Naive Charles Royce (great novels .txt) 📖

him one of the spare bedrooms? Honey, it’s Micah.”

“Baby, he was exhausted. He fell asleep right there, I think in mid-sentence.”

She opens the front door to leave, turns back around and looks at the couch. She sees a folded blanket with two pillows on top on the far side of the sectional.

“He said he was gonna head back to his place,” Shawn explains, then looks at his watch. “But Lord, he must’ve left early. I got up at six, and he was already gone.”

Shawn’s phone rings.

“That’s my cue,” Haylee says. “I’ll see you soon. French toast would be nice when I get back.”

She blows a kiss to him and shuts the door behind her.

C h a p t e r   4 7

Opening the clear floor-to-ceiling doors to his building for the first time in months, Micah can still hear the glass breaking from the night of the murder. Everything in his building’s foyer has been replaced, yet he can still feel the crunching of broken pieces underneath his feet.

He enters the elevator and presses 7. The floor does not illuminate. He resituates a folded newspaper he is cradling underneath his arm, takes the key from his pocket, and turns it in the lock on the elevator panel, then presses the button again. The number 7 lights up.

The ride up feels long. He hears the voices from that night in the back of his mind.

“Baby, please! Don’t. Please, God help me, PLEASE!”

“Stay with me! Please, God.”

((Ding.))

The elevator opens. He walks inside and turns on the light. The voices continue.

“So, you must’ve turned on these can lights above us here after you tried to save him?”

“And that’s your husband right there?”

The shades are all drawn, courtesy of Jenna, he assumes. Micah flips the paddle switch on the wall next to the elevator, and the can lights in the ceiling illuminate the familiar space. He looks at the corner of the living room and walks toward the spot where his husband breathed his last breath. He sees a photo of Lennox and himself on the console table behind the sofa. They are in front of Machu Picchu, smiling, arms around each other. He turns the photo upside down. He cannot move any further. He collapses into the cushions, noticing the smeared dried bloodstains on the arms of the couch. He throws the folded newspaper onto the pillows beside him. A huge headline “KILLER STILL FREE?” looms above a photo of him exiting the detention center.

He pulls out his phone and summons the courage to call Jenna. He waits for her to answer.

“Micah!” Jenna exclaims. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he replies. “I just got home. Jenna, I can’t do this.”

“Oh, sweet Micah, I know how hard this must be. Want me to come over? I’m in Soho right now, my regular Friday night nanny gig for those godawful children, but it’s almost over. I was gonna go over to Josh’s, but I can be there in, like, thirty.”

“No, no, no, it’s okay,” Micah says.

“Seriously, it’s no big deal, I want to come over.”

He fights back tears. “Jenna, I didn’t know Shawn was gonna do that. I tried to stop him.”

Jenna is silent.

“He went too far,” Micah says. “Are you okay?”

“He did go too far. He doesn’t really believe that, does he?”

“No! He was just too wrapped up in trying to help me.” Micah tries to comfort her. “I hope it doesn’t hurt you in any way. Please know how much I love you and appreciate everything, everything you have done for me.”

Another call beeps in Micah’s ear. It’s Shawn.

“Oh, my pleasure,” Jenna says. “We’re gonna get through this. I’ll let you have some time at home, but I’ll check in on you later, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you!”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

Micah presses to answer the other call.

“Hey, Shawn, sorry I left so early, I just needed some air.”

“No worries, buddy. How’s it going there?”

“It’s okay,” Micah checks his soul to make sure his comment is true. “Yes, I think I’m going to be okay.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Micah can tell by Shawn’s tone that something’s not right. “It sounds like there’s something else you want to tell me.”

“Elaine and Wallace Holcomb are suing you in civil court,” Shawn blurts.

C h a p t e r   4 8

A deluge of water flops over Haylee’s windshield. The sound startles her.

She laughs and pulls out her phone. She types in the words “When to expect morning sickness” into the search bar.

She is sitting inside her black Mercedes ML 350, which is gliding through the car wash.

Atlantic Car Wash is an easy-in-easy-out, old school auto detailing establishment at the corner of Vanderbilt and Atlantic in Brooklyn. One of the two turquoise-painted brick buildings houses the service and repair garage, the other the track system that carries vehicles through suds, rinse, and dry.

While her SUV moves down tracks to the rinse cycle, two employees dressed in heavy black raincoats and thick gloves are waiting just beyond the cement walls. Both are jumping up and down to keep their blood flowing while they wait to hand-dry her SUV in the middle of winter.

At the top of the dark, cavernous room, a hose breaks free from the ceiling, and the metal nozzle crashes down on Haylee’s windshield, cracking it with a loud thud. She drops her phone and looks up to watch the hose dance around like a snake, spewing its icy venom across the space, dousing one of the two employees waiting outside. Completely soaked, the man takes control of the serpent and wrestles it to the ground, while the other man pushes a button on a side console to stop the water.

Haylee takes control of her breath and picks up the phone that had fallen just beneath her feet. She watches the drenched man begin to take his vinyl jacket off. As if in slow motion, he takes off his coat and reveals his thin, freckly arms, covered only by a dirty white tank top.

Haylee’s eyes grow wider as she