Intoxicating.
She leaned closer and brushed her lips against his.
He froze, then in a flash was at the window. She didn’t move, just watched him go. The joy drained out of her, an unbearable sadness added to her existing grief, threatening to drown her. She closed her eyes and knew he’d be gone when she opened them.
But when she did, he was so close their lashes touched.
“Do it again,” he said.
So she did.
* * *
So when Jane looks at her with those bright eyes, Holly knows what she’s thinking. She’s remembering the morning when, all those years ago, Holly stumbled downstairs with a glow that was quite inexplicable, given her physical and mental condition. When the scent of springtime clung to her, even though it was February. When she retired alone each night to the nursery bedroom on the third floor, but somehow became pregnant. A pregnancy that within a few weeks was so far along, the doctors were convinced they’d somehow missed it during all the tests and examinations they’d run after the crash.
Jane is remembering that she never got her turn. And how, because of Holly and what she did, she never will. Once the forbidden fruit has been tasted, there’s no going back to paradise. For anyone. Even Peter Pan, it seems. Innocence, once lost, is impossible to regain.
All the stories say so.
Chapter Thirteen
Barry takes two full days to get back to her. If it were anyone else, the turnaround time would have been impressive. But pulling off the impossible is one of Barry’s best traits. So Holly has to wonder, when his ID shows up on her phone, precisely how hard he’s been looking.
“I may have somebody who can help,” he says without preamble. “I’ve spent the last couple of days making calls and reaching out to my contacts. They all push the same guy. But I don’t know him personally, so I can’t recommend him.”
“That’s okay.” She hates how detached he sounds. “Thanks for doing it.”
“He’s an ex-soldier who served in Afghanistan. He got shot up, came home, signed on with the police—the bobbies, as you people so quaintly say.”
“I don’t want to use the police,” Holly protests. Police mean public records, and public records mean press.
“You don’t have to. The guy had some conflicts and left the force. I’m not clear on whether it was voluntary or not, but my gut says no. He set up shop a year or so ago on his own and seems to be doing well. My contacts say he’s the best private detective around. He’s not cheap, and he’s not pleasant, but he gets results.”
“I don’t care about his personality,” Holly says. “I’m not planning on marrying him.”
“Another thing.” Barry pauses, and she can hear him deciding how much to say. “When he was in Afghanistan? He came home with some issues. My sources didn’t say what. But the word on the street is he’s a little . . . damaged.”
Holly’s taken the conversation in Jane’s office for privacy. There’s a picture of Holly and Jack on the desk, a photo from last Christmas. They’re standing in front of the Rockefeller tree, arms around each other, laughing. To anyone watching them that day, they must have looked vibrantly healthy and normal. Holly has idly picked up the frame while Barry’s been talking. Now she sets it down.
“Aren’t we all,” she says.
Barry’s silent on the other end of the phone.
“You sure you want to do this?” he says at last.
“I am.”
“Then let me call this guy first for you,” he says. “At least let me do that. If he checks out, I’ll give him your number. If not, I’ll keep looking.”
Holly thinks about it. A prescreening isn’t a bad idea, especially since it’s Barry, whose bullshit meter is off the charts—another one of his special talents.
“All right,” she says. “And thank you. It means a lot.”
“How’s Jack doing?”
“He’s fine,” she lies. “Happy to be avoiding school, actually.”
“Driving all the young English girls crazy?”
“The old ones too—he and his grandmother almost came to blows last night,” she jokes, relieved at how natural he sounds. Barry’s never met her mother, but he’s heard the stories.
They spend a few more moments on the phone, running over the business. She’s barely had time to think about the company, and getting up to speed on the latest product trials and consumer-feedback tests is a good distraction. With help finally in sight and Barry not as standoffish as she’d feared, she’s slightly less anxious by the time they hang up. She spends the next few hours sending and answering emails and reviewing lab reports before going downstairs.