Chapter 8: The Morning After
Ethan's driver took Patricia home at half past eleven.
At the door of the car, she turned back to me.
"You were braver than you know," she said.
"Most people in your position stay quiet for much longer."
"I didn't do anything," I said.
"I just didn't go back downstairs."
"That was enough," she said.
"Tonight, that was enough."
The car pulled away.
Ethan and I stood on the sidewalk outside Carter Tower.
The gala had ended an hour ago.
The last of the guests had filtered out.
The street was quiet in the way that midtown Manhattan is never quite fully quiet — distant sirens, a cab horn, the low hum of the city breathing.
"You should go home," Ethan said.
"I don't want to go to the apartment." I said it before I could think about whether to say it.
"He has a key."
Ethan nodded once.
"Marcus will take you to the Carlyle.
I'll have someone bring you anything you need tonight.
Tomorrow morning, James Whitfield's office will help you start the process of removing him from the lease."
"I can handle the lease."
"I know you can." A pause.
"Let someone help you anyway."
I looked up at the building.
Carter Tower.
Forty-four floors of glass and steel and the particular kind of power that could, it turned out, be pointed in the right direction.
"The child," I said.
"The one Patricia mentioned.
What happens with that?"
"That goes to the DA's office.
James is making that call first thing tomorrow." Ethan's voice was quiet.
"That one doesn't belong to me.
That one belongs to the family."
"Will it go anywhere?"
"I don't know.
Patricia's account is powerful, but it's one witness and it's four years old.
What I do know is that it will be investigated properly this time.
Not reviewed internally and dismissed."
I nodded.
A cab passed.
Somewhere above us, a window was lit on one of the upper floors — a cleaning crew, probably, moving through the empty offices.
"Ava," Ethan said.
"Yes."
"When this is over — when the legal process is done and you've had time — I'd like to take you to dinner."
I looked at him.
"Not as your employer," he said.
"Not as the man who happened to open the wrong door.
Just dinner."
"You're asking me to dinner while I'm still technically your employee."
"I'm aware of the timing.
I'm asking anyway." The corner of his mouth moved.
"You can say no."
"I'm not going to say no."
He looked at me for a moment.
Then he flagged down Marcus, who appeared from the lobby with the quiet efficiency of someone who had been waiting for exactly this signal.
"Take her to the Carlyle," Ethan said.
"And make sure the room is on a high floor.
She likes the view."
I stopped walking.
"How do you know that?"
"You told me once.
Eight months ago.
You said you grew up in a house with no second floor and you've never gotten used to being able to see far."
I had said that.
In passing, in the elevator, on a Tuesday morning when the sky was particularly clear.
I hadn't thought he was listening.
He had been listening the whole time.
May you like
Marcus held the car door open.
I got in.
