Contract Over: You're Free to Go novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Glass

Declan confronts Margot at the townhouse, bandages her cut hand, hears a half-lie, and Alistair walks in.

I picked Archie up myself that afternoon and did not let go of his hand until we reached Timothy's door.

At nine that night I left him with Timothy's wife, who told me to go and shout at whoever I needed to shout at.

Margot's townhouse sat on a quiet street above the harbor, three stories of brick with a black door.

I had a key.

I stood on the step and did not use it.

I rang the bell like a stranger, because that was what she had made me.

She opened the door barefoot, in grey sweatpants and a man's old T-shirt.

It was mine. I recognized the faded print of a tattoo convention from six years ago.

Her left hand was wrapped in a kitchen towel, and the towel was red.

"Declan."

"Did you send a woman to my son's school?"

Her face went white.

"What woman? When?"

"This morning. A black car with a Southwell sticker. She said she was taking him to his grandfather."

Margot grabbed the doorframe with her good hand.

"Is he all right?"

"He's fine. He's drawing at the front office. Did you send her?"

"No," she said. "God, no. Come inside. Please."

I came inside.

The foyer smelled like her, the pear soap and cold coffee, and I hated that my body still knew it.

On the kitchen island sat the broken stem of a champagne flute.

Beside it lay the green dress, dropped in a heap, and my wedding ring on a thin gold chain.

She saw me looking and picked up the towel again.

"What happened to your hand?"

"I broke a glass."

"That's a lot of blood for a glass."

"I held on to it," she said. "After you left. It wasn't smart."

I should have walked out.

I took her wrist and turned her hand over under the kitchen light instead.

The cut ran across the pad of her palm, deep, with a sliver of glass still in it.

"Sit."

"I'm fine."

"Margot, sit down."

She sat on the stool.

I found the first aid kit where I had put it three years ago, under the sink, behind the dish soap.

I pulled out the tweezers.

"This will hurt."

"I know."

I worked the sliver loose.

She did not make a sound, but her fingers closed on my sleeve, and her breath stopped when the glass came out.

I cleaned the cut and pressed gauze to it.

Her palm was small in my hand, and her pulse beat hard against my thumb.

I told myself that was the cut.

I told myself the same thing about the way my own pulse went.

Her bare knee touched mine. Neither of us moved it.

"Rule two," she said, so quietly I almost missed it. "No touching except in public."

"There's nobody here."

"No."

I taped the gauze and let go of her hand.

My own hand felt cold for a while after that.

"Who sent the woman?" I asked. "Was it your father?"

She looked at the table.

"My father is cleaning house. Anything connected to me, he wants under his eye. You're connected. So is the school, now."

"You're lying."

"I'm not telling you everything. That's different."

"It's the same thing from where I'm standing."

"Declan." She lifted her head. "Please. Walk Archie to the classroom door yourself. Don't let anyone in a Southwell car near him. If a woman in a black car comes again, call the police first and me second."

"Why would I call you?"

"Because I will answer," she said. "Every time. That's the one thing I can promise."

I stood.

The kitchen was too small suddenly.

"You told four hundred people I was nobody."

"I know."

"You told me to trust you. Whatever you said. You wrote that."

"I know."

"Then tell me why."

Her mouth opened and closed.

"I can't," she said. "Not yet."

That was all she gave me.

I had spent three years learning when a customer was holding something back, and she was holding it with both hands.

I picked up my keys.

"Keep the ring," I said. "It was never mine."

"I know what it was."

"Do you?"

I did not hear the front door open.

I heard the lock turn, and then a man's voice in the hall, calm and pleasant.

"Margot, you really should change your locks."

Alistair Southwell stepped into the kitchen in his charcoal overcoat, his hat in his hand.

He looked at the bloody towel, and the green dress, and the gauze on his daughter's hand.

Then he looked at me, and for the first time in three years he looked at me for longer than a second.

"So this," he said softly, "is the husband."

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