The Night Bird, page 32
“I can’t blame you for that, but maybe with time, you’ll feel differently.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. There are some things that you can never forget. And yes, I hear the irony of that, coming from me.”
Frost stood up from the bench. “Well, I have to go see Lucy.”
“I know she won’t want to see me, but if I can help—”
“I’ll make the offer.”
He began to walk away, but she called after him. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you alone before now, Frost. I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For saving my life on the cliff,” she said.
He came back and sat down next to her. “I’m glad I was there.”
“A small part of me wishes you’d been too late.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said.
“I said it was a small part. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. And I’m a little scared, too. I’m used to having my future planned out, and now I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Frost smiled. “Planning is overrated.”
“Not for me. I’m my father’s daughter. Tell me something, have you ever been to Copenhagen?”
His face furrowed with confusion. “No. Why?”
“I’ve had a standing offer for a couple years at a university in Copenhagen. To teach.”
“And now you’re thinking about it?” he asked.
“I don’t know what I’m thinking about,” she admitted. “I only know that I can’t continue my life the way it was. I won’t put any more lies in people’s heads. Never again.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to run away. You can help people live with their past instead of changing it. Is that so bad?”
“No. You’re right, it’s not so bad.”
He stood up again, but he put a hand on her shoulder. “I guess you’ve earned a change if you want one. Teaching in Copenhagen would be a change, but for what it’s worth, I hope you stay.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Because San Francisco deserves the best,” Frost said. “We already have the best views, the best food, the best anything. We need the best people, too.”
She smiled. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“It’s the truth, Frankie.”
He headed across the park, and she watched him go. She realized that he had something that she didn’t. Frost Easton was grounded. He knew who he was and where he was, and she couldn’t say the same about herself anymore.
Frankie didn’t move from the bench. For the first time in a long time, she had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Her life was a white room. She felt like one of her patients who came out of her treatments and suddenly had an emptiness in their brain where something horrible had been. They’d faced their fears, but they always asked her what to do next.
She told them: the hardest part is to start over by building something new.
52
Frost found Lucy awake in her hospital bed.
Her parents sat on either side, each holding one of her hands like protective parents. They didn’t look happy to see him. He was the one who’d put their girl in jeopardy. He was a symbol of everything perilous about the city. Here she was, wounded twice, hooked to an IV, skin almost white. They shot him daggers and wished he would go away.
“It’s okay,” Lucy told her parents when they lingered and refused to leave. Her voice was weak but firm. “Go get some coffee or something. I want to talk to Frost.”
They stood up reluctantly, as if nothing good could happen if they left her alone with him.
“Ten minutes,” her father said. “No more.”
They passed Frost without shaking hands. Lucy’s mother closed the door behind them. The room was warm, and the silence was punctuated by the electronic blips that tracked Lucy’s heart rate, oxygen, and blood pressure. Frost had a big box in his arms, and he sat down in a chair beside her bed with the box in his lap.
Lucy gave him a puzzled smile. “Flowers?”
“A secret visitor,” Frost said. He put his index finger over his lips. “Shhh.”
He undid one of the flaps on the box, and a black-and-white head popped over the side.
“Shack!” Lucy exclaimed happily. The cat looked happy to see her, too. He squeaked with excitement.
Frost scooped him out of the box. He held the cat close to Lucy’s face, and Shack licked her cheek with his sandpaper tongue, making her giggle. She rubbed his head and scratched under his chin and nuzzled him with her nose. He could hear Shack’s loud purr. He let her fuss over him silently for several minutes, and then he slipped the cat back inside the box.
They stared at each other, and it was awkward between them. He didn’t know how to measure the water that had gone under the bridge.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, you. Thanks for coming. Thanks for bringing Shack. You both cheer me up.”
“You’re going to be fine,” Frost said.
“That’s what they tell me. It’s going to take a while, I guess. Inside and out.”
“Yeah.”
More silence took over. Shack scratched at the box.
“You didn’t do it, Lucy,” Frost told her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d heard. It wasn’t you. You didn’t hurt anyone.”
“I know. My parents talked to your lieutenant. She said Dr. Stein gave a statement. The guy admitted it.”
Frost nodded. “Do you remember anything?”
“No. It’s like I lost everything from the last couple days. I guess that’s good, huh? The last thing I remember—”
He waited.
“The last thing I remember is you and me,” she said. “On the hillside. You holding me. You made me feel safe.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever feel that way again. Not here. Not after everything that’s happened.”
“Lucy—” he began, but she jumped in to stop him. She had more to say.
“So I’m moving back to Modesto when I get out of here. My parents think I should live with them for a while. You know, while I get back on my feet. I figured it was a pretty good idea. I thought you should know.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Frost said. “If that’s what you want.”
“I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m not made for the city, like you.”
“Well, the city will miss you. So will Shack. So will I.”
“Yeah, me, too. It’s pretty far away, but there are no bridges out there. I need some time without any bridges, you know?”
“I know.”
There wasn’t much more to say than that. He’d come here to say good-bye, and she’d already done that for him. He stood up and put the box on the floor. He took her hand and squeezed it, and she squeezed back, and then he bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips. She closed her eyes, as if she were trying to memorize how it felt. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead, too.
“Bye, Lucy.”
“Bye.”
He carried Shack’s box out of the room. Lucy’s parents were there, and they looked relieved to see him go.
Outside the hospital, Frost drove through the darkness back to his Russian Hill house. The hill always felt like it was on top of the world, as if he could roll a marble down and watch it bounce all the way to the bay. He was tired, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He was lonely. He was often alone, but rarely lonely. But tonight was one of those nights. When he stared at the house, it felt big and empty, not like home at all.
He carried Shack inside, but when he opened the door, he smelled the spicy aroma of chicken parmigiana, and he heard male voices from the living room. He wasn’t alone anymore. He had family.
His brother was there.
Herb was there, too.
“Sierra Nevada?” Herb called, hoisting a wet bottle from a cooler on the floor.
“You read my mind,” Frost said. He was suddenly wide awake.
His brother stood up and grabbed bowls of hummus and olives. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Duane said. “Come on, let’s sit outside.”
The three of them headed for the patio. Herb brought the cooler. Shack jumped on the glass table and closed his eyes against the breeze. Down the hill, San Francisco spread out in a million lights below them, and fog clung to the distance. They clinked bottles, they drank, and Herb began telling old stories from his days in the Summer of Love. Soon they forgot all about dinner, and they hung around on the wrought-iron chairs with their feet propped on the railing, laughing and getting very loud until the night was mostly gone.
FROM THE AUTHOR
Thanks for reading my newest thriller.
You can write to me with your feedback at brian@bfreemanbooks.com. I love to get e-mails from readers around the world. Visit my website at www.bfreemanbooks.com to join my mailing list, get book club discussion questions, read bonus content, and find out more about my books.
You can “like” my official fan page on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bfreemanfans or follow me on Twitter or Instagram using the handle bfreemanbooks. For a look at the fun side of the author’s life, you can also “like” the Facebook page of my wife, Marcia, at www.facebook.com/theauthorswife.
Finally, if you enjoy my books, please post your reviews online at Goodreads, Amazon, and other sites for book lovers—and spread the word to your reader friends. Thanks!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Getting a book in your hands requires a lot of work from many talented people.
It’s been a privilege to work with the entire team at Thomas & Mercer on The Night Bird. Jacque Ben-Zekry did an amazing job leading the project, from the earliest editorial concepts through all the design and marketing plans. Charlotte Herscher provided great insights on editorial issues. Kjersti Egerdahl and Alan Turkus were instrumental in bringing the book to Thomas & Mercer. I’m grateful to all of them for all their faith, support, and effort on my behalf—and to the whole Thomas & Mercer staff for getting behind this book.
My agent, Deborah Schneider, makes all of this possible on the business side, along with her terrific team—Cathy, Victoria, and Penelope.
When I finish the first draft of a novel, I get feedback from advance readers before the book goes to my publishers. My wife, Marcia, is the best (and toughest) editor an author could hope for. A big thanks to her and to Ann Sullivan for their helpful and thoughtful feedback on the draft of The Night Bird.
Of course, Marcia is not only my first editor, but more importantly, she has been my best friend and partner for more than three decades. She gets the first two words in every book, and she always will.
On a sad note, I lost my dad while I was in the midst of writing The Night Bird. For ninety years, he had the secret of life figured out: smile and laugh often, cherish your spouse, turn strangers into friends, and devote yourself to the things that make you happy and proud. He may not be with me now, but I’m still learning from him every day. I miss you, Dad.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © Martin Hoffsten
Brian Freeman is a bestselling author of psychological thrillers, including the Jonathan Stride and Cab Bolton series. His works have been sold in forty-six countries and translated into twenty languages. His book Spilled Blood was named Best Hardcover Novel in the International Thriller Writers Awards, and The Burying Place was a finalist for the same honor. His debut thriller, Immoral, won the Macavity Award and was a finalist for the Edgar, Dagger, Anthony, and Barry awards for Best First Novel. It was also chosen as International Book of the Month by book clubs around the world. His novels Season of Fear and The Bone House were both finalists for the Audie Award in the thriller/suspense category.
Brian lives in Minnesota with his wife, Marcia. For more information on the author and his work, visit www.bfreemanbooks.com.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CONTENTS
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FROM THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brian Freeman, The Night Bird
