The One That Got Away (2 page)

Of course, the death threats were just about the best book promotion money couldn’t buy.

If anyone had told him five years ago that he’d be living with a death sentence hanging over his head, he’d have laughed.

He still had trouble believing it.

But checking the street before he stepped outside, triple locking his doors, keeping his curtains drawn at night and traveling with a bodyguard had all become second nature for him the past year, ever since he’d first received the threats.

This wasn’t his first time appearing on TV to talk about the political fallout from his novel, but today he felt more uneasy than he usually did, and he couldn’t say why. He’d looked out his hotel room window that morning at the gray London sky and felt a bleak mood settle over him along with a more familiar restlessness. Probably the black mood and the edginess were inherited from his father.

The terrorist attacks in London in the past year only added to the anxiety that niggled constantly at the back of his mind.

But no matter. He was here, and he had his book to promote.
Seven Grains of Sand
had just come out in trade paperback a year after its hardcover release, and he wasn’t going to cower in fear. The story had to be told.

“And we’re on again in five, four, three, two, one…”

“Today we’re here with American expatriate author Marcus Kastanos, talking about his controversial novel
Seven Grains of Sand,
and the death threats issued against him as a result of the book’s publication.”

The host, a man named Liam Parkinson, paused as the live audience applauded. Then he turned to Marcus.

“Thank you for joining us, Marcus.”

“Glad to be here.”

“As I read your book, I found myself wondering what led you to write a story about a Muslim woman struggling to shed her family’s traditions. I’m guessing the book wasn’t inspired by personal experience.”

Marcus forced himself to grin at the question he’d already answered a million times. “In a sense, it
was
personal experience that led me to tell this story. I was involved in my twenties with a woman whose life wasn’t unlike the heroine’s in my novel. Her story always haunted me, and I’ve never been able to shake the anger I felt on her behalf when I listened to her describe what she’d gone through as a child growing up with the painful effects of female circumcision.”

“Ah, yes. One of the more graphic parts of the novel—your description of that brutal procedure. Did you do any firsthand research?”

“Most of my research came from my former lover, who encouraged me to write the book, and medical and journalistic articles. I also had several people more familiar with the process than I am read the book for accuracy.”

“And what about the now famous death threats? How has your life changed since you first received them?”

Another predictable question, but one Marcus couldn’t really answer without putting himself in further danger.

“I’m a bit limited in where I go and what I do these days. I’ve also scratched all plans to travel to certain Middle Eastern or African countries.”

Uneasy laughter from the audience.

“And how do you feel about—” The host’s question was interrupted by the sounds of a scuffle in the audience and raised voices.

Marcus peered in that direction and caught the glint of light off metal. This couldn’t be happening. Before he could react, the first shot exploded. Then another, and another.

Searing pain in his chest registered only after he was thrown backward against the chair.

In the uproar that followed, his sense of reality became a series of fractured images.

A hand. A leg.

The overhead lights were too bright.

Hey. He was lying down? Why?

Shouting. People all around him were shouting. He had to get up. See what the noise was about.

Ouch.
Moving hurt.

His chest, wet and warm. And so painful.

Had he been shot?

He closed his eyes. Yeah. That was better. The noise and pain faded.

He was a kid. Playing. But where? Right. The commune. Oregon. That was chill, man.

No. Not Oregon. Amsterdam. High school. He was so mad. Just so pissed off at the world and his useless father. Didn’t get out of bed for days. Depressed. Whatever.

Bed. Bed… Nice. All those hot girls. Berkeley. Good times. Classes. Lit. All those beautiful words. Pulling him in. Inspiring him…

Pounding out that stupid novel. Hours at the freaking computer. Hated it. Every painful second. But he had to do it…even if it hurt.

No. His
chest
hurt.

And why was it so cold? So freaking cold, and the lights…

The stupid glaring lights…

He closed his eyes.

Just let him sleep.

Marcus opened his eyes to see a nurse staring down at him. “Mr. Kastanos, can you hear me?”

He tried to say yes, but only a faint croak emerged from his throat. He struggled to work his head up and down in some semblance of a nod.

“Good. You’re at Queen’s Hospital. You’ve received a gunshot wound, but you’re going to be okay.”

Received
a gunshot wound?

She made it sound as if he’d been given an award for good behavior.

“Marcus, thank God you’re okay,” said a voice from behind the nurse.

A familiar face hovered over her shoulder.

Who was that guy? He searched for a name to attach to the face.

Graham?

Yeah, that was right. Graham something. The publicist his publisher had hired.

Was
he okay? Marcus wondered, struggling to sit up.

It was hardly the word he would have chosen for the way he felt.

“Mr. Kastanos,” the nurse said, pressing gently on his shoulder. “I’ll send the doctor in to speak with you in a bit. For now, please keep yourself supine and try to rest.”

She exited the room, leaving Graham to stare down at him. After waking up in a hospital bed, Marcus really felt that someone he loved should have been hovering over him with a worried look. Not his publicist, a man with a bulbous nose and the ugliest tie Marcus had ever seen. He’d only met the guy a week ago.

Maybe if he pretended to be asleep again, the publicist would go away. He wanted someone else here.

But who would he even call? Who would come?

Annika?

Where was Annika? He tried to remember. As a foreign correspondent, she traveled a lot.

Oh, now he remembered. She was in Beirut.

Not likely she’d drop everything and come rushing to his bedside, especially if he was, as the nurse had said, going to be okay.

“That was a right close one, old boy. But the doctor says the bullet went straight through you, missed all the messy bits and came out the other side.”

“The bullet?” he tried to say, but his voice was a croaky whisper.

“What’s that?” Graham said, leaning in closer.

“What
bullet?
” This time his voice was slightly more audible.

“You do remember being shot, don’t you?”

No. Well, maybe… The flurry of fragmented images in his mind started to make sense.

“Do you remember being on the set of
London Daily?
”

Marcus nodded.

“And do you recall anything that happened—”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes as the memories came hurtling back at him, bringing with them a wave of nausea.

“They caught the bugger, you’ll be glad to hear. He’s in police custody.”

Marcus struggled to formulate the question. “How’d he get a gun…inside…with all the security?”

“Unfortunately, the station’s security weren’t using metal detectors, so it wouldn’t have been difficult to conceal a gun.”

“No metal detectors?”

With his public appearance and the death threats issued against him?

“Sorry, old boy. Salman Rushdie was here just last year without incident and has a fatwa on his head. I suppose that made everyone a bit lackadaisical.”

Graham pulled up a chair close to the bed and sat down, then made a loud snorting sound and cleared his throat.

Charming.

“Say, do you want me to call anyone?” he offered. “Family? Friends? Let them know what’s happened?”

Marcus closed his eyes. He didn’t want to lie here staring at Graham, but he didn’t want to be alone right now, either. Yet he had no family, no wife, no girlfriend unless he counted Annika, and he wasn’t sure she wanted to be counted. How could he have never realized before that their relationship was pretty much a long-distance sex-buddy arrangement?

He couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to jump on a plane and hurry to his side. Sure, he had friends, but…

The reality was, none of his friends were close enough to stay by his bedside.

Not a one.

And he knew why.

He left people behind. It was what he did, what he’d always done. It protected him from ever getting too close to anyone.

And now he had exactly what he’d always thought he wanted—no one. No emotional ties. He’d succeeded at keeping everyone who ever might have gotten close at an impossible distance.

For the first time in years, he wished he hadn’t.

“It’ll be on the news,” he finally said. “Anyone who cares can see it there.”

But who would care, when there wasn’t a person in the world who would beckon him to rush to his or her side in a crisis? He supposed he should feel lucky he had his paid publicist to keep him company now. Graham was better than no one.

“Excuse me?” she said calmly.

“You got rotting window frames, termite damage, a fifty-year-old roof, water damage, a master bath that needs major work—”

“I’m aware of all that. I told you about those problems over the phone, and I also told you this house has a sound structure that I think is worth preserving.”

“Not with them termites.” The balding, sun-weathered man tucked the pen he’d been scribbling with in the front pocket of his white T-shirt, and tore an estimate sheet from his note pad.

“There’s not a house around here that doesn’t have termite damage,” Ginger argued. “Mine is limited to parts of the structure that can easily be repaired.”

“Far as we
know,
it is. I’m just saying, this ain’t gonna be a cheap job by any means. You might be better off starting over at the foundation.”

Was the man being honest, or was this just his shtick for seemingly gullible female clients with limited knowledge of home renovations, who’d then rush to pay a fortune for his services?

She looked from him to the house, and they both stood staring up at the slightly sagging roof of the 1920s cottage on Promise Lake that Ginger had bought six months ago. She’d spent her life savings on the little house that was long on charm and short on practical features like central heating and insulation. But there was no way she could finance a full teardown.

“Um, well, thanks for your professional opinion,” she said, deadpan.

Thanks a freaking million.

“Just callin’ it like I see it.”

“What does that mean for my leaky windows?” she dared to ask, already wincing at the anticipated monetary hit.

“Here’s my estimate, but like I said…”

Ginger glanced at the figure he pointed to on the sheet and resisted the urge to throttle the man in his Winchell’s Contracting shirt. She gritted her teeth and nodded.

It was a moment before she could speak. “Okay then. Guess I’ll have to give that some thought,” she finally murmured.

“Let me know if you decide to go forward with the repairs. My schedule fills up fast, so I’ll need at least a month’s notice, maybe more.”

When Ginger was alone, she tore her forlorn stare away from the house that had become a money sink, and turned toward the closest neighbor’s house. She wanted to talk to Ruby right now to get a bit of perspective. Ruby had known this house for decades, first as the owner and then as a neighbor. She’d know if it really required tearing down or if Mr. Winchell was just trying to drum up big-money work from a new-to-town greenhorn.

Ginger crossed the yard and went through the gate of the white picket fence that surrounded her elderly neighbor’s property. Reaching the front steps, she was surprised not to see the older woman already peering out the front door, nosy as ever.

“Ruby?” she called through the open living room window. “Are you there?”

No answer.

“Ruby?” Ginger called again as she knocked on her neighbor’s door.

Normally, no more than a single knock was required. Ruby tended to hover near the window at the slightest sign of guests, ready to pounce at the doorknob. With all of her family either dead or living too far away to drop by for an impromptu visit, the older woman relied upon neighbors like Ginger and friends from town for companionship.

Ginger made a point of checking in on Ruby every other day or so if their paths hadn’t crossed for some reason. Ruby had quickly become like a grandmother to her during her short time in Promise.

She could hear the TV in the living room blaring, but detected no other signs of life.

Ginger tried the front door and found it locked. She knew Ruby tended to leave the rear door standing open to let in fresh air, so she circled the house, peering in windows, a sense of dread growing in her belly. No sign of Ruby, but when she reached the back door, she could hear water running in the hallway bathroom. She peered through the screen door and saw that water was pooling on the hardwood floor of the hallway.

“Hello? Ruby?” she called, more urgently now, trying the handle of the screen door and finding it, too, locked.

Her heart pounded as she jerked at the flimsy plastic handle, willing it to release. Finally, she gave it a mighty jerk with all her weight, and the latch snapped open, allowing her inside. She raced through the kitchen to the hallway, stepping carefully over the pooling water and into the bathroom, where she could see Ruby sitting on the floor in a green terry-cloth robe.

She was conscious, leaning against the bathroom wall. Water flowed over the top of the tub and onto the white linoleum floor around her.

“Ruby, are you okay?” Ginger said as she stepped around her and turned off the water.

“Oh? Hmm?” Ruby looked up at her. “What are you doing here, Ginger?”

She knelt down next to the older woman, her throat tight and her heart pounding. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Oh dear.” Ruby frowned, looking more annoyed than hurt. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Did you fall?”

“It’s just terrible getting old.” Her neighbor sounded disgusted.

“Have you hit your head?” Maybe Ruby was disoriented from a fall. That would explain why she was just sitting there while water flooded her hallway.

“No, no. I forgot I was filling the tub for my bath, and when I came in, my feet went right out from under me.”

“Did you hit anything on the way down?”

“Only my tailbone. I’ve been sitting here trying to decide if I feel like getting up again.”

“Let me get some towels and dry the floor first, okay?”

Ginger opened the bathroom cabinet and pulled out an armful of towels, which she scattered on the floor around Ruby. Then she began sopping up the water. Ten towels later, she had the bathroom and hallway floors dry and had created a mound of sopping-wet towels in the now-drained tub.

“Okay, ready to stand up?”

It was disconcerting to see Ruby, normally spry and energetic, sitting on the floor looking so vulnerable. It reminded Ginger far too much of the other losses she’d suffered in her life—her parents, her grandmother. She didn’t want to lose Ruby on top of everyone else.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” the elderly woman said as she extended her hands for help.

“My lips are sealed.” Ginger knelt, placed her arms under Ruby’s and carefully lifted her. She was surprised at how light the woman felt.

“I’m soaked,” Ruby grumbled, sounding a little more like her old self.

“How does your tailbone feel? Do you think you can stand unsupported?”

“Let’s give it a try.”

Ginger let go, keeping her hands close in case Ruby became unsteady again. But she was standing firm, trying to straighten her soggy robe.

“Okay, now let’s find you some dry clothes.”

Her neighbor waved away the offer of help. “I’m fine. You go make us some tea and I’ll get dressed.”

“I’d better walk you to the bedroom,” Ginger insisted, not convinced she could manage on her own. But Ruby was already elbowing past her, unwilling to be treated like an invalid.

Ginger gave a sigh of relief. That was more like the woman she knew and loved. She followed her down the hall to find the bedroom door swinging shut in her face.

“Let me know if you need any help,” she called, then went back to the kitchen. The living room television was still on, and could be heard throughout the house, blaring the latest headlines on CNN. Ruby claimed the noise kept her company.

Ginger checked the kettle for water and turned on the burner under it. Then she got out cups, saucers, sugar and milk.

A moment later, Ruby came into the kitchen, already dressed.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess—haven’t had a chance to do my hair yet.” She patted at the unyielding white bob that appeared only slightly less kempt than usual.

“You look fine,” Ginger assured her. “I want you to let me know if you start to feel bad because of your fall. I’ll take you to the E.R. anytime you want, okay?”

Ruby waved a dismissive hand. “Would you stop fussing over me and tell me why you had that work truck in your driveway first thing this morning?”

“I had a contractor over to look at the house and give me an estimate on some repairs. He said I need to tear down the place and start over.”

Ruby scoffed. “These contractors—they all want your money. That house is as sturdy as the day it was built.”

“That’s exactly why I came over—to ask you what you thought.” Ruby had lived in the cottage as a child and had been its owner until she sold it to a family twenty years ago. The parents, as they’d aged, hadn’t kept up with repairs, and Ginger had bought the house from them knowing it was a fixer-upper—or at least that’s what she’d thought.

Now she knew the full extent of what that term meant.

Two months ago a leaky roof and window, a few weeks after that a burst pipe in the kitchen wall. Then the discovery of termites, and the most recent surprise—most of the wood floor in the bathroom and one closet was rotten and about to give way under the weight of the tub and sink.

But oh, how beautiful the house was. Its pale weathered wood siding and gingerbread trim had a charm completely absent from any other home she’d ever had, and she loved the place deep down, as if it were a family member. Which explained why she’d been so put off by the contractor. It was as if he were advising her to pull the plug on Grandma.

Before Ginger could thank Ruby for her reassurance, a familiar name blared into her consciousness from the TV in the living room. She perked up her ears.

…author of the controversial novel
Seven Grains of Sand,
shot on the set of a London morning news show…

Marcus? Had they just said Marcus Kastanos?

Her Marcus?

Shot?

That’s exactly what the report had said.

The news ricocheted around her brain for a startled moment, before her heart began beating double time and the reality of the words sank in.

She swung around and hurried into the living room, where the TV assaulted her with more awful details.

Terrorist…death threats…book tour…condition unknown…

The television screen now displayed a photo of the only man she’d ever loved, while the reporter stated the facts so dispassionately, they couldn’t be real. None of this could be true.

Marcus.

Shot by a terrorist.

Condition unknown.

Suspect in custody…

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

As if she were the one who had been shot, a fast-forward movie of her friendship with Marcus played in her mind. Poetry readings, lazy coffee shop Sundays, hiking Mount Diablo, laughing at episodes of
The Simpsons,
daydreaming about being great writers someday…

“Are you okay, dear?” Ruby said from what felt like miles away. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

But she couldn’t reply. She’d been propelled backward into her early twenties, when she’d been a naive girl in love with an undeserving guy. Her love for him had been deep, and heady, but completely foolish. She knew that now.

“Ginger, dear? What on earth is wrong?” Ruby sounded seriously concerned.

“I know him,” she murmured.

“What’s that?”

Ruby didn’t have the best of hearing, and Ginger hadn’t spoken loudly enough to be heard over the TV. The anchor had now moved on to a report about the latest financial news.

“I know him,” she said again.

Ginger’s heart continued to pound double time. She had to get away from the noise of the television, so she walked past Ruby, back into the kitchen.

“You know
who?
” her neighbor asked, following her. “That fellow on the news?”

“Marcus Kastanos. We were best friends in college.”

“Well, isn’t that the living end.” Ruby frowned sympathetically. “I do hope he’s okay.”

Ginger had known about Marcus’s controversial first novel—she’d read it, and thought it was brilliant—and also about the threats. She’d been afraid for him, but she’d never imagined…

It didn’t seem possible.

Marcus, whom she hadn’t seen since college, was frozen in time for her, still the laid-back man-child she’d known and loved. But they’d lost touch. Marcus had never come back to the United States from his postgrad trip, and Ginger knew little more about his life than what she’d read in the author bio on his book jacket.

She’d last e-mailed him a year ago, a brief congratulations on his new book, to which he’d sent her a friendly but cursory reply. It hurt to be reminded how far apart they’d grown, so she hadn’t made any effort to keep up the correspondence. It was easier not to.

Her hands shaking, she pulled a chair out from the table and sagged into it.

“You just take a few deep breaths,” Ruby suggested in a voice meant to comfort. “I’ll get you some water.”