In Chap­ter 56 of “We Solve Mur­ders,” Adam Wheel­er reflects on his suc­cess­ful day filled with meet­ings and busi­ness deals. He has sold a stake in a Sin­ga­pore­an cin­e­ma chain and bought into a South Kore­an AI soft­ware start-up, all while enjoy­ing a good lunch. His upcom­ing trip to Dubai for a dia­mond con­fer­ence is on his mind, where he can net­work with clients who appre­ci­ate his lis­ten­ing skills and abil­i­ty to gen­er­ate prof­it.

Though he wish­es Amy could join him, her extend­ed con­tract with Rosie D’Antonio keeps her busy. Adam is curi­ous about her involve­ment with his father, though he hasn’t had the chance to delve into that mys­tery due to his packed sched­ule.

While his col­leagues plan an evening of going out—dining, gam­bling, and casu­al relationships—Adam opts for room ser­vice and a night of enter­tain­ment, down­load­ing *Ram­page 5*. He rem­i­nisces about the extrav­a­gant lifestyles of those around him, includ­ing the ridicu­lous­ness of high-val­ue items like a £25,000 Rolex, which only seems to invite trou­ble.

As he set­tles in to watch the film star­ring Max Highfield—whom he finds infe­ri­or to Jason Statham—Adam reflects on his and Amy’s uncon­ven­tion­al rela­tion­ship. They’ve estab­lished an under­stand­ing where love and long-term com­mit­ment are reserved for when they have the emo­tion­al capac­i­ty to engage in it ful­ly. In the face of dis­trac­tions and soci­etal norms, their unique con­nec­tion remains vital.

Mid­way through the film, Adam receives a text from Amy, which makes his heart race. Their mes­sages reveal that while she can­not meet him in Dubai due to her ongo­ing respon­si­bil­i­ties, she needs him to vis­it Al-Awir Prison for a case con­cern­ing smug­gling charges. Adam feels com­pelled to assist Amy, see­ing it as an impor­tant aspect of their part­ner­ship, even if it involves an unpleas­ant task.

Adam’s day takes a turn as he pre­pares to vis­it the prison, align­ing his actions with his com­mit­ment to Amy, embody­ing a sense of prac­ti­cal­i­ty in their roman­tic con­tract, akin to a finan­cial option in his busi­ness world. As he bal­ances his per­son­al and pro­fes­sion­al life, he con­tin­ues to nav­i­gate through the com­plex­i­ties of love and duty.

In Chap­ter 56 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” Patch expe­ri­ences pro­found alien­ation in what was once his per­son­al sanc­tu­ary. His bed­room, filled with rem­nants of his identity—clothes, bed­cov­ers, posters—no longer feels like his own. As he grap­ples with his chang­ing sense of self, an encounter with his moth­er reveals her fear and sad­ness about the trans­for­ma­tion he’s under­gone, prompt­ing both to reck­on with their new real­i­ties.

That after­noon, Patch dis­cov­ers an old map in the attic, sym­bol­iz­ing end­less pos­si­bil­i­ties beyond his cur­rent life. As he steps out­side, the vibrant nightlife con­trasts sharply with his feel­ings of dis­con­nec­tion. He sees famil­iar faces from school and observes the typ­i­cal rou­tines of young cou­ples and fam­i­lies, rein­forc­ing his sense of iso­la­tion despite being amidst them.

A piv­otal moment occurs when he spots Misty Mey­er. His instinct dri­ves him towards her just as she breaks free from her group and runs to him. Their embrace is emo­tion­al; Misty buries her cries into his shoul­der, and Patch feels only the weight of her pres­ence, block­ing out the chaot­ic world around them. The moment is fleet­ing as Chuck, Misty’s com­pan­ion, pulls her away, leav­ing Patch to wit­ness her depar­ture, height­ened by her vis­i­ble sor­row.

Unno­ticed by Patch, Saint fol­lows him home, an unde­fined pres­ence in his soli­tude. Once inside, he engages in a rit­u­al of detach­ment, past­ing over the win­dows with news­pa­per head­lines that hint at the chaos out­side, par­tic­u­lar­ly the note about a local boy miss­ing. This act sig­ni­fies his desire to shut out the world, cre­at­ing a bar­ri­er between his soli­tary exis­tence and the exter­nal real­i­ty. He then retreats fur­ther, block­ing any light from enter­ing his room, a metaphor for his emo­tion­al state.

In a final, poignant ges­ture, Patch lies down in the dark­ness, reach­ing out for the com­fort of a con­nec­tion that feels hope­less­ly dis­tant. The chap­ter encap­su­lates his tumul­tuous inter­nal land­scape, marked by long­ing and grief, as he attempts to reclaim a sense of belong­ing in an utter­ly trans­formed life.

In Chap­ter Fifty-Six, Nina arrives at Ceceli­a’s camp and is greet­ed with new­found hap­pi­ness in her daugh­ter. Cecelia, free from the con­straints of her father’s pref­er­ences, embraces casu­al attire and sports a mix of sun­burn and child­hood scrapes, show­cas­ing her recent out­door adven­tures. Their reunion is warm, filled with hope­ful ambi­gu­i­ty about their future plans, as Nina has secret­ly pre­pared for a swift depar­ture towards a new life, poten­tial­ly start­ing with a trip to Dis­ney­land, a dream that lights up Ceceli­a’s face with joy. Despite the excite­ment, Ceceli­a’s thoughts momen­tar­i­ly turn to her father, Andrew Win­ches­ter, reveal­ing under­ly­ing ten­sions and trau­ma from their past life with him. Nina reas­sures her daugh­ter that he won’t be join­ing them, empha­siz­ing the lib­er­a­tion they both feel from his absence.

The nar­ra­tive then shifts to Nina’s inter­nal con­flict, prompt­ed by a call from Enzo, a fig­ure from her past with whom she shares com­pli­cat­ed, unre­solved dynam­ics. Enzo urgent­ly requests Nina’s return to aid Mil­lie, who appears to be in a dan­ger­ous predica­ment caused indi­rect­ly by Nina’s pre­vi­ous actions against her hus­band. Despite Nina’s reluc­tance and dis­missal of Mil­lie’s sit­u­a­tion as a con­se­quence of her own choic­es, Enzo’s rev­e­la­tion about Mil­lie’s unusu­al behav­ior and con­fine­ment rais­es alarm. Nina is forced to con­front the poten­tial fall­out of her plot for revenge against Andrew, which now seems to have entrapped Mil­lie in a pos­si­bly dire sit­u­a­tion.

This chap­ter delves into themes of escape and con­se­quence, con­trast­ing the imme­di­ate relief and joy of Nina and Ceceli­a’s depar­ture with the lurk­ing, unre­solved issues of their past actions. The ten­sion esca­lates with the real pos­si­bil­i­ty that Mil­lie, a pawn in Nina’s plan against Andrew, may now be suf­fer­ing as a result. As Nina faces the dilem­ma of respond­ing to Enzo’s plea, the nar­ra­tive hints at the com­plex­i­ties of seek­ing lib­er­a­tion while being bound by the reper­cus­sions of one’s strate­gies for achiev­ing it.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
56
Rhys win­nowed us to the Illyr­i­an camp. We wouldn’t be stay­ing long
enough to be at risk—and with ten thou­sand Illyr­i­an war­riors sur­round­ing
us on the var­i­ous peaks, Rhys doubt­ed any­one would be stu­pid enough to
attack.
We’d just appeared in the mud out­side the lit­tle house when Cass­ian
drawled from behind us, “Well, it’s about time.”
The sav­age, wild snarl that ripped out of Rhys was like noth­ing I’d heard,
and I gripped his arm as he whirled on Cass­ian.
Cass­ian looked at him and laughed.
But the Illyr­i­an war­riors in the camp began shoot­ing into the sky, haul­ing
women and chil­dren with them.
“Hard ride?” Cass­ian tied back his dark hair with a worn strap of leather.
Preter­nat­ur­al qui­et now leaked from Rhys where the snarl had erupt­ed a
moment before. And rather than see him turn the camp to rub­ble I said,
“When he bash­es your teeth in, Cass­ian, don’t come cry­ing to me.”
Cass­ian crossed his arms. “Mat­ing bond chaf­ing a bit, Rhys?”
Rhys said noth­ing.
Cass­ian snick­ered. “Feyre doesn’t look too tired. Maybe she could give
me a ride—”
Rhys explod­ed.
Wings and mus­cles and snap­ping teeth, and they were rolling through the
mud, fists fly­ing, and—
And Cass­ian had known exact­ly what he was say­ing and doing, I real­ized
as he kicked Rhys off him, as Rhys didn’t touch that pow­er that could have
flat­tened these moun­tains.
He’d seen the edge in Rhys’s eyes and known he had to dull it before we
could go any fur­ther.
Rhys had known, too. Which was why we’d win­nowed here first—and
not Velaris.
They were a sight to behold, two Illyr­i­an males fight­ing in the mud and
stones, pant­i­ng and spit­ting blood. None of the oth­er Illyr­i­ans dared land.
Nor would they, I real­ized, until Rhys had worked off his temper—or left
the camp entire­ly. If the aver­age male need­ed a week to adjust … What was
required of Rhysand? A month? Two? A year?
Cass­ian laughed as Rhys slammed a fist into his face, blood spray­ing.
Cass­ian slung one right back at him, and I cringed as Rhys’s head knocked
to the side. I’d seen Rhys fight before, con­trolled and ele­gant, and I’d seen
him mad, but nev­er so … fer­al.
“They’ll be at it for a while,” Mor said, lean­ing against the thresh­old of
the house. She held open the door. “Wel­come to the fam­i­ly, Feyre.”
And I thought those might have been the most beau­ti­ful words I’d ever
heard.
Rhys and Cass­ian spent an hour pum­mel­ing each oth­er into exhaus­tion, and
when they trudged back into the house, bloody and filthy, one look at my
mate was all it took for me to crave the smell and feel of him.
Cass­ian and Mor instant­ly found some­where else to be, and Rhys didn’t
both­er tak­ing my clothes all the way off before he bent me over the kitchen
table and made me moan his name loud enough for the Illyr­i­ans still
cir­cling high above to hear.
But when we fin­ished, the tight­ness in his shoul­ders and the ten­sion
coiled in his eyes had van­ished … And a knock on the door from Cass­ian
had Rhys hand­ing me a damp wash­cloth to clean myself. A moment lat­er,
the four of us had win­nowed to the music and light of Velaris.
To home.
The sun had bare­ly set as Rhys and I walked hand in hand into the din­ing
room of the House of Wind, and found Mor, Azriel, Amren, and Cass­ian

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

H ARR Y WASN’T ON BOARD.
He was the one piece of the plan that wasn’t up to me, the one
per­son I wasn’t will­ing to manip­u­late into doing what I want­ed him to
do. And he didn’t want to leave every­thing behind and fly off to
Europe.
“You’re sug­gest­ing I retire,” Har­ry said. “And I’m not even six­ty yet.
My God, Eve­lyn. What on earth am I going to do all day? Play cards on
the beach?”
“That doesn’t sound nice?”
“It sounds nice for about an hour and a half,” he said. He was
drink­ing what looked like orange juice but I sus­pect­ed was a
screw­driv­er. “And then I’d be stuck try­ing to occu­py myself for the
rest of my life.”
We were sit­ting in my dress­ing room on the set of Theresa’s
Wis­dom. Har­ry had found the script and sold it to Fox with me
attached to play There­sa, a woman who is leav­ing her hus­band while
des­per­ate­ly try­ing to keep her chil­dren togeth­er.
It was the third day of shoot­ing, and I was in cos­tume, a white
Chanel pantsuit and pearls, about to go on set to shoot the scene
where There­sa and her hus­band announce that they are divorc­ing
over Christ­mas din­ner. Har­ry looked as hand­some as ever in kha­ki
slacks and an oxford shirt. He had gone almost entire­ly gray by then,
and I active­ly resent­ed him for grow­ing more attrac­tive as he aged,
while I had to watch my val­ue dis­ap­pear by the day like a mold­ing
lemon.
“Har­ry, don’t you want to stop liv­ing this lie?”
“What lie?” he asked. “I under­stand it’s a lie for you. Because you
want to make it work with Celia. And you know that I sup­port that, I
do. But this life isn’t a lie for me.”
“There are men,” I said, my voice los­ing patience, as if Har­ry was
try­ing to pull one over on me. “Don’t pre­tend there aren’t men.”
“Sure, but there is not a sin­gle man any­one could draw any sort of
mean­ing­ful con­nec­tion to,” Har­ry said. “Because I have only loved
John. And he’s gone. I’m only famous because you’re famous, Ev. They
don’t care about me or what I’m doing unless it some­how relates to
you. Any men in my life, I see them for a few weeks, and then they are
gone. I’m not liv­ing a lie. I’m just liv­ing my life.”
I took a deep breath, try­ing not to get too worked up before hav­ing
to go on set and pre­tend to be a repressed WASP. “Don’t you care that
I have to hide?”
“I do,” he said. “You know I do.”
“Well, then—”
“But why does your rela­tion­ship with Celia mean that we should
uproot Connor’s life? And mine?”
“She’s the love of my life,” I said. “You know that. I want to be with
her. It’s time for us all to be togeth­er again.”
“We can’t be togeth­er again,” he said, putting his hand down on the
table. “Not all of us.” And he walked away.
  *  *  *  
HARR Y AND I were fly­ing home every week­end to be with Con­nor, and
dur­ing the weeks we shot, I was with Celia, and he was  .  .  . well, I
didn’t know where he was. But he seemed hap­py, so I didn’t ques­tion
it. I sus­pect­ed in the back of my mind that he might have met some­one
who was capa­ble of keep­ing his inter­est for more than a few days.
So when Theresa’s Wis­dom went three weeks over our shoot­ing
sched­ule because my costar Ben Madley was hos­pi­tal­ized for
exhaus­tion, I was torn.
On the one hand, I want­ed to go back to being with my daugh­ter
every night.
On the oth­er hand, Con­nor was grow­ing more and more annoyed
by me every day. She found her moth­er to be the very epit­o­me of
embar­rass­ment. The fact that I was a world-renowned film star seemed
to have absolute­ly no effect on just how big of an idiot Con­nor saw me
to be. So I was often hap­pi­er in L.A., with Celia, than I was in New
York, con­stant­ly reject­ed by my own flesh and blood. But I would have
dropped it all in a heart­beat if I thought Con­nor might want even an
evening of my time.
The day after film­ing wrapped, I was pack­ing up some of my things
and talk­ing to Con­nor on the phone, mak­ing plans for the next day.
“Your father and I are get­ting on the red-eye tonight, so I’ll be there
when you wake up in the morn­ing,” I told her.
“OK,” she said. “Cool.”
“I thought we could go to break­fast at Channing’s.”
“Mom, no one goes to Channing’s any­more.”
“I hate to break it to you, but if I go to Channing’s, Channing’s will
still be con­sid­ered cool.”
“This is exact­ly what I’m talk­ing about when I say you’re
impos­si­ble.”
“All I’m try­ing to do is take you to eat French toast, Con­nie. There
are worse things.”
There was a knock on the door of the Hol­ly­wood Hills bun­ga­low I’d
rent­ed. I opened it to see Har­ry.
“I got­ta go, Mom,” Con­nor said. “Karen is com­ing over. Luisa’s
mak­ing us bar­be­cue meat loaf,” she said.
“Wait one sec­ond,” I said. “Your father is here. He wants to say hi to
you. Good-bye, hon­ey. I’ll see you tomor­row.”
I hand­ed Har­ry the phone. “Hi, lit­tle bug . . . Well, she has a point. If
your moth­er shows up some­where, that does sort of mean that, by
def­i­n­i­tion, it will be con­sid­ered a hot spot . . . That’s fine . . . That’s fine.
Tomor­row morn­ing, the three of us will go out for break­fast, and we
can go to what­ev­er the cool new place is . . . It’s called what? Wif­fles?
What kind of a name is that? . . . OK, OK. We’ll go to Wif­fles. All right,
hon­ey, good night. I love you. I’ll see you tomor­row.”
Har­ry sat down on my bed and looked at me. “Appar­ent­ly, we are
going to Wif­fles.”
“You’re like put­ty in her hands, Har­ry,” I said.
He shrugged. “I feel no shame in it.” He stood up and poured
him­self a glass of water while I con­tin­ued pack­ing. “Lis­ten, I have an
idea,” he said. As he moved clos­er to me, I real­ized he smelled vague­ly
of liquor.
“About what?”
“About Europe.”
“OK . . .” I said. I had resigned to let­ting it go until Har­ry and I were
set­tled back in New York. I assumed that then he and I would have the
time, and the patience, to dis­cuss it in more depth.
I thought the idea was good for Con­nor. New York, as much as I
loved it, had become a some­what dan­ger­ous place to live. Crime rates
were sky­rock­et­ing, and drugs were every­where. We were fair­ly
pro­tect­ed from it on the Upper East Side, but I was still uncom­fort­able
with the idea that Con­nor was grow­ing up so close to so much chaos.
And even more to the point, I was no longer sure that a life where her
par­ents were prac­ti­cal­ly bicoastal and she was being cared for by Luisa
when we were gone was the best thing for her.
Yes, we’d be uproot­ing her. And I knew she’d hate me for mak­ing
her say good-bye to her friends. But I also knew she would ben­e­fit
from liv­ing in a small town. She’d be bet­ter off with a moth­er who
could be around more. And to be frank, she was get­ting old enough to
read gos­sip columns and watch enter­tain­ment news. Was turn­ing on
the tele­vi­sion and see­ing her mother’s sixth divorce real­ly the best
thing for a child?
“I think I know what to do,” Har­ry said. I sat down on the bed, and
he sat next to me. “We move here. We move back to Los Ange­les.”
“Har­ry . . .” I said.
“And Celia mar­ries a friend of mine.”
“A friend of yours?”
Har­ry shifts toward me. “I’ve met some­one.”
“What?”
“We met on the lot. He’s work­ing on anoth­er pro­duc­tion. I thought
it was just a casu­al thing. I think he did, too. But I think I’m . . . This is
a man I could see myself with.”
I was so hap­py for him in that moment. “I thought you couldn’t see
your­self with any­one,” I said, sur­prised but pleased.
“I couldn’t,” he said.
“And what hap­pened?”
“Now I can.”
“I’m thrilled to hear that, Har­ry. You have no idea. I’m just not sure
this is a good idea,” I said. “I don’t even know this guy.”
“You don’t need to,” Har­ry said. “I mean, it’s not like I chose Celia.
You did. And I’m . . . I think I’d like to choose him.”
“I don’t want to act any­more, Har­ry,” I said.
All through shoot­ing this last movie, I found myself burn­ing out. I
want­ed to roll my eyes when asked to do a scene more than once.
Hit­ting my marks felt like run­ning a marathon I’d already run a
thou­sand times before. So easy, so unchal­leng­ing, so unin­spir­ing, that
you resent even being asked to lace up your shoes.
Maybe if I was get­ting roles that excit­ed me, maybe if I still felt I
had some­thing to prove, I don’t know, maybe I would have react­ed
dif­fer­ent­ly.
There are so many women who con­tin­ue to do incred­i­ble work well
into their eight­ies or nineties. Celia was like that. She could have
turned in riv­et­ing per­for­mance after riv­et­ing per­for­mance for­ev­er,
because she was always con­sumed by the work.
But my heart wasn’t in it. My heart was nev­er in the craft of act­ing,
only in the prov­ing. Prov­ing my pow­er, prov­ing my worth, prov­ing my
tal­ent.
I’d proved it all.
“That’s fine,” Har­ry said. “You don’t have to act any­more.”
“But if I’m not act­ing, why would I live in Los Ange­les? I want to live
some­where I can be free, where no one will pay atten­tion to me. Do
you remem­ber when you were lit­tle, and whether it was on your block
or a few blocks down, there was inevitably a pair of old­er ladies who
lived togeth­er as room­mates, and no one asked any ques­tions because
nobody cared? I want to be one of those ladies. I can’t do that here.”
“You can’t do that any­where,” Har­ry said. “That’s the price you pay
for who you are.”
“I don’t accept that. I think it’s very pos­si­ble for me to do that.”
“Well, I don’t want to do that. So what I’m propos­ing is that you and
I remar­ry. And Celia mar­ries my friend.”
“We can talk about it lat­er,” I said, stand­ing up and tak­ing my
toi­letry bag to the bath­room.
“Eve­lyn, you don’t get to decide what this fam­i­ly does uni­lat­er­al­ly.”
“Who said any­thing about uni­lat­er­al­ly? All I’m say­ing is that I want
to talk about it lat­er. There are a num­ber of options here. We can go to
Europe, we can move here, we can stay in New York.”
Har­ry shook his head. “He can’t move to New York.”
I sighed, los­ing my patience. “All the more rea­son for us to dis­cuss
this lat­er.”
Har­ry stood up, as if he was about to give me a piece of his mind.
But then he calmed down. “You’re right,” he said. “We can dis­cuss it
lat­er.”
He came over to me as I was pack­ing my soap and make­up. He took
my arm and kissed my tem­ple.
“You’ll pick me up tonight?” he said. “At my place? We’ll have the
whole trip to the air­port and the flight to dis­cuss it more. We can throw
back a cou­ple of Bloody Marys on the plane.”
“We will fig­ure this out,” I told him. “You know that, right? I’m nev­er
going to do any­thing with­out you. You’re my best friend. My fam­i­ly.”
“I know,” he said. “And you’re mine. I nev­er thought I could love
some­one after John. But this guy  .  .  . Eve­lyn, I’m falling in love with
him. And to know that I could love, that I can . . .”
“I know,” I said, grab­bing his hand and squeez­ing it. “I know. I
promise I’ll do what­ev­er I can. I promise you we will fig­ure this out.”
“OK,” Har­ry said, and then he squeezed my hand back and walked
out the door. “We will fig­ure this out.”
  *  *  *  
MY DRIVER, WHO intro­duced him­self as Nick as I got into the back of
the car, picked me up at around nine in the evening.
“To the air­port?” Nick said.
“Actu­al­ly, we’re going to make a stop on the West­side first,” I said,
giv­ing him the address of the home where Har­ry was stay­ing.
As we made our way across town, through the seedy parts of
Hol­ly­wood, over the Sun­set Strip, I found myself depressed about how
unseem­ly Los Ange­les had got­ten since I’d left. It was sim­i­lar to
Man­hat­tan in that regard. The decades had not been good to it. Har­ry
was talk­ing about rais­ing Con­nor here, but I couldn’t shake the feel­ing
that we need­ed to leave both big cities for good.
As we were stopped at a red light close to Harry’s rent­ed home,
Nick turned around briefly and smiled at me. He had a square jaw and
a crew cut. I could tell he had prob­a­bly bed­ded a num­ber of women
based on his smile alone.
“I’m an actor,” he said. “Just like you.”
I smiled polite­ly. “Nice work if you can get it.”
He nod­ded. “Got an agent this week,” he said as we start­ed mov­ing
again. “I feel like I’m real­ly on my way. But, you know, if we get to the
air­port with time to spare, I’d be inter­est­ed in any tips you have for
some­body start­ing out.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, look­ing out the win­dow. I decid­ed, as we drove up
the dark, wind­ing streets of Harry’s neigh­bor­hood, that if Nick asked
me again, after we got to the air­port, I was going to tell him that it’s
most­ly luck.
And that you have to be will­ing to deny your her­itage, to com­mod­i­fy
your body, to lie to good peo­ple, to sac­ri­fice who you love in the name
of what peo­ple will think, and to choose the false ver­sion of your­self
time and time again, until you for­get who you start­ed out as or why
you start­ed doing it to begin with.
But just as we pulled around the cor­ner onto Harry’s nar­row pri­vate
road, every thought I’d ever had before that moment was erased from
my mind.
Instead, I was lean­ing for­ward, shocked still.
In front of us was a car. Bent around a fall­en tree.
The sedan looked as if it had run head-on into the trunk, knock­ing
the tree down on top of it.
“Uh, Ms. Hugo . . .” Nick said.
“I see it,” I told him, not want­i­ng him to con­firm that it was real­ly in
front of us, that it wasn’t mere­ly an opti­cal illu­sion.
He pulled over to the side of the road. I heard the scrape of
branch­es on the driver’s side of the car as we parked. I froze with my
hand on the door han­dle. Nick jumped out and ran over.
I opened my door and put my feet on the ground. Nick stood to the
side, try­ing to see if he could get one of the doors of the crashed car
open. But I walked right to the front, by the tree. I looked in through
the wind­shield.
And I saw what I had both feared and yet not tru­ly believed
pos­si­ble.
Har­ry was slumped over the steer­ing wheel.
I looked over and saw a younger man in the passenger’s seat.
Every­one sort of assumes that when faced with life-and-death
sit­u­a­tions, you will pan­ic. But almost every­one who’s actu­al­ly
expe­ri­enced some­thing like that will tell you that pan­ic is a lux­u­ry you
can­not afford.
In the moment, you act with­out think­ing, doing all you can with the
infor­ma­tion you have.
It’s when it’s over that you scream. And cry. And won­der how you
got through it. Because most like­ly, in the case of real trau­ma, your
brain isn’t great at mak­ing mem­o­ries. It’s almost as if the cam­era is on
but no one’s record­ing. So after­ward, you go to review the tape, and
it’s all but blank.
Here is what I remem­ber.
I remem­ber Nick break­ing open Harry’s car door.
I remem­ber help­ing to pull Har­ry out.
I remem­ber think­ing that we shouldn’t move Har­ry because we
could par­a­lyze him.
But I also remem­ber think­ing that I couldn’t pos­si­bly stand by and
allow Har­ry to stay there, slumped on the wheel like that.
I remem­ber hold­ing Har­ry in my arms as he bled.
I remem­ber the deep gash in his eye­brow, the way the blood coat­ed
half his face in thick rust red.
I remem­ber see­ing the cut from where the seat belt had sliced the
low­er side of his neck.
I remem­ber two of his teeth being in his lap.
I remem­ber rock­ing him back and forth.
I remem­ber say­ing, “Stay with me, Har­ry. Stay with me. Stay true
blue.”
I remem­ber the oth­er man on the road next to me. I remem­ber
Nick telling me he was dead. I remem­ber think­ing that no one who
looked like that could be alive.
I remem­ber Harry’s right eye open­ing. I remem­ber the way it
inflat­ed me with hope, the way the white of his eye looked so bright
against the deep red of the blood. I remem­ber how his breath and
even his skin smelled like bour­bon.
I remem­ber how star­tling the real­iza­tion was—once I knew Har­ry
might live, I knew what had to be done.
It wasn’t his car.
No one knew he was here.
I had to get him to the hos­pi­tal, and I had to make sure no one
found out he’d been dri­ving. I couldn’t let him go to jail. What if they
tried him for vehic­u­lar manslaugh­ter?
I couldn’t let my daugh­ter find out her father had been dri­ving
drunk and killed some­one. Had killed his lover. Had killed the man
who he said was show­ing him he could love again.
I enlist­ed Nick to help me get Har­ry into our car. I made him help
me put the oth­er man back into the totaled sedan, this time in the
driver’s seat.
And then I quick­ly grabbed a scarf from my bag and wiped the
steer­ing wheel clean, wiped the blood, wiped the seat belt. I erased all
traces of Har­ry.
And then we took Har­ry to the hos­pi­tal.
There, blood­stained and cry­ing, I called the police from a pay phone
and report­ed the acci­dent.
When I hung up the phone, I turned and saw Nick, sit­ting in the
wait­ing room, blood on his chest, his arms, even some on his neck.
I walked over to him. He stood up.
“You should go home,” I said.
He nod­ded, still in shock.
“Can you get your­self home? Do you want me to call you a ride?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I’ll call you a cab, then.” I grabbed my purse. I pulled out two
twen­ties from my wal­let. “This should be enough to get you there.”
“OK,” he said.
“You’re going to go home, and you’re going to for­get every­thing
that hap­pened. Every­thing you saw.”
“What did we do?” he said. “How did we . . . How could we . . .”
“You’re going to call me,” I said. “I’ll get a room at the Bev­er­ly Hills
Hotel. Call me there tomor­row. First thing in the morn­ing. You’re not
going to talk to any­one else between now and then. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Not your moth­er or your friends or even the cab­driv­er. Do you
have a girl­friend?”
He shook his head.
“A room­mate?”
He nod­ded.
“You tell them that you found a man on the street and you brought
him to the hos­pi­tal, OK? That’s all you tell them, and you only tell
them if they ask.”
“OK.”
He nod­ded. I called him a cab and wait­ed with him until it arrived. I
put him in the back­seat.
“What are you going to do first thing tomor­row?” I asked him
through the rolled-down win­dow.
“I’m going to call you.”
“Good,” I said. “If you can’t sleep, think. Think about what you
need. What you need from me as a thank-you for what you did.”
He nod­ded, and the cab zoomed off.
Peo­ple were star­ing at me. Eve­lyn Hugo in a pantsuit cov­ered in
blood. I was afraid paparazzi would be there any minute.
I went inside. I talked my way into bor­row­ing some scrubs and
being giv­en a pri­vate room to wait in. I threw my clothes away.
When a man from the hos­pi­tal staff asked me for a state­ment about
what hap­pened to Har­ry, I said, “How much will it take for you to leave
me alone?” I was relieved when the dol­lar fig­ure he came up with was
less than what I had in my purse.
Just after mid­night, a doc­tor came into the room and told me that
Harry’s femoral artery had been sev­ered. He had lost too much blood.
For a brief moment, I won­dered if I should go get my old clothes, if
I could give some of his blood back to him, if it worked like that.
But I was dis­tract­ed by the next words out of the doctor’s mouth.
“He will not make it.”
I start­ed gasp­ing for air as I real­ized that Har­ry, my Har­ry, was
going to die.
“Would you like to say good-bye?”
He was uncon­scious in the bed when I walked into the room. He
looked paler than nor­mal, but they had cleaned him up a bit. There
was no longer blood every­where. I could see his hand­some face.
“He doesn’t have long,” the doc­tor said. “But we can give you a
moment.”
I did not have the lux­u­ry of pan­ic.
So I got into the bed with him. I held his hand even though it felt
limp. Maybe I should have been mad at him for get­ting behind the
wheel of a car when he’d been drink­ing. But I couldn’t ever get very
mad at Har­ry. I knew he was always doing the very best he could with
the pain he felt at any giv­en moment. And this, how­ev­er trag­ic, had
been the best he could do.
I put my fore­head to his and said, “I want you to stay, Har­ry. We
need you. Me and Con­nor.” I grabbed his hand tighter. “But if you
have to go, then go. Go if it hurts. Go if it’s time. Just go know­ing you
were loved, that I will nev­er for­get you, that you will live in every­thing
Con­nor and I do. Go know­ing I love you pure­ly, Har­ry, that you were
an amaz­ing father. Go know­ing I told you all my secrets. Because you
were my best friend.”
Har­ry died an hour lat­er.
After he was gone, I had the dev­as­tat­ing lux­u­ry of pan­ic.
  *  *  *  
IN THE MORNING, a few hours after I’d checked into the hotel, I woke
up to a phone call.
My eyes were swollen from cry­ing, and my throat hurt. The pil­low
was still stained with tears. I was pret­ty sure I’d only slept for an hour,
maybe less.
“Hel­lo?” I said.
“It’s Nick.”
“Nick?”
“Your dri­ver.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes. Hi.”
“I know what I want,” he said.
His voice was con­fi­dent. Its strength scared me. I felt so weak right
then. But I knew it had been my idea for this call to hap­pen. I had set
up the nature of it. Tell me what you want to keep you qui­et was what I
had said with­out say­ing it.
“I want you to make me famous,” he said, and when he did, the very
last shred of affec­tion I had for star­dom drained out of me.
“Do you real­ize the full extent of what you’re ask­ing?” I said. “If
you’re a celebri­ty, last night will be dan­ger­ous for you, too.”
“That’s not a prob­lem,” he said.
I sighed, dis­ap­point­ed. “OK,” I said, resigned. “I can get you parts.
The rest is up to you.”
“That’s fine. That’s all I need.”
I asked him his agent’s name, and I got off the phone. I made two
phone calls. One was to my own agent, telling him to poach Nick from
his guy. The sec­ond was to a man with the high­est-gross­ing action
movie in the coun­try. It was about a police chief in his late fifties who
defeats Russ­ian spies on the day he’s sup­posed to retire.
“Don?” I said when he answered the phone.
“Eve­lyn! What can I do for you?”
“I need you to hire a friend of mine in your next movie. The biggest
part you can get him.”
“OK,” he said. “You got it.” He did not ask me why. He did not ask
me if I was OK. We had been through enough togeth­er for him to
know bet­ter. I sim­ply gave him Nick’s name, and I got off the phone.
After I set the phone back in the cra­dle, I bawled and I howled. I
gripped the sheets. I missed the only man I’d ever loved with any
last­ing mean­ing.
My heart ached in my chest when I thought about telling Con­nor,
when I thought about try­ing to live a day with­out him, when I thought
of a world with­out Har­ry Cameron.
It was Har­ry who cre­at­ed me, who pow­ered me, who loved me
uncon­di­tion­al­ly, who gave me a fam­i­ly and a daugh­ter.
So I bel­lowed in my hotel room. I opened the win­dows, and I
screamed out into the open air. I let my tears soak every­thing in sight.