Tristan laughed and quickly moved on.

“This is the last entry. ‘August 13, 2002. Dad called this morning and told me not to leave the apartment today. He sounded bad. It kind of freaked me out, but he told me not to worry. He’s been working longer and longer every day, and I feel like we never even see each other.

“‘Some men in suits came by last night, and he sent me to my room so that they could talk. I hate how he treats me like a damn child all the time. I’m practically an adult.

“‘This is the last page of my journal. Who knew that I’d ever fill up this entire thing with my nonsense? I’ll admit, some pages just have drawings on them, but mostly it’s filled with the last two years of my life. Good times, bad times. There’s only one person I’d ever share it with.

“‘Tristan, please keep this journal. From this far away, it is the only thing I can give you. Save it, and when we are together again, you can return it. Love, McKenzi.’”

“Wow. I was such a whiny twat,” Josie said, laughing uncomfortably.

“You were a kid, Josie. I think you were probably a typical fourteen-year-old girl.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, your mom had this the whole time?”

“She thought a clean break would be best for me. What a fucking joke. Now she’s created parental trust issues.”

“Translate.”

“I no longer believe my mother knows what’s best for me.”

“What kid does?”

“I mean, she hid away the only connection I had to you.”

“She was only trying to help.”

“I know.” He sighed and closed the diary, setting it on the nightstand.

“You think that my dad was involved with Moloney back in New Orleans and we moved to escape him?”

“Yeah, I think that much is clear. The fact that your dad was suspicious of Moloney being responsible for your mother’s death would be enough to scare him across the country, especially if he thought you were in danger.”

“Moloney caught up with us in New York?”

“It’s a theory.”

Josie sighed and mumbled something about theories. Tristan could hear the weariness in her voice. He longed to hold her and kiss away all her fears, but again, distance was their enemy.

“I miss you,” Tristan said into the phone, staring out his window blackened by the night sky.

“God, I miss you too. I hate being stuck in this damn apartment with my only human contact being Alex. His idea of fun is counting pills and doing pull-ups on my doorframes.”

“You could call Monica. You guys could do a girls’ night or something.”

“Do I come across as someone who enjoys having a girls’ night? No, what I want is to go back to Seaport Village with you. We could ride the carousel again and I’d let you buy me a hat this time.”

Her frustration was palpable. On instinct alone, Tristan wanted to grant her wish. He never wanted to deny her anything, but safety deemed that she stay put.

“I’m sorry. When I get back, we’ll do that.”

“You bet your fine ass we will.”

Tristan chuckled and felt relieved at her teasing tone.

“You think my ass is fine?” he asked.

“I think all of you is fine,” Josie said dryly.

“By what ratio do you like my ass compared to the rest of my body, considering it only represents approximately 9 percent of my 575 inches of overall body surface area,” he teased. “Is my ass your favorite part?”

“No. Your dick is my favorite part. It’s so perfect I want to construct a twenty-foot statue in its honor so that I may kneel before it and worship every day.”

Tristan sat stunned by her words, a deep sensation stirred in his groin. He finally released the breath he’d been holding and fumbled with the phone.

“Fuck, Josie,” he breathed out.

“Good night, Tristan.”

“Wait! What? You’re hanging up?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to go wash my hair or something. Smooches,” she teased, barely holding in her laughter.

“Uh, bye.”

The line disconnected before he’d even uttered his pathetic parting words.

The breeze was warm and damp, but it felt like a reprieve on Tristan’s heated flesh. He sucked on his cigarette, needing its toxins more than air. He’d brought one of the old books from his room to read, but he couldn’t bear turning on the harsh porch light. He loved the dark of this land. No city lights glowed here. Crickets serenaded each other and he found a sense of calm in their song.

Bitsy stepped lightly across the porch and took a seat beside him. As much as it pained him to do so, Tristan didn’t acknowledge his mother’s presence.

“I know that you’re upset with me, Tristan. I know what I did was wrong. I can see that now,” Bitsy said softly. “Back then, honey, I was only trying to protect you. You were already in such a fragile state and I just couldn’t add to that hurt. I wanted to take away your sadness and I just didn’t see how prolonging your connection with McKenzi would do that.”

Tristan exhaled, watching the smoke float between their faces, creating an effective curtain that, in reality, had always been there. His mother had never really seen him. Like everyone else, she’d never looked past the charming façade and the brainy performances. For most of his life, Tristan had felt like Bitsy was more like an adoring fan than a mother. She’d always said how smart he was, how handsome and polite, but she’d never really gotten to know him. She sure as hell didn’t know him now.

“I didn’t understand what she meant to you, Tristan. I wish I could go back and do things right. You know what they say. If wishes were horses we could all ride away.”

Bitsy looked out over the dark yard, the treetops creating sharp silhouettes against a gray clouded sky. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes before the tears could fall.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are, Ma.”

Bitsy sat back, smoothing her hair and swiping at the black makeup smeared beneath her eyes. She always said a Southern woman must look her best, even at her worst.

“It doesn’t change anything. I’m not ready to forgive you.”

Bitsy looked back toward the house, as if searching for Daniel.

“Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone I’m in town.”

Tristan stood and made his way to the back door.

“To err is human; to forgive, divine,” Bitsy said to his back.

Tristan kept his eyes on the door.

“‘We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell,’” he responded.

Tristan left his mother on the porch, alone with her tears and the words of Oscar Wilde.

The street was quiet as Mort made his way around the house. He checked each door and window, finally finding one that was unlocked. Once inside, he let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting and began his investigation.

The house was typical of a single man. Not much decor, not much food in the fridge, and not much security. He made his way through each room, finding nothing out of the ordinary. When he pushed the door open to the small office, Mort had to press his lips together to keep the foul words from escaping. On one wall sat a small desk and laptop computer. The adjacent wall held hundreds of photos of Monica Templeton taped and stapled to the wall, forming a collage. Photos of her leaving work, leaving her apartment, in her car, eating lunch, and having drinks. Among the photos were random items attached to the wall as well. Gum wrappers, a pair of lace panties, and her missing work badge.

In slow, calculated movements, Mort removed every photo, every item from the wall and placed it in a small bag to take with him. He had come here for information, but now his plans had changed. He would have to dispatch this nuisance.

Satisfied when the wall was bare, he pulled his piece from his waistband and made his way toward the bedroom.

“Wake up, bitch,” Mort spoke loudly into the quiet room.

The man stirred in his sleep but failed to realize that he was not alone.