Any moment now, it would be his turn to deliver the eulogy. Never having given a eulogy before, the investigative journalist in him naturally had done his research. He was supposed to keep his remarks brief, but personal, and he was supposed to focus on a particular quality of his father that he’d admired, or share a story that illustrated something his father had enjoying doing.
Most of the people attending the funeral service knew that, in truth, there had been two John Dixons: the larger-than-life, gregarious man always up for a good time—who, sure, rarely had been seen without a beer in his hand—and the moody, angry drunk he could become when he’d had one, or four, drinks too many. Ford could wax poetic for hours about the first John Dixon, because that man had been his hero, the father who’d spent hours playing catch with him on weekends in the field next to their townhome subdivision. The man who used to make up funny bedtime stories with different voices for the characters. The man who’d organized water balloon fights for the kids at family barbecues, the cool dad who’d let him have his first sip of beer at a Cubs game, the guy always getting a laugh out of the crowd of parents sitting on the bleachers during one of Ford’s Little League games.
But the other John Dixon?
That guy was a lot harder to warm up to.
Get away from me, kid. Don’t you have any damn friends you can annoy?
Ford cleared his throat just as the priest looked in his direction.
“I think Ford, John’s son, has some remarks he’d like to share with us today.”
Ford stood and walked to the lectern located to the right of the altar. He looked out at the decent-sized crowd and saw a lot of familiar faces, a mixture of family acquaintances, relatives, and close friends of his and his sister who’d come to offer their condolences.
With a reassuring glance at his mother and sister, who sat in the front pew, Ford rested his hands on the sides of the lectern. He hadn’t written any notes, planning instead to rely on the innate storytelling instincts possessed by all good journalists—instincts he’d inherited from the man who lay in the casket behind him, a man who, once upon a time, had woven epic tales about Ford’s stuffed animals while tucking him in at night.
Today, that was the John Dixon he chose to remember.
“The Fourth of July when I was eleven years old, my father decided we had to have the biggest, most elaborate fireworks display in the neighborhood. Ah, I see some of you out there smiling already . . . You know exactly where this story is going.”
* * *
AFTER THE FUNERAL service and subsequent lunch, Ford drove his mom back to his parents’ house in Glenwood, a suburb north of the city. His parents lived—or now, he supposed he should say his mom lived—in a subdivision nicknamed “the Quads” because each square-shaped building contained four small townhome units stacked back-to-back. Although Glenwood was well known as a very affluent town—one of the ten richest in the U.S., according to Forbes—the particular neighborhood in which he’d grown up was decidedly blue collar, mostly families with two working parents who’d specifically chosen the subdivision because of its access to public schools ranked among the best in the state.
“I’m worried about your sister,” his mother said as they drove along Sheridan Road, past the tree-lined side streets and multimillion-dollar mansions that, while technically part of his hometown, had always felt like a different world.
Ford glanced over, feeling a mixture of admiration, amusement, and frustration. The comment was so typical of his mother. She’d just buried her husband of thirty-six years, and of course here she was, thinking about someone else.
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Nicole will be fine, Mom.”
She gave him a no-nonsense look. “Don’t you start giving me the grieving-widow platitudes. There’ve been enough of those these past few days.”
That got a slight smile out of him. Fair enough. Unlike his father, with his wild mood swings, Maria Dixon had always been grounded and down-to-earth. “Fine. I’m worried about Nicole, too,” he admitted, despite being firmly of the belief that his mother didn’t need to be thinking about this today.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that his twenty-five-year-old sister, Nicole, had been struggling as a single mom ever since giving birth to her daughter, Zoe, four months ago. As a part-time actress and a full-time instructor at a local children’s theater, she worked days, evenings, and some weekends, yet still barely made enough to support herself in the city. Ford had talked to her about seeking child support from Zoe’s father—some musician Nicole had dated for a few months last year—but apparently the guy had freaked out when he’d found out Nicole was pregnant, and had packed his bags for L.A. without leaving her a forwarding address.
Ford hadn’t met the shithead, but his jaw clenched every time he thought about the way the guy had left his sister high and dry.
“I’ve tried talking to her, but she’s so hard to get a hold of these days,” his mother said. “I’d been planning to visit her at work this week, but then your father . . .” Her lower lip trembled as her voice trailed off.
Oh, man. It killed him to see his mother fighting back tears. No doubt, they were all reeling from the surprise of his father’s death. And while there was nothing he could do to change the past—a fact that ate away at him given the way things between him and his father had ended—there was, at least, something he could do in this situation.
So when his car pulled to a stop at a red light, he turned and looked his grieving mother in the eyes.
“I’ll make sure both Nicole and Zoe are all right, Mom. I promise.”
* * *
A FEW HOURS later, Ford pulled into the parking garage of his loft condo building in Chicago’s Wicker Park neighborhood. He’d distracted himself with music during the drive home, but once he turned the car off, there was nothing but silence.
This was the moment he’d been dreading for the last few days, when the deluge of funeral arrangements subsided and he no longer had to be “on,” nodding and making small talk and graciously thanking everyone for their sympathies. The moment when he was finally alone, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.
A man stepped in front of Ford’s car and waved. “Hey, Ford.”
Or . . . maybe this wasn’t that moment.
Ford got out of his car to greet Owen, the guy who owned the condo next to his. “Sorry. Didn’t see you walking over.”
With a sympathetic expression, Owen shook his hand in greeting. “How’d everything go today?”
Ford appreciated that Owen had taken the time to drop by the wake yesterday. The two of them had been neighbors for four years, and had hung out occasionally. Less so recently, ever since Owen had moved in with his girlfriend and put his condo on the market. “It was a nice service, thanks.” He was quick to move off the topic. “What brings you back to the old hood?”
“Just came by to pick up my mail.” Owen gestured to the stack of magazines and letters he carried. “I saw you and thought I should mention that my real estate agent rented my place for the summer.”
“You’re renting?” Now that was a surprise.
“I know. Not my first choice.” Owen shrugged. “But in this market, I wasn’t getting any offers anywhere close to my asking price. So we thought we’d rent it for a few months, and maybe put it back on the market in the fall. Figured I should give you a heads-up in case you see a stranger coming out of my front door.”
“Right.” Ford nodded. A silence fell between them, and he realized he was probably supposed to say more.
“Her name’s Victoria,” Owen went on, “and she’s some big divorce lawyer or something. I haven’t met her, but from what I hear she just bought a condo in River North and needed a place to live until the sale closes at the end of August. Apparently, she was really eager to get out of her current home. Not sure what the story is there.”
This was all interesting information, and Ford knew that Owen was just trying to be friendly
. But these last few days of making polite conversation were starting to wear on him. “Thanks for letting me know.” He gestured to the door that led inside the condo building. “Unfortunately, there’s some stuff I need to take care of . . .”
“Oh! Of course,” Owen said quickly. “Don’t let me keep you.”
After promising to stay in touch, and assuring Owen that he would let him know if he needed anything—only the hundred-and-thirtieth time he’d made that pledge this week—Ford escaped and got into the elevator.
He exhaled as the elevator began to rise toward the fourth floor, and prayed that he wouldn’t bump into any other neighbors—past, current, or future—before he got to his loft.
He got lucky.
His hallway was empty. He walked quietly to unit 4F, the loft all the way at the end. Key already in hand, he unlocked the door and let himself in.
In his bedroom, he yanked off the tie and black suit jacket he’d worn for the funeral. Pacing in his bedroom, he thought about these past few days and felt a stab of emotion.
This was not how things between him and his father were supposed to end.
Granted, their relationship had been complicated for a long time. But he’d always held on to a small hope that something would happen to bridge the chasm between them. Rehab would work one of these times, or there would be some sort of health scare—nothing too serious—that would inspire his dad to give up drinking for good.
Obviously, that had been wishful thinking.
The last time he’d seen his father had been two weeks ago, at his cousin’s college graduation party. There’d been plenty of beer at the party, of which his father had consumed too much, and Ford had kept his distance, not wanting to deal with one of his dad’s moods on what was supposed to be a happy occasion.
He couldn’t remember what he and his dad had talked about that day. Certainly nothing of significance, none of the things Ford would’ve said if he’d known then that his mother would call ten days later, crying, to tell him that his father had dropped dead in the kitchen after suffering a massive heart attack while she was out grocery shopping. There’d been no warning. The doctors said there was nothing anyone could have done; his father’s heart muscles had been significantly weakened, likely the result of years of excessive drinking.
So many things left unsaid. And now . . . that could never change.
Fuck.
All of the emotion Ford had been holding back suddenly boiled over. Without thinking, he grabbed the glass-and-cast-iron candle holder on his dresser and whipped it at the wall opposite him.
Seeing the glass smash into pieces was oddly cathartic.
There was, however, one small problem. Apparently, the iron candle holder had been a little heavier than he’d thought. At least, judging from the eight-inch hole he’d just put in his bedroom wall.
He surveyed the damage.
Well. At least this was one problem he could actually fix.
Two
BRIGHT AND EARLY the following Thursday morning, Victoria walked into the lobby of her downtown office building. She took an elevator up to the thirty-third floor, which her firm shared with two other tenants, a small consulting group and an engineering firm.
Back when she’d been looking for a place to hang her shingle, she’d been attracted to this particular office space because of its clean, modern lines, and great use of natural light. The bright, open feel of the place was reassuring to her clients, who were going through a difficult time in their lives. You’re going to be okay after this divorce. Victoria Slade & Associates will make sure of it, said the sunlit, sophisticated décor.
After unlocking the fogged glass doors that bore her firm’s name, she turned on the lights to the reception area. She liked being in before everyone else, so she could soak in those few moments when the office was quiet and just hers.
Her office had two walls of windows that framed a picturesque view of the city and the Chicago River. She settled in behind her desk and checked her e-mail while sipping the coffee that she’d picked up on the way in. About a half hour later, she heard her four associates trickle in, followed by Will, her assistant.
She heard a knock and saw Will standing in the doorway.
“Give it to me straight. How bad are they?” he asked, touching the rim of his new wire-frame glasses. He’d turned forty years old earlier in the year and, much to his displeasure, had been told by his eye doctor that he needed reading glasses.
“Ooh . . . I like them,” Victoria said approvingly. “Very Gregory Peck.”
“Hmph” was Will’s sole response, although she noticed he seemed to have a little swagger in his step as he took a seat in front of her desk.
“Tomorrow’s the big day. Is there anything else you need me to take care of?” he asked.
She smiled, knowing this was pretty much a rhetorical question. If there was anything else that needed to be taken care of, Will already would’ve thought of it himself. The man was a god when it came to organizing these types of things. “I think we’re all set.”
Tomorrow she would move into her temporary home, a loft condo in a converted warehouse in Wicker Park. She hadn’t lived in an apartment or condo building since law school—her place before the townhome had been a duplex—and, as a relatively private person, she wasn’t overly enthused to suddenly be sharing common space with a bunch of strangers. But this was her life now, at least for the foreseeable future, so she supposed she would just have to get used to it.
Ever since the break-in, she’d hadn’t gotten more than three or four hours of sleep each night. Instead, she would lie awake in her bed, listening for any strange sounds and repeatedly getting up to check her security system—not that her security system had kept the burglars at bay before.
Scary thought.
From what she’d learned from the police—who, thankfully, had arrived quickly on the scene because of the 9-1-1 dispatcher—the masked men had staked out her place for most of the night, with the exception of a short break when the man with the gruff voice needed to use the bathroom at a convenience store a few blocks away because the White Castle sliders they’d grabbed earlier hadn’t agreed with him.
Nice.
Apparently, his partner was a former employee of a home security company, and thus knew how to bypass certain types of alarm systems—including hers. The police had caught both men, one of whom had foolishly fired his gun at the cops and thus earned an attempted murder charge, along with a charge of home invasion. During questioning, they admitted being responsible for the string of burglaries in the neighborhood, and were expected to be in prison for a good, long time.
Victoria knew she should consider herself fortunate, at least as far as scary-ass home invasions by masked men with guns went. But when the two weeks of not sleeping stretched into three, and after Will walked in on her dozing off at her desk, startling her and making her face-plant against her open laptop, she’d decided it was time to face facts.
She wasn’t comfortable living in a place that had more than one level.
She couldn’t relax in her townhome, and feared she would always be tense at night, waiting for that beep of the alarm, and listening for the sound of footsteps on her stairs.
Once she’d come to terms with that, she’d immediately put her townhome on the market and spent a weekend condo hunting with Audrey and Rachel, her two best friends. She decided on a two-bedroom place in the Trump Tower, telling herself that the burglars hadn’t really gotten the best of her if she was moving to a place with its own indoor pool and health club.
And it even has a spa, dickheads.
In her head, she had all sorts of sassy one-liners for the scary-ass armed men who’d broken into her place.
But there was one problem: the current owner of the Trump Tower condo couldn’t close on the sale until late August. She’d been about to walk away from the deal—she needed to get out of her townhome ASAP before she made some sloppy mistake at work in her sleep-d
eprived state—but then her friend had saved the day. Rachel knew a real estate agent who was trying to rent her client’s condo for the summer, and the place was available to move into immediately. Victoria signed the three-month lease the moment the agent faxed it over, Will found a company that would send in a team to pack up all of her stuff (she didn’t even want to ask how much that cost her), and thus tonight would be her last night in the town house she’d proudly purchased as her first home.
Yes, she was pissed. She’d been chased out of her own place by the Burglar Dickheads, essentially, and that didn’t sit well with her. On top of that, she’d just bought the townhome ten months ago, so she probably would have to sell it at a loss. But she needed to be practical here—she was a busy woman, the head of her firm, and she needed to be at the top of her game when it came to work.
And oh my God, she couldn’t wait to finally get some darn sleep.
* * *
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON, Victoria waved at Will as she passed by his desk on her way out of the office.
On the phone, he covered the receiver with his hand and whispered, “Good luck.”
She felt a twinge of guilt, because this was the first time in the five years she and Will had been working together that she’d lied to him. She’d told him she would be unreachable for the next hour because she had a dentist appointment, when in truth she had something else to take care of.
Not a big deal. Just this . . . teeny, tiny problem she’d been having ever since the break-in.
Her research into these types of teeny, tiny problems had led her to Dr. Aaron Metzel, supposedly one of the top cognitive-behavioral psychologists in the city. His office was located in the Gold Coast neighborhood, a quick cab ride from downtown.
Victoria adjusted the lapel of her jacket as she rode the elevator up to Dr. Metzel’s floor. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect from this appointment—it had been over twenty years since she’d last seen a psychologist—but she’d deliberately worn her favorite gray tailored suit and snakeskin heels. It was a suit that made her feel particularly put-together and confident.