Chapter 6: The Penthouse

I stood against my own front door for a moment.

Then I put my wet coat back on and went downstairs.

The photograph was good.

That was the infuriating part.

Anyone looking at it would have sworn the woman in the picture wanted it, and the woman in the picture did.

I told myself I wasn't going to cry or beg or call Ivy.

I was going to find the one person who could tell me how bad it was.

Then I was going to tell him to stay away from me.

The Harbor Point tower was a glass needle on the waterfront.

The night doorman looked at my soaked hair and my angry face and said, "Penthouse. He said you might come."

"He said I might?"

"He said if a woman in a green coat came, I should send her up and not ask a single thing."

The elevator rose for a very long time.

The doors opened straight into his living room.

It was a huge, quiet room with a wall of black windows and the harbor lights scattered below.

Gregory stood in the middle of it in shirtsleeves, with his tie gone and a drink in his hand.

He'd clearly been standing there a while.

I held my phone out at arm's length.

"Your nephew sent me this."

He took it and looked.

His face went cold in a way I hadn't seen before, flat and still and dangerous.

"I'll handle Colin," he said.

"No, you won't. You'll stay out of it, and you'll stay away from me, and that's why I came. To say it to your face."

"Then say it."

"Stay away from me."

"Say it again."

"Stay..." My voice cracked in the middle, and I hated it. "Stay away from me, Gregory."

He put the drink on the glass table.

He took one step toward me, then stopped, with his hands at his sides.

"I'm standing here," he said, very low. "I'm not coming closer. If you want me gone, turn around and leave. The elevator is behind you."

I looked at him.

He was forty-one years old and six feet three, with his shirt open at the throat.

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