Читать книгу Out of Eden - Beth Ciotta - Страница 17

TRAVIS PULLED INTO HIS driveway and cut the engine. He glanced at his luminous watch—12:05 a.m. He rubbed his hands over his weary face. He was exhausted.

Mentally.

Emotionally and physically.

He sat in the dark, not wanting to go inside. Not wanting to go to sleep. When he slept, he dreamed of another life. His old life. It made him melancholy. It made him angry.

At least when Mona had been alive he’d had someone to confide in. She had similar dreams. Sometimes they’d lie in the dark and talk about the past. Friends. Family.

Enemies.

Enemies were the reason they couldn’t be with friends and family.

It was why they ate jarred sauce and American cheese. Why he drank beer instead of Chianti. Why he spoke with a nasally twang instead of his native Philly accent. Why he dressed in jeans and flannel shirts instead of Armani suits. He hated that he’d attended Mona’s funeral wearing cheap oxfords. She deserved better. But if he’d worn the Ferragamo slip-ons he kept hidden away, she would’ve rolled over in her cheap-ass coffin. God rest her soul.

Travis gripped the steering wheel and endured a fresh wave of grief. Mona’s suffering had started long before the cancer. He’d never forgiven himself. He’d tried to make it right, though. He’d sacrificed everything to make it right.

Today, he’d taken another step in that direction. While painting the walls of Kylie’s store and listening to her lovingly brag and gripe about her family, he couldn’t help thinking about the way Mona would reminisce about her family. Did the Vespas reminisce about her? Had they mourned her death? Had her brother gotten the letter he’d sent? Circumstances prohibited him from contacting them directly. But he’d followed procedure. He’d done the right thing. He realized in the midst of Kylie’s ramblings that he’d been hoping to hear back from someone, anyone from their past. The silence made him wonder. Had his letter gone missing?

Don’t do anything stupid.

He should’ve called WITSEC, but he was still pissed by his new contact’s lack of response to Mona’s death. The U.S. marshal/inspector originally assigned to them had been transferred, which made Travis feel even more isolated. At least he and Burton had a history. He’d never even met his replacement face-to-face. Obviously, Travis Martin was no longer a priority.

Feeding off Kylie McGraw’s determination to buck the system, he’d taken a break and made a quick trip to the library. He’d borrowed a computer terminal, created a bogus account and sent an e-mail. He’d taken more risks in this one day than every day of the last several years combined. He felt anxious. He felt empowered.

He squinted through the windshield, expecting the new chief of police to appear out of the shadows. He’d been anticipating a visit from the man all night. No dice. Either Reynolds was letting him stew or he hadn’t yet read the file. One thing was certain, he’d riled the cop’s interest. He’d seen it in his eyes.

“This is bad,” he could hear Mona say. But Travis barely cared.

Don’t do anything stupid.

Too late.

If not for today, he probably could’ve avoided contact with the new chief of police for a good long while. Maybe forever. He didn’t know Jack Reynolds, but he knew he wasn’t a rube like Ben Curtis. A former NYPD detective, Reynolds had experience with men like Travis. Or at least the man he used to be. The question was, would he allow Travis to exist as he had for the past seven years? Or would he make waves?

If only he hadn’t offered his services to Kylie. But when she’d shown him those pictures and when he’d expanded on her vision, he’d gotten that old rush. He was born to create, not to corrupt. Certainly not to kill. He was the defective son, the troublesome brother. A disappointment to the family. He’d tried to conform. He had conformed. As had been expected of him, he’d married a nice Italian girl. Instead of going into interior design, he’d become a lawyer, the mouthpiece for the family business. Able to finesse his way around the stickiest legal issues, those in his circle had dubbed him the Artful Dodger. He’d been respected, revered even. But then he’d broken with convention. That one indiscretion had instigated a bloodbath.

The memory of those final days still sickened him. Their reaction. His retaliation. Vengeance went both ways. He had a lot of regrets, but there was no way to mend that bridge. He couldn’t go back. But, dammit, he was sick of Travis Martin.

He reached across the seat and snatched the brown paper bag filled with his late-night booty. Red wine, provolone cheese and pepperoni. Three of the Artful Dodger’s culinary favorites.