Page 7

Thomas was standing outside Stone College’s Anton Building at eight fifteen the following morning when Reed Connolly’s class let out. The instant the art student slunk out from the door, Thomas stepped directly into his path.

“Excuse me,” said Reed, without looking up from his phone.

Thomas didn’t budge. “We need to talk.”

This got Reed’s attention. Recognition darkened his features as he slid his phone into his back pocket. “Ah, shit.”

“You know who I am?”

“Vivienne mentioned you, yeah.”

“Great,” said Thomas. “Then we can skip the introductions. You have a minute?”

Reed let out a long-suffering sigh and peered skyward, shutting one eye against the sun. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

A few students pushed out through the door and maneuvered around them, deep in conversation. Thomas didn’t move out of their way. Neither did Reed.

“Look,” he said, “I have another class I have to get to, so can we make this quick?”

“Sure. I don’t need much from you. I’m just wondering how you know Miss Farrow.”

“How I—” Reed’s eyebrows shot skyward. “We go to school together, sweetheart. It’s a pretty small creative arts program. Everyone knows everyone.”

His answer didn’t appease Thomas. He’d driven out to New Haven before the sun rose, his unease a hard clot in his veins and his thoughts playing in a feedback loop. He couldn’t stop picturing Vivienne’s tear-tracked face, the glass on the floor and the blood in the sink—her trembling hands as she folded them into an admission:

I’ve been having a hard time.

He doubled down. “The other day, one of her friends made it sound like the two of you were together.”

“ Together? Me and Viv?” Reed laughed. “Not a chance. Princess Vivienne is a little too high-maintenance for my tastes.”

“She’s too good for you.” The words sawed out of him, propelled by an irrational, blistering anger.

“Is she?” Reed whistled. “Interesting. I wasn’t under the impression the Farrows paid you to have opinions.”

“I know you’re more than classmates,” said Thomas, ignoring the dig. “You texted Vivienne the other day and asked if she’s ready to die.”

“You went through her phone? Aren’t you just going above and beyond the call of fucking duty.” Reed tucked a wide leather portfolio under his arm, elbowing past Thomas as he did. “On second thought, I’m out of here. I don’t need this.”

But Thomas wasn’t done. He moved without thinking, palming Reed firmly in the chest. The art student slammed into the stacked mortar of the building’s entryway. Several curious heads turned their way, but no one intervened.

“What the hell?” snapped Reed.

“We’re not finished.”

“ Relax .” Reed peeled Thomas’s hand off him. “You’re a glorified babysitter, not a private detective.”

“I’m whatever Vivienne needs me to be.”

“Wrong,” said Reed. “You’re whatever Daddy Farrow pays you to be. I mean, don’t you feel even the slightest bit pathetic? You’re like his own personal attack dog. I’m surprised you’re not wearing a collar.”

“Funny,” Thomas said. “Speaking of Vivienne’s stepfather, he’s concerned she’s hanging out with the wrong crowd.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he is. Let me guess—you assume I’m the ‘wrong crowd’ he was referring to. What a cliché.”

“I haven’t assumed anything. I’m just asking questions.”

“You haven’t asked one yet.”

“You’re right,” said Thomas. “Let’s fix that—who’s Grayson?”

Reed smirked. “A self-important narcissist with a God complex the size of a gas planet.”

“I didn’t ask you to write sonnets about the guy,” snapped Thomas. “I just want to know who he is to Vivienne.”

“Can’t tell you.” Reed shrugged. “Maybe you should try asking Viv, since the two of you are so close. Oh wait, she can’t stand you, can she? That’s why you’re here harassing me instead of talking to her yourself.”

Thomas’s low-simmering temper rose to a boil. He fitted his fists into the pockets of his shorts and did what he could to douse the fire.

Walk away , said the calmer, more rational part of him.

Finish it , said the other, louder part.

He did. “I want you to stay away from her.”

“Who? Vivienne?”

“Yeah.” He had no business saying so. He knew it. Reed knew it. He doubled down, anyway. “Don’t take her calls. Don’t answer her texts.”

Reed laughed. “Fat chance of that, dickwad. If Vivienne contacts me, I’ll be there. I’m not about to ghost her just because you’ve got a crush.”

It felt as though Reed had reached into his chest and tugged something vital from beneath his ribs. Something small and raw and beating, not meant for the light of day.

“I won’t say it again,” he said mildly. “Stay the hell away from Vivienne.”

Reed looked amused. “Or what?”

“I’ll make your life a living hell.”

“Sure you will.” Reed ducked past him with a two-fingered salute, heading out into the sunlit lot. “I hate to break it to you, Walsh,” he called as he went, “but I’m above your pay grade.”

···

By the time Thomas made it back to Greenwich, the sun was nearly at the midday point in the sky. He nodded to the landscapers as he made his way up the circular drive and then spent several minutes fending off the dogs in the Farrows’ cavernous foyer.

Philip’s car was gone, the office empty. Amelia was nowhere to be seen. Thomas toed off his shoes in the mudroom, listening for signs of Vivienne. The house was quiet, which wasn’t unusual. His phone sounded in his pocket and he slid it out, killing the ringtone as he made his way through the house’s mausoleum cold.

“Tess,” he said, answering on the second ring.

“God, Tommy,” said his sister, “I’ve been calling you all morning.”

“I was dealing with something at work. Is Mom okay?”

“Mom is fine. Why is it that I can only call if Mom is having an emergency?”

“I didn’t say that,” he said, pushing into his room. “Your texts made it sound like it was urgent.”

“It is urgent.” He heard the rustle of snack packaging. “The first paycheck from your weird new boss dropped in the bank account.”

“Good.” He stood in the door and studied the sparse decor of his room, the hairs standing on the back of his neck. Something was off. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call the collection company tomorrow and get a few of the bills paid off.”

“It’s a lot of money, Tommy.”

In the carpeted hush, there came a distinctive snip . The quiet click of metal on metal. Thomas froze.

“Tommy? Hello?”

His sister had asked him a question, but it hadn’t registered. He was too busy staring at the closet. The door sat ajar, a sliver of dark visible from where he stood. He was certain he’d shut it before he left.

“To-ommy,” Tessa sang.

“Yeah, what?”

“I asked if you’re working as a male escort.”

He took a step closer to the closet. “No.”

“You don’t have to whore yourself out. Uncle Ryan says he has tons of projects for you. There’s plenty of roofs to shingle right here in Worcester.”

Another metallic snip followed the first. This time, Thomas recognized the unmistakable click of scissors.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Tommy, wait—”

He hung up.

Setting his phone on the dresser, he picked his way across the room. The perfect stillness that emanated from the closet’s interior made him doubt whether he’d heard anything at all. But then there it came again—not a snip this time, but a sigh. He pried open the door hard enough to send the strawberry-printed tulle of Vivienne’s dress fluttering around her thighs.

She stood in the mess of his closet, ankle-deep in ribbons of white. Gone was all evidence of the previous night. Her hair fell around her shoulders in soft curls, the front pieces tied back with a large pink ribbon. Her face had been scrubbed clean of tears, and the pink puff sleeves of her dress covered up the shallow lacerations in her wrist. In her right hand sat a pair of sleek silver sewing scissors. In her left was one half of a black silk tie, the end shorn at an angle.

For several seconds, he stood perfectly still and took in the damage. The closet was in shambles, the wire hangers empty on their racks. His ties were in tatters. Buttons dotted the floor in pearlescent coins. He wondered how many thousands of dollars of her stepfather’s money she’d just destroyed.

And it was just that—Philip’s money. Thomas couldn’t have afforded this closet full of suits in a thousand years. He couldn’t have afforded the tie for one of these suits. He’d made that clear well before agreeing to take the job, and in return Philip Farrow had agreed to outfit him in an entirely new wardrobe.

She let the tie flutter to the floor, handing him the scissors as though he’d asked for them.

Was that your girlfriend? she signed, index fingers hooking one over the other.

He set the scissors onto a barren shelf. “Who?”

On the phone.

“Sure.” He surveyed the damage at their feet. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

You too. Her brows pinched together. Don’t ever speak to my friends without my permission.

“That’s what this is about? You’re upset with me for talking to Reed Connolly?”

You went after him.

“I didn’t go after him , Vivienne.” He took a step toward her, shredded shirts bunching around his feet. “What, did he call you and tattle?”

You harassed him.

“ Harassed is a strong word. We had a conversation.”

You shoved him into a brick wall.

He had done that. Shame tunneled into him—not because he regretted what he’d done, but because he hadn’t meant for her to find out. He knew it was the exact wrong way to feel, and yet he couldn’t stop himself feeling it. He didn’t bother to try.

“Something has you scared,” he said. “You can’t expect me to do nothing.”

Anger sparked in the hard amber of her eyes. It is not your job to baby me.

“I’m not babying you,” he said, indignant. “I’m—”

But he didn’t know what he was doing. He was punching blind. He was chasing shadows. He was, above all else, getting in too deep. This was meant to be a paycheck. A paycheck . Philip hadn’t asked him to drive out to New Haven and accost some unsuspecting art student. He’d done that all on his own.

“I have a question for you,” he said, pivoting. “Who’s Grayson?”

If she was surprised to hear the name, she didn’t show it. Who I spend my time with is none of your business.

“I disagree,” he said. “Everything you do is my business.”

Too late, he heard how he’d sounded. The silence crackled between them.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, backpedaling.

Yes, you did.

“I just meant to say—”

Stop. She held out a hand . You and I are not friends. I don’t belong to you. I don’t answer to you. I don’t need you to defend me or take care of me or come to my rescue. You are the hired help. You’re supposed to interpret when I ask you. Drive me when I need you. The rest of the time, you’re invisible.

He took his licks in silence, too keyed up to speak. They’d drawn closer as she lectured him. The space between them sparked like lit kindling. This, he knew, was also wrong. The right thing to do would be to send her away. If her mother stumbled on the two of them cloistered in the dark, he’d be thrown out so fast his head would spin.

“Was there anything else?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Great.” He stepped out of her way. “There’s the door.”

With a sniff, she waded through the mess of dress shirts and out into his bedroom. He followed, pulling the door shut behind him. Vivienne paused by the dresser, where his meager belongings sat in a line. The patron saint medallion his mother had gifted him for graduation. The tie he’d borrowed from his uncle. The cuff links he’d worn to his father’s funeral. She ran a fingertip over them each in turn, as though memorizing their texture. He felt it like a physical touch.

P-h-i-l-i-p won’t be happy with you , she signed when she noticed him looking.

“Why is that?”

He expects everyone on his staff to follow the dress code.

“Yeah? Should we tell him who destroyed my suits?”

She cut him a fleeting, conspiratorial glance. Must have been a mouse.

His laugh came out in a wry heh . “Cute.”

I’m sure he’ll buy you even nicer suits , she added . He’s very invested in you. She lifted his chain and inspected the medallion, turning it this way and that, so that the sword of Saint Michael the Archangel glinted in the sun. He felt that, too. His pulse gave a hard thump. Her gaze shot to his, as though she’d heard it. She set the necklace down.

You’re still going to be in trouble.

“Am I?”

A new wardrobe will take days to deliver. You need something today.

“What do you mean? There’s nothing on the schedule.”

False. She swiped her finger along the tip of her nose. I have a date.

“A date.” He didn’t have a word for the thing with thorns inside his chest. “When’s that happening?”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. The sound was punctuated instantly by the deep baying of the dogs. Vivienne smiled sweetly.

Right now.

So this was what she’d been doing in his closet. He’d assumed her actions were a response to his trip to New Haven. A little bit of melodrama. An act of petty vengeance.

He’d assumed wrong.

It was sabotage.

She pulled open the door and sashayed out into the hall, peering back over her shoulder at him as she went. I’ll need an interpreter. H-u-d-s-o-n doesn’t sign.

“Hudson,” he said aloud . “He sounds like an asshole.”

The doorbell rang again.

Looks like you don’t have anything to wear. The corners of her mouth turned down into a faux pout. That’s very unprofessional, T-o-m-m-y.

The bedroom door fell shut. He was left alone in the quiet.