Shards of Betrayal, page 4
“Watch me.” I stepped back, crossing my arms.
“Fine, you’re off kitchen duty.” He raised his hands in surrender. “But you can still make yourself useful and pour us some wine.”
“Now that I can do.”
I moved to the table he’d set earlier. Candles flickered softly, casting shadows that danced across the room. Sam opened a secret panel on the sideboard and produced a bottle of rosé. Contraband. Sam didn’t say how he got it and I didn’t ask—some things are better left unsaid. The French label suggested it had been slipped past the feds, smuggled in from overseas. Sam must’ve paid a pretty penny for it. He handled it with reverence, like a rare treasure.
I uncorked it, enjoying its delicate aroma, then poured two glassfuls. The pale pink liquid shimmered in the candlelight.
“To survival in the kitchen.” I raised my glass toward him.
“To survival. Period.” He winked, his eyes catching the candlelight.
We clinked glasses and, for a moment, the world seemed to recede. For a moment, it was just the two of us.
He went back to cooking and I went back to doing what I do best—observing. I leaned against the counter, sipping wine and took note of his every move. From the joy in his face to the rippling muscles under his shirt to the toned belly, narrow hips and strong legs. He was handsome, yes. But it was more than that. There was a serenity in his movements—a man in his element, creating something beautiful out of simple ingredients. I felt intensely grateful to know him, to be there, to be the subject of his kindness, his affections.
Yet, I felt as though a glass wall stood between us, as though I were inside a cage that would forever set me apart. Funny that. As a child, I’d wondered if I’d always be the outsider looking in. Now, I was the insider, looking out. And I’d found, as any prisoner will tell you, that being walled in is just as unpleasant as being walled out.
The aroma of herb-roasted chicken filled his kitchen. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply. The rich, savory smells of sage and thyme were comforting. They eased tension I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
And just like that, thoughts of Hamp came to me, memories of times when he’d cook and I’d keep him company, swapping jokes, his laughter echoing through our home.
“Ready?”
Sam’s voice brought me back. He’d plated the food and now led me to his table. He’d set it with a quiet elegance—white linen napkins, gleaming silverware, romantic candlelight. He started to sit, then thought better of it and stepped out. A second later, the dusky strains of the Duke’s “East St. Louis Toodle-Oo” slid out of the living room gramophone. The muted growl of the trumpet was seductive and bittersweet. I’d always loved that low, slinking rhythm. But it was known for putting ideas—naughty ideas—in a respectable mind. And the fact that he had it on … Well, that said something, didn’t it?
We sat down and I couldn’t help but notice how the light softened his features. He looked … vulnerable. His usual sharp wit and directness seemed tempered and for a brief moment, I saw the raw tenderness he tried to hide.
I took a sip of wine, letting its crisp, dry notes linger on my tongue. The faintest hint of summer berries and citrus paired perfectly with the meal before us.
We ate. The chicken was tender, the potatoes smooth, the vegetables cooked just enough to hold their shape. He’d cooked for me before—but not like this. Not with candles and contraband. With red roses in a vase and Ellington on the platter.
This wasn’t just dinner. It was an overture.
I ran my finger along the stem of my glass, felt the chill settle there. He wasn’t just feeding me. He was leading me somewhere. To a question.
And I already knew what my answer would be.
“How is it?”
“Perfect.” The word felt inadequate. It wasn’t just the food that was perfect—it was the effort, the thoughtfulness behind it. I heard a little voice say, Perfection has its price, doesn’t it?
The meal was over but the kitchen still smelled like Sunday dinner at someone else's house. Sam was watching me with that look again—the one that said he had something on his mind besides the dishes. That penetrating gaze had always made me feel seen, truly seen, and I'd welcomed that feeling. But that evening, it made me squirm.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. God knows I did. But every glance, every touch, seemed to pull me deeper into a future I couldn’t fully embrace. Hamp’s ghost lingered in the corners of my mind, whispering reminders of promises unkept and dreams unfulfilled.
Sam’s hand found mine again across the table, gave me a squeeze. I squeezed back, forcing a smile, but my heart wasn’t in it. The jazz playing softly in the background only made things worse. I don’t know if it was the wine or the music. Maybe it was both. But I was sinking into full-blown nostalgia. More wrapped up in memories of what I’d lost than in what I still had. Who I now had.
As we finished, he got up, moving with a purpose that made my pulse quicken. From behind him, he produced a small box I hadn’t noticed before. It was elegantly wrapped in deep blue paper and tied with a silver ribbon. He placed it in front of me.
It filled my vision.
Anticipation mingled with dread. The box was beautiful, almost too perfect to disturb. Its crisp edges and meticulous folds suggested care and thought. Was this really what I feared it was? A ring? An invitation to step forward, to leave the past behind.
If so, then it was too soon. Way too soon.
I hesitated, reached for it, then drew back. The room seemed to contract and the walls pressed in. I could feel Sam’s eyes on me, searching for a sign.
Opening the box would mean crossing a line. It would mean accepting a future that I wasn’t ready to consider.
I looked up at Sam and in his eyes, I saw not just love but an earnest plea. He wanted this.
The box sat between us, a sign of where we were and where we could go. I took a deep breath, then picked it up.
The cool, smooth ribbon beneath my fingers. I could feel Sam’s gaze, sense him holding his breath.
The box opened with a soft click. A single, gleaming item lay nestled in deep blue velvet.
Not an engagement ring, but a key.
The key to Sam’s apartment.
The key to his heart.
“Come and go as you please. My place is your place.”
Nice words. Meant to ease my nerves. But they only made things worse. Sam’s was putting his heart on the line. He wanted me to make his place my own, to share more than just evenings and laughter. My fingers brushed against the cold metal and I felt both the promise and the pressure it carried.
I should’ve been happy. But I couldn’t be. One question ricocheted through my mind: Was I supposed to reciprocate with a key of my own?
How could I? That house wasn’t just bricks and mortar; every inch carried memories of Hamp, of the dreams that died when he did, gone from a heart attack at thirty-three.
I picked up the key from its velvet bed and glanced at Sam. His hopeful eyes searched mine for a sign, any indication that I was ready to take this leap.
The candlelight glinted off the polished wood of the table. My fingertips traced the smooth surface of the box, feeling the ridges of the ribbon. Words formed and dissolved before they could be voiced.
How could I explain to Sam that it wasn’t about him, but the ghosts that still haunted me? I couldn’t envision anyone but Hamp holding a key to that townhouse, wandering its rooms, filling them with the life we’d planned but never lived. Giving someone else that key felt like a betrayal.
“Sam, this is ... a big step.”
His expression shifted—hurt visible for a split second before he shut it down. “I understand. No pressure. I just thought ... well, I thought it was time.”
“It’s not … you. It’s just ... Well, I’m not sure I’m ready.” I placed the key back in the box and closed the lid.
He just nodded pensively. His fingers closed around the box slowly, almost reluctantly, as if taking it back physically pained him. Then, a question: “Not ready now. Will you ever be?”
It was fair, the question, but what could I say?Nothing adequate. That’s for sure.
“Thank you. For the dinner. It … it was wonderful.” I stood, pushed back my chair, my movements stiff. The scrape of wood against wood was loud in the awkward silence.
I hurried down the hall to his living room and grabbed my purse, then headed to his front door. I needed to get out, get away. To breathe. To think.
“Lanie?” I heard his voice behind me, felt his presence.
I paused, one hand on the doorknob, my back to him. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, then went out. I knew that I’d hurt him and that I may have made a mistake but I couldn’t change how I felt.
I stepped into the hallway and started down the stairs, determined, mind made up. But then I heard something. It came from behind me, through the door I’d just closed. It was the sound of something soft hitting the wall. Then silence.
I hesitated.
What was I doing? Leaving like this. Turning him down. What—
I turned and started back up. Then froze, hands gripping the banister.
What good would going back do? My feelings hadn’t changed. And what could I say? That I was trapped in a house of memories I couldn’t escape? That I wasn’t rejecting him, just unable to move forward? The words stayed locked in my throat.
I had made my decision, right or wrong.
My hand gripped the banister as I went down, slower than I meant to. I kept my eyes on the steps—gingerly, because for a moment my vision got a little blurry there.
By the time I hit the bottom, my face was dry. And I’d managed not to look back. I told myself that counted for something.
I stepped outside, trying not to think about keys. Or homes. Or the good men who offer them.
The humid summer night met me with a rush. Fetid, thick and steamy. And the sounds of the city crashed over me—voices from stoops and fire escapes, a radio playing through an open window, children’s laughter from a late game of stickball, the murmur of couples walking arm in arm. A city full of life. And all I could think about was the dead.
I looked up. Sam was standing at the window, framed by the glow of the room behind him. For a moment, I let myself feel it—that pull toward something warm, steady, good.
Then I turned away.
I stepped into the night. Left behind the warmth of his kitchen, the key I couldn’t accept, and the man who’d offered it hoping I was ready.
But I wasn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
CHAPTER 7
We’d fallen in love with the townhouse at first sight—and used to joke it had fallen for us, too. From the moment Hamp and I set foot in it, it had made us feel welcome. Empty, unfurnished, it felt like it had been waiting for us. Like it already knew our names.
It sat on the south side of West 139th Street, between Seventh and Sixth avenues. Limestone. I’d only seen limestone on courthouses or banks, never a home. But there it was—clean and elegant, simple and refined. It was a gloomy February morning, gloomy and wet. But even under slate gray skies the house managed to glow.
Then there was the neighborhood. Good people. Professionals. People who kept to themselves. Seventh Avenue could be as loud as a circus. But on Strivers’ Row, it was still. (Hamp used to say it was so quiet, you could not only hear your own thoughts, but other people’s, too.)
Now, walking back from Sam’s place, the house rose ahead, its pale stone catching the orange wash of the streetlamps. Steady and solid. A sanctuary that had seen me through the worst nights of my life. It knew all my losses. Kept all my secrets.
My hand rested on the iron banister.
“Remember when we first saw this place?” I murmured. “You were so excited. You lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.”
I could see it clear as yesterday—Hamp laughing, calling out from room to room, already making plans. Our voices echoing in that hollow space, building a life that hadn’t happened yet.
Twelve rooms. Including three bedrooms—four, if we were organized. We were going to fill it with love. With laughter. With family.
That never happened. But it wasn’t the house’s fault. Sometimes I felt that it grieved with me. For Hamp. For the future we didn’t get to finish.
I climbed the stairs, slid the key in the lock and stepped inside with a sense of relief. The scent hit me first—lemon polish and old wood. I shut the door and leaned against it. Safe. This house was the only place that felt like mine. It held my grief like a secret. Kept me company when I didn’t want any.
But tonight, something felt different. As if the quiet wasn’t comfort—it was a chain.
I set down my purse, kicked off my shoes and wandered into the parlor. So many memories were born here. The Chesterfield sofa where Hamp would sit, his medical journals spread around him. The mahogany sideboard that had held champagne flutes the day we toasted to our future here. Every detail whispered of him, of us.
I crossed the room, my heels soft against the hardwood. My fingers skimmed the back of the sofa. The leather smooth and cool beneath my touch. I’d picked it out just for him. Said it “looked like a doctor’s sofa.” He’d laughed and asked me what a doctor’s sofa looked like.
I don’t know. But this is it.
Yeah, he’d laughed. I guess it is.
And it had been. For a while there, it had been.
I headed back to the hallway, then up the stairs. Each step an echo. At the top, the bedroom door stood open just enough to let the moon in. I pushed it wider.
The room was dim. Moonlight edged the silver frame on the nightstand. Hamp’s photo. Grinning like he had all the time in the world.
I picked it up. Traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his smile.
“Oh, baby.” I sat on the bed. “What happened to us?”
The day we got the keys. That was something. It was sunny that day. Bright and beautiful. Hamp walking through each room, his voice alive with plans. “Just imagine, hon, what we can do here.”
I’d imagined it. A nursery, yellow walls. A little crib by the window. A shelf of stuffed animals waiting for arms that never came.
Names whispered in the dark—Emily if it was a girl. Marcus if it was a boy.
All of it gone the day Hamp collapsed in the street and never got up.
I remembered that morning. Rushing to meet a deadline, brushing past him in the hall. He’d wanted to talk—“Lanie, there’s something I ought to tell you ...”—but I’d waved him off with a quick kiss and an even quicker good-bye.
“Hold that thought. I’m late.”
What had he wanted to tell me? I would never know for sure.
The next time I saw him, he was under a sheet at the city morgue.
No kiss. No goodbye. No second chances.
I set the photograph back down. Let my fingers rest against the glass.
Whatever he’d meant to say that morning—it died with him.
And I hadn’t listened.
I stood and crossed to the wardrobe. Pulled out a clean blouse, set it on the chair. Tomorrow would come, same as always. And I’d be ready.
In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, patted it dry. The woman in the mirror looked older than I remembered. Not tired—just worn at the edges.
I switched off the light, crossed the bedroom and drew the curtains shut.
Then I changed into my nightclothes, climbed into bed and lay still, listening to the silence. The kind Hamp used to say could carry more than your own thoughts.
CHAPTER 8
I stopped by the set the next day to talk to Westbrook and found him in a makeshift office, lit by a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. The place smelled of stale coffee and cigarette smoke. The walls were lined with heavy wooden shelves bearing cameras and parts of camera equipment. A rickety wood desk held stacks of lighting diagrams, shooting plans and drafts of scripts.
Despite this crowding, there was a strong sense of order. The cameras and their accessories were lined up like soldiers awaiting assignment. The corners of lighting diagrams, shooting plans and scripts on his desk were perfectly aligned.
Westbrook was hunched over a small lamp. It had delicate little crystals hanging from a satin shade. His broad fingers moved with surprising precision as he adjusted the metal clasp of one of the crystals with a pair of pliers.
“Mr. Westbrook?”
He straightened up. “Who’s asking?” The cameraman wasn’t all that tall, but he was broad-shouldered, strong and square. He was the one who’d muttered, “Third one this month.”
“Lanie Price. I’m looking into the recent incidents on set.”
He looked surprised. “Private detective?”
“No,” I smiled faintly. “Reporter.”
That response garnered even more surprise. “You mean, he’s agreed to talk to the press?”
“I was on-set yesterday when the rigging fell. He didn’t have much choice.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember.” He turned back to the lamp. “So, what do you want from me?”
I leaned against the table, feeling the rough wood against my hips. “These incidents. You have to admit, they look suspicious. And you’ve made no secret of your issues with Seth.”
“Ah.” He gave a grunt.”You think I’m behind it all?”
“Your disagreements have been compared to watching two storms collide.”
He almost smiled at that one. “Creative differences? Sure. We’ve had a few. But sabotage? That’s absurd.” He straightened. “Look, I may not like the way Seth runs every scene, but I’d never hurt this film. It means too much to me—to all of us.”
“You have the knowledge to—”
“So do a lot of people. What’s been going on here, it don’t take much. Loosen a screw here, a screw there and you got it. A spotlight falls. A little bit of know-how—and a whole lot of malice. That’s all it takes. Just about anybody who works here could be doing it.”
Maybe that was true. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, he was missing one key fact: “But not everyone’s had your recent clashes with him.”
