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“Try it on,” is all he says before leaving the room.
Later, in his study, he thinks about Taylor’s question: Why do you work for such a dangerous man? He could never tell her the truth. That he’s simply repaying a debt.
It’s funny, when someone dies, there’s this tendency to deify them. To make them perfect in every way. To completely ignore their shortcomings, their problems, their demons. But the truth of the matter was that Taylor’s mother had many shortcomings, many problems, many demons. It started with the Amazon packages, so many that every other day looked like Christmas. Then it was home shopping club. The mall. When he cut her off, she turned to a new addiction, sports betting apps. And when the credit cards got maxed out, she found her way to the casino. When he blocked her access to their accounts, she started playing through bookies on credit. Which led her to the world of Shane O’Leary.
Even after her cancer diagnosis, she continued. Michael found a GoFundMe campaign she’d sent to old high-school and college friends. It was supposed to go toward her medical expenses. But every dime went to that bookie.
And her debts didn’t die with her. It was only two weeks after her funeral when a man in a leather jacket stopped by Michael’s office. He explained how things worked. But they’d given Michael an out: Help Mr. O’Leary and the debt can go away.
So that’s how I got to work for such a dangerous man, sweetheart. It was my inheritance from your mother.
He’s startled by Taylor appearing in the doorway. She’s wearing the black dress. She’s been crying.
“I’m sorry, okay. I never thought he’d…”
Michael takes her in his arms. “It’s not your fault.” He holds her as she weeps. He brushes a tear from his own eye because he knows Shane O’Leary would never see it that way.
30
FLORENCE, ITALY
Ryan sits in the molded plastic seat at Peretola Airport, lost in his thoughts. The next flight to Heathrow is at eight. It cost 300 euros, so he used his credit card. He hates racking up debt. But he needs to do this. If she’s alive—which he cannot fully accept but cannot fully let go—he needs to find Pinky Man and make him tell the truth. Make him explain why she’s in danger, who are the dead men in the car, what really happened that night. He’s googled the name Peter Jones, the name in the B-and-B guest book. There’s a famous British entrepreneur with that name, but he looks nothing like Pinky Man. There’s also a department store in London called Peter Jones & Partners. It’s obvious that Pinky Man is using a fake name, a ubiquitous one that isn’t internet-search friendly.
Ryan also googled the town of Lackford. It’s an English hamlet, population 270. A farming community outside larger Bury Saint Edmunds. The Wiki page shows an old church. The town has a website, but it hasn’t been updated in two years based on the date of the last entry.
There’s a pub on the outskirts called Black Ditches, so that seems like a good place to start. In a town of fewer than three hundred, someone’s going to know a man missing both pinky fingers if he lives there. He could’ve used a false address in the B-and-B guest book. But why would he? He wouldn’t think Ryan would track him there. Ryan supposes he’ll find out soon enough.
The airport’s overhead speaker blares. Like in U.S. terminals, it’s distorted and unintelligible. More so because the voice is in Italian. But he spots travelers who look British—don’t ask him why, he’s not sure, they just do—head to the line to board, so he follows.
The thoughts come again. What’s he doing? This is nuts. He should call the police, go to Rome.
But who would believe him?
Nora. Nora does.
Maybe his parents would believe. Maybe his lawyer. But there’s nothing they can do so far away. And the Kansas cops? Can they even be trusted? He remembers Pinky Man mentioning the sheriff in Leavenworth.
On the plane, he closes his eyes and hopes for some sleep. But no such luck. It’s too uncomfortable. There’s not enough leg room for someone five feet tall, much less his height.
A kid plops next to him. He’s about ten or eleven, Ryan guesses. His parents are wrangling three other younger kids. In an English accent, the kid’s mother says, “I hope you don’t mind?”
Ryan smiles.
The kid turns to him. “Are you American?”
Ryan gives him a look. “What gave it away?”
The kid shrugs. He guesses that’s just the way it is sometimes.
“I like America,” the boy says.
“Yeah? You’ve been?”
“California. We stayed in Hollywood.”
“Cool,” Ryan says. “Did you see any movie stars?”
“No. But we went to Hollywood Boulevard with all the stars on the sidewalk. And I got a picture with Spider-Man.”