. I had no idea when he’d gotten here, or how much he’d heard, but from his expression, it must have been enough.

I had never meant for him to find out like this, in front of everyone.

Owen shot me a quick glance, then clamped his hand down on James’ shoulder. James’ eyes widened as he glanced behind him. “Larsen, wait—”

Owen punched him in the face. James staggered and fell, taking a chair down with him and landing in the crook of the table he’d knocked over. He stared up at Owen with fear in his eyes and blood trickling from his nose.

A muscle in Owen’s jaw twitched. “You are lucky,” he said quietly, “that you didn’t clip her with that table. Or I would’ve killed you for it. And wouldn’t that have been
fucking ironic
?”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” James gasped.

Owen crossed his big arms over his chest, scowling. But I could see the ache in the corners of his eyes, the line of his mouth.

Chair legs scraped against the floor, deafening in the silent pub. At the bar, Lacroix stood up, and from where he’d been hidden behind Muscles’ considerable bulk, so did the Chief of Police. Lacroix and the Chief, both in T-shirts and jeans, walked up to Owen where he towered over James. The Chief didn’t quite meet Owen’s eyes, but, clearing his throat, he clapped Owen on the back. “Nice hit, son.”

Owen’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, and so did mine.

The Chief and James looked at each other.

Wearily, James got to his feet, touching his swollen, bloody nose and wincing. “Michael,” he said to the Chief.

“James,” the Chief said coldly.

“Guess I’ll be going with you.”

“Guess so.”

While the Chief radioed for a police car to be sent over, Owen slipped past them and came to my side. He reached for me at first, then dropped his hands. “You all right?” he asked me roughly.

“I’m fine.”

He gave a curt nod.

People in the pub began to whisper to each other.
Let it finally be over
, I prayed.

“I don’t understand,” someone said from behind us, and I winced. Miserable Margot stood in the center of the pub, her hands on her hips. “I told you I’d seen Mr. Emory at Suze’s art shows. Why didn’t you investigate him then?”

My mouth fell open.

The Chief frowned. “There were a lot of leads.”

“You were so sure it was Owen,” Margot said. “You all were. The whole Department. And we just believed you.”

“The evidence—” the Chief began.

“
What
evidence?” said the woman with the big, blonde blowout, who was friends with Mrs. Gautier. “You had nothing, and you all knew it. But you made him go through two trials, anyway—
two
!”

“Now, look, the Department had nothing to do with that,” the Chief said. “That was Don’s decision.”

“Well, it was a stupid decision,” she retorted. Some people in the pub nodded when she said this, but others shook their heads. The words “James Emory” fluttered across the pub.

The front door opened, and two uniformed cops stepped inside. The Chief, with a last frown at Margot, put his hand on James’ arm and led him out the door.

I turned away before I could see if James would look back.

“I heard the poor boy got death threats for years,” someone in the pub was saying. “And the police didn’t do anything about it until that Scott Parker tried to blow him up.”

I glanced at Lacroix, who was picking up the table James had knocked over, and mouthed an apology. I knew how badly Lacroix felt about the death threats, and how hard he’d worked on Scott’s case since the bombing. He shook his head, his face shadowed with regret. The table set to rights, he turned to leave, but I caught his sleeve and pulled him into a quick hug.

“Thank you, Nick,” I told him. “It was brilliant of you to bring the Chief.”

“The man likes a good craft brew,” Lacroix said.

“Thank God for that.” I smiled wryly.

“Just wish I could’ve done more.”

I thanked him again and let him leave, then went back to Owen where he was standing with Kaye and Andy. All three were quiet and somber, while the pub buzzed with gossip all around them. Andy had his hand on Owen’s shoulder.

“M.,” Kaye said, when I joined them, “next time you ask to borrow my camera, I’m going to alert the press.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys what was going on.”

“I was wondering why Lacroix was hanging around so much,” Andy said. “I thought he had the hots for Kaye.”

Kaye rolled her eyes, but even this gentle lightheartedness felt raw and strained. She took a deep breath and cast Owen an anxious glance. “Owen, I’m sorry. I should have… I had no idea Suze knew that guy. James. I know nothing I can say will make it better, but I really am sorry.”

Owen looked down, his brow furrowing, but when he looked back up, his expression was kind. “It’s all right. Thanks.”

She gave him a wobbly, relieved smile, a little teary-eyed. Andy slung his arm across her shoulders and led her back towards the bar.