The Cruelest Stranger Page 16

  We finish the tour on the balcony, overlooking the stage with its rich, velvet curtains and their silky gold fringe.

  “So much history here,” I say, slipping my arm around his back and leaning against his arm. “So much beauty. I swear I find something new to appreciate every time I come here.”

  “How often do you come here?” He glances down.

  “They’ve got about ten or fifteen volunteers at any given moment. We usually help out with cleaning and maintenance. They send out emails when they need us to come in. Sometimes it’s once a week, sometimes less.” I sigh. “The owners are talking about selling the place. I just hope it goes into the right hands. Seems like they’re tearing down landmarks and replacing them with apartment buildings. I get that the area’s growing like crazy and people need housing, but I can’t imagine driving down Worth Avenue and not seeing the iconic Elmhurst marquee lighting up the sidewalks at night. Anyway … am I boring you?”

  “Not at all.” He presses a kiss into my forehead.

  My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten since eleven today. Came straight here after work. “You hungry?”

  Bennett turns to me, his cool blue eyes narrowed into an apologetic wince. “I’m so sorry, Astaire. Something came up this afternoon. I’m afraid I have to cut this short.”

  That explains his distraction tonight.

  I wield a small smile to mask my disappointment. “No worries.”

  We head down the narrow staircase, making our way to the lobby. I ready my keys to lock up behind us. A quick peer out the window shows George idling out front, hazard lights flashing, like he never left in the first place.

  Bennett had every intention of making this a quick stop.

  “Everything okay?” I ask as I work the lock and double-check the handle.

  A hint of a grimace cases his handsome face. “It’s complicated.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  He hardly looks at me. I can’t help but wonder if I should be taking any of this personally …

  Maybe an ex came back into the picture?

  Maybe he’s having second thoughts?

  Maybe my theatre tour bored him to tears and demonstrated how polar our interests are?

  “You want to talk about this?” I try to keep my question light, avoiding tones that would suggest I’m feeling confused by all of this.

  “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s just something I need to handle, and the sooner I handle it, the better.”

  I quiet my thoughts.

  It doesn’t seem like this is about me …

  Only it doesn’t sting any less knowing he doesn’t feel comfortable opening up to me about it after everything.

  “I’m parked in the back,” I tell him as he eyes his SUV. “I guess … call me?”

  “Of course.” He cups my face with his hand, gives me a slow kiss, this one marginally less rushed than the last two. “I’ll make this up to you, Astaire. I promise.”

  With that, he’s gone.

  36

  Bennett

  “Bennett, just wanted to confirm that Ms. Carraro signed off on the guardianship papers,” my attorney, James Paulson, says over the phone.

  I hate leaving Astaire like I did, but with those text messages stewing in my inbox and the threat of my brother meddling with Honor’s situation, I need to get ahead of the game here, which means knowing potential setbacks before they happen.

  “Question for you,” I say. “What would happen if Honor’s biological father suddenly appeared in the picture and wanted custody?”

  James clears his throat. “Did he waive his parental rights before?”

  “For the purposes of this scenario, let’s say he didn’t know she existed …”

  “If he truly was unaware of her existence and wants to be a custodial parent, he would have an opportunity to push for that, yes. It would involve petitioning the courts, suing for custody, the works. Why? Do you foresee this as becoming an issue?” he asks.

  “Hopefully not.”

  “I can give you the name of a guy … handles family law, and he’s much more practiced in this area than I am. But I will say, cases like these can get expensive and ugly, and if you’re not the biological father, you could be looking at an uphill losing battle. In most circumstances, blood almost always wins in family court barring abuse, drug addiction, and the like.”

  I linger in the doorway of Honor’s soon-to-be bedroom, taking in the abundance of pink and white and fluffiness.

  So much is changing, so fast.

  “You want me to email you the name of the guy?” James asks.

  “Sure.” I end the call and take one last look around Honor’s room before closing the door.

  Astaire’s talk of redefining what it means to be a family, having traditions of our own, and being a tight-knit threesome was beginning to sound too good to be true, even if I never let on.

  I suppose it’s human nature to want to belong to something … to someone. To know your place in the world. To have that one person or few people who will be there for you unconditionally, no matter what.

  We’re so close …

  And now there’s a good chance my brother could ruin all of it.

  For me. For Astaire. For Honor.

  I close her door, head to my study, and print off the text messages—hundreds of warm, ink-scented pages spitting out one after another. When I’m finished, I secure them with a binder clip and place them on the corner of my desk.

  I’m not above blackmailing the bastard—not if it means keeping the three of us together.

  37

  Astaire

  I’m at a coffee shop Wednesday after school, my laptop and grading notebook spread across a booth in the back, when I feel the familiar weight of an unfamiliar stare.

  “Astaire, right?”

  I glance up, only to be met with the overly-friendly grin of Beth Schoenbach.

  “I thought that was you.” She waves a manicured hand and steps closer. “So crazy running into you again … Do you come here often?”

  She slides in across from me, a tiny paper cup of coffee in hand.

  “We’re still getting our bearings around here. So much has changed since the last time we lived here. It’s like a completely different city.” Beth sips her coffee, leaving a barely-there impression of nude lipstick on the rim. She’s in tight black leggings, Adidas, and a pale denim jacket, ready for a quick Instagram photo if the moment called for it, I imagine.

  I checked out her profile the other night. I couldn’t sleep. But I was also curious after meeting her at the supermarket. She seemed so friendly, so benign. How could someone like that be so happily married to someone as allegedly evil as Errol? But their social media profile paints them as any other attractive, upper-middle-class, childless, jet-setting couple with the world at their fingertips.

  I realize everyone and their dog looks happy as clams on Instagram and Facebook, but the two of them looked beyond happy. Unbelievably happy. Enviably happy …

  And Bennett walks around like there’s a raincloud over his head half the time. He’s getting better, but still. It’s how he is. Can’t help but wonder if there’s an undercurrent of jealousy between the brothers? Could it be that Errol has what Bennett has always wanted … contentment?

  “Sorry about my husband the other night.” She leans in, half-rolling her eyes, half-chuckling. “He thinks it’s strange how friendly I am with people I don’t even know, so he tries to rein it in sometimes. But he’s at the gym for the next hour, so we can talk.”

  She bats her left hand, winks, and reaches for her coffee, the glimmering rock on her ring finger catching the incandescent light above to the point of distraction.

  Beth follows my gaze, offering a humble smile. “So you and Bennett … are you two serious?”

  I try my best to peer around the room without making it obvious, thinking back to the other night when I asked Bennett if Errol was capable of following me and he didn
’t exactly deny it.

  “Um, we’ve been spending time together,” I choose my words carefully.

  “Glad to hear that.” She nods. “It’s been a long time since Benny’s had anything stable. I hope he’s being good to you …”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  She shrugs a bony shoulder. “Bennett … he’s complicated. Moody. Defensive. I’ve just seen the way some of his other relationships go down, and it’s never been pretty. Schoenbach men are notoriously … intricate. Emotionally. It’s just how they are.”

  I sip my tea. “Okay …”

  “They aren’t like most guys,” she continues. “They’ll ruin you. They’ll ruin you for anyone else. One day you wake up and you realize you’re damned if you stay and you’re damned if you go …”

  She glances to the side, and for a moment, I hesitate to say anything because I think she’s about to shed a tear.

  But the moment passes.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t mean to get emotional. Just going through a lot ...”

  I know better than to keep the conversation moving deeper, but I also have a heart.

  “I’m sure whatever it is … it’ll pass,” I tell her, engaging as little as possible while still managing to be sympathetic.

  “I don’t know.” She sighs, turning to glance out the window next to us. “Errol and I are supposed to be adopting a baby in a few months. We moved back here to be close to family and Bennett won’t have anything to do with us—which blows my mind, because I know he and his brother have had their differences over the years, but they’re still family. And you’d think now that he’s going to adopt his daughter and we’re going to have our son, he’d put everything aside—”

  “—wait. I’m sorry. Back up. You said Bennett’s going to adopt his daughter. You mean his niece?”

  “No. His daughter,” she blinks and sits straighter. “I mean, technically she’s both.”

  I squint across the table. “I don’t understand.”

  For a fraction of a second, I imagine Honor’s face next to Bennett’s, and I realize now it isn’t improbable. They share the same inky hair, the same crystalline eyes.

  Oh my God.

  He kept saying he had no idea why she’d leave her daughter to him … but if he’s the father, it makes perfect sense.

  “He didn’t tell you he’s adopting a little girl?” she asks, lashes batting.

  “No. He did. But he said it was his niece … he never said it was his daughter.” I slam my laptop lid and shut my grade books, and then I pack up.

  “Oh, jeez. I’m so sorry. I’ve said too much. You’re clearly upset.” She places her hand over my computer, as if that could stop me. “Astaire, I’m sorry.”

  I wave my hand and slide my laptop out from under her. “It’s fine. You have nothing to apologize for. This is … extremely good to know. But I’ve got somewhere to go, so …”

  She slides out of the booth, fidgeting and worrying her lower lip as she watches me collect my things.

  I almost make it to my car without throwing up in a trashcan by the sidewalk.

  The thought of Larissa—a fellow foster child—being adopted into this privileged family only to be manipulated, taken advantage of, used in such a disgusting way by the people who are supposed to love her …

  A million thoughts scream through my head on the drive to his house—none of them kind.

  When I get to his door, I have zero recollection of getting here. Only a mind filled with the type of words you reserve for a monster.

  With a balled fist, I pound on his door—only to have it swing halfway-open on the first knock.

  I take a step back.

  He never leaves his door unlocked. Certainly never leaves it open.

  “Bennett?” I call out before pushing the door wider. Only it won’t open any further. And when I peek my head in, I find him lying on the ground—unconscious.

  I squeeze through the opening and drop to the ground, checking his pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there. His chest rises and falls with each slow breath. He must have passed out.

  Digging my phone from my bag, I dial 9-1-1. They stay on the line with me until the paramedics arrive, and when they ask if I’d like to ride along, I hesitate before finally agreeing.

  A sliver of me believes Beth was lying. And all of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. Until I talk to him, until I get his side, I can’t abandon him.

  Not like this.

  But I also can’t look at him without wondering … what if it’s true?

  38

  Bennett

  “I don’t like your ECG. And these numbers … this isn’t what I was hoping to see after that round of steroids.” Dr. Rathburn flicks through my chart, tongue clucking, thin lips pursed. “You’ve been taking it easy, right? No working? No pushing yourself? Minimizing stress?”

  “Yes.” I speak to the doctor, but my attention is locked on Astaire. Seated in a guest chair in the corner of the room, she nibbles her nails, hardly able to look at me. In fact, I don’t think she’s said more than a handful of words since I came to.

  I don’t imagine it was easy for her to come home and find me passed out by the door. Honestly, I don’t remember what I was doing when it happened, but at least I had the good sense to unlock the place so someone could find me. My cleaning lady’s the only one with a key and she comes on Fridays …

  “Going to run some more tests, Bennett,” the doctor says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’re going to figure this out. Get you back up and running. Any questions?”

  “No. Thank you, Doctor.” I steal another glance at Astaire, her knee bouncing.

  I’ve never seen her so … worked up.

  She’s having second thoughts. Has to be. God knows her life has been nothing but tragedy after tragedy—why should she chain herself to one more?

  “If you’re having second thoughts,” I say when we’re finally alone, “I won’t blame you.”

  Her knee settles to a stop and her ocean eyes flick my way. “What?”

  “I’m sorry if this scared you. If you don’t want to do this anymore, I’m giving you an out.”

  “What? No,” she says. But her tone’s far from convincing. Whatever’s on her mind, she’s not going to bring it up now, not when she sees me in this fragile state …

  “Hey, would you mind running to my place and grabbing a few things for me?” I ask. “For one, I don’t think I have my phone. Grab a charger too. A change of clothes. My dopp kit.”

  Astaire shoots out of her chair, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  She can’t get out of here fast enough.

  39

  Astaire

  I fold his clothes and place them in the bottom of his duffel bag before grabbing his dopp kit from the en suite. My conversation with Beth has been playing on a loop in my head since this afternoon, and I couldn’t bring myself to say more than a few words to Bennett at the hospital—not that there was time to talk.

  Everything happened so fast.

  And he was in and out of the room for hours at a time.

  It’s 11 PM and yet it’s like I blinked my eyes and the last several hours happened.

  Honor is still set to come this Saturday. So far he hasn’t mentioned anything about delaying that, and I don’t even know if he could if he wanted to. Regardless of when we have our conversation, I intend to help every step of the way. I want this to be a memorable occasion for her, nothing but smiles and welcoming hugs.

  I zip the duffel and haul it down the hall, stopping when I pass the open door of his study and spot his shiny black phone lying face up in the center of his desk.

  The room is immaculate, outfitted leather and polished wood the color of ebony. Brass accents. Gilded antique sconces. Sweeping views of the city that rival the ones in his living room. His personal library spans the length and width of two walls, and I take a quick moment to scan the selections—mostly non-fict
ion, an abundance of ancient Greek philosophy. You can tell a lot about a man by what they read, and his collection paints a vivid picture of a man obsessed with contemplations.

  When I’m finished, I grab his phone, which rests on top of a binder-clipped stack of what appear to be printouts of text messages.

  I don’t mean to read the first line, but my eyes accidentally scan it before I even realize what I’m looking at, and it’s so appalling I can’t help but read the next one … and the next … and the next.

  My breath hitches. My stomach drops to the floor. Heart in my throat, I flip through the top few pages, my self-control hijacked by the disgusting swirl of sordid curiosity in my belly.

  Each page is worse than the one before.

  Vile. Dirty. Disgusting messages.

  Abusive, controlling language.

  Textbook harassment.

  Graphic, compromising pictures that send heat to my cheeks.

  And then the pregnancy.

  Followed by blackmail.

  Threats.

  Silence.

  I place the stack back where I found it, fighting a wave of nausea, not that there’s anything left in my stomach anyway.

  If these messages are between Bennett and Larissa … then everything Beth said was true.

  Honor is Bennett’s daughter.

  And Bennett is a monster.

  40

  Bennett

  When Astaire returns, she places my bag on a spare chair and delivers my phone and charger. She says not a word. The quiet scuffs of her sneakers against the tile floor. The zip of her purse. The heavy exhalations coming from her direction.