He Will Be My Ruin Read online

  I grew up aware of the protests. I’ve read enough articles about the greed and the harm to the planet that comes with this industry. By the time I turned twenty-one, still young and idealistic and embroiled by the latest disgrace involving our company and an oil tanker spill off the coast of China, I wanted nothing to do with the enormous trust fund that my grandmother left me. In fact, I was one signature away from handing it all over to a charity foundation. My biggest mistake—and saving grace—was that I tried to do it through my lawyer, a loyal Sparkes Energy legal consultant. He, of course, informed my parents, who fought me on it. I wouldn’t listen to them.

  But I did listen to Celine. She was the one who persuaded me not to do it in the end, sending me link after link of scandal after scandal involving charity organizations. How so little of the money ever actually reaches those in need, how so much of the money lines the pockets of individuals. She used the worst-case scenarios to steer me away from my plan because she knew it would work. Then she suggested that I use the trust fund to lead my own humanitarian ventures. I could do bigger, better things if I controlled it.

  That’s when I began Villages United.

  And Celine was right.

  VU may only be six years old, but it has already become an internationally recognized nonprofit, focused on high-impact lending projects throughout the world geared toward building self-sustainable villages. We teach children to read and give them roofs to sleep under and clean water to drink and clothes to wear and books to read. Between my own money and the money that VU has raised, we have now left a lasting mark on thirty-six communities in countries around the world.

  And I’m not just writing checks from my house in California. I’m right there in the trenches, witnessing the changes firsthand. Something my parents simply don’t understand, though they’ve tried turning it into a Sparkes Energy PR venture on more than one occasion.

  I’ve refused every single time.

  Because, for the first time in a long time, I’m truly proud to be Maggie Sparkes.

  I haven’t even warned them about my newest endeavor—providing significant financial backing to companies that are developing viable and economical green energy solutions. VU was preparing to announce it to the media in the coming weeks. As much as I can’t think about any of that right now, I’ll have to soon. Too many people rely on me.

  But for now . . . all I can focus on is Celine.

  I wander into her bedroom, my back to another wall of collectibles as I stand at the foot of the ornate wrought-iron bed, the delicate bedding stretched out neatly, as if Celine made it this morning. As if she’ll be back later to share a glass of wine and a laugh.

  I yank the duvet back, just long enough to see the ugly proof beneath.

  To remind me that that’s never going to happen.

  Edging along the side of her bed—I actually have to turn and shimmy to fit—I move toward a stack of vintage wooden food crates that serve as a nightstand. A wave of nostalgia washes over me as my finger traces the heavy latches and handmade, chunky gunmetal-gray body of the antique box sitting next to the lamp. The day that I spied it in an antique store while shopping for Celine’s sixteenth birthday, it made me think of a medieval castle. The old man who sold it to me said it was actually an eighteenth-century lockbox.

  Whatever it was, I knew Celine would love it.

  I carry it over to the living room, where I can sit and open it up. Inside are sentimental scraps of Celine’s life. Concert stubs and random papers, a dried rose, her grandmother’s rosary that Rosa gave to her. Rosa is supremely religious, and Celine, the ever-devoted daughter, kept up appearances for her mother, though she admitted to me that she didn’t find value in it.

  I pull each item out, laying them on the trunk coffee table until I’m left with nothing but the smooth velvet floor of the box. I fumble with a small detail on the outside that acts as a lever—remembering my surprise when the man revealed the box’s secret—until a click sounds, allowing me to pry open the false bottom.

  Celine’s shy, secretive eyes lit up when I first showed her the sizeable compartment. It was perfect for hiding treasures, like notes from boys, and the silver bracelet that her senior-year boyfriend bought her for Valentine’s Day and she was afraid to wear in front of Rosa. While I love Rosa dearly, she could be suffocating sometimes.

  My fingers wrap around the wad of money filling the small space as a deep frown creases my forehead. Mostly hundreds but plenty of fifties, too. I quickly count it. There’s almost ten thousand dollars here.

  Why wouldn’t Celine deposit this into her bank account?

  I pick up the ornate bronze key and a creased sheet of paper that also sits within. I’m guessing the key is for the desk. I’ll test that out in a minute. I gingerly unfold the paper that’s obviously been handled many times, judging by the crinkles in it.

  My eyes widen.

  A naked man fills one side. He’s entrancingly handsome, with long lashes and golden-blond tousled hair and a shadow of peach scruff covering his hard jawline. He’s lying on his back, one muscular arm disappearing into the pillow beneath his head, a white sheet tangled around his legs, not quite covering the goods, which from what I can see, are fairly impressive. I can’t tell what color his eyes are because he’s fast asleep.

  “Well then . . .” I frown, taken aback.

  I’m not surprised that Celine could attract the attention of a guy like this. She was a gorgeous young woman—her Mexican roots earning her lush locks, full lips, and voluptuous curves tied to the kind of tiny waist that all men seem to admire.

  Nor am I surprised that he’s blond. It has always been a running joke between us, her penchant for blonds. She’s never dated anything but.

  But I am surprised that she’d have the nerve to take—and print out to keep by her bed—a scandalous picture like this in the first place.

  I wonder if she ever mentioned him to me. She always told me about her dates, utter failures or otherwise. Though it’s been years since she was seeing anyone seriously, and she was definitely seeing this guy seriously if she was sleeping with him. Celine usually waited months before she gave that up to a guy. She didn’t even lose her virginity until she was twenty-two, to a guy she had been dating for six months and hoped that she would one day marry. Who broke up with her shortly afterward.

  So who the hell is this guy and why didn’t I ever hear about him? And where is he now? When were they together last?

  Does he know that she’s dead?

  Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth—it’s a bad habit of mine—I slowly fold the paper back up. Celine’s cursive scrawl decorates the back side in purple ink. Words I hadn’t noticed before.

  Words that make my heart stop now.

  This man was once my salvation. Now he will be my ruin.

  CHAPTER 2

  Maggie

  Celine was always more emotional than me. She had a love for flowery prose in literature and the kind of poetry that makes my eyes glaze over. She cried at movies and could sit and stare at a sculpture for hours. Her crushes were never just crushes.

  It wasn’t until her twentieth birthday that a doctor said the D word. He prescribed medication for low-grade depression and anxiety, and it seemed to work. She used to call them her “happy pills.” They made her more levelheaded, less dramatic.

  These words that I’m seeing now, though . . . What do they even mean? Is this an over-the-top profession of love for a guy she was sleeping with? A thread of poetry to express how much he meant to her? Knowing Celine, that’s possible. But how was he supposed to save her? What would she need saving from? And did he end up breaking her heart?

  Too many questions and I’m not sure who can answer them. Maybe this naked guy, but in a city of over eight million people, I wouldn’t know quite where to begin.

  If they were dating, there was surely a text-message chain with his name on it.

  I root through the black leather purse that hangs on a hook by
the door and find all the usual suspects—a full wallet, work ID badge, sunglasses, random toiletries.

  But no phone.

  I know she didn’t have it on her when she died. The funeral home arranged for all personal effects to be shipped along with the body when it was transported to San Diego. All that came were a pair of earrings and a watch.

  Did it go missing somewhere along the way? Would someone be sick enough to steal a phone off a corpse? The last I remember, Celine raved about how great the camera was on her iPhone. I guess someone could make some money off of it. But her earrings were diamond, her watch a Michael Kors. Why steal a phone and not the jewelry? Missing earrings are less likely to be noticed than a cell phone . . .

  I dial Celine’s number with shaky fingers for the first time since her death. My throat tightens at the sound of her smooth, sultry recorded voice on the other side, telling me that she’s not available. Her voicemail picked up immediately, so the battery must have died.

  I hit redial and listen to Celine’s voice four more times before forcing myself to move on.

  Grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen from her desk, I begin my list of things I need to do tomorrow. The first one: ask the police about Celine’s phone.

  I run my thumb over the touch screen of my phone. It’s both a godsend and a curse. I bring it along with me everywhere, even on those sweltering hot days when I’m elbow-deep in dirt and reception is spotty.

  People’s entire lives can be uncovered in phones.

  Maybe someone took Celine’s phone and it had nothing to do with making some easy cash. Maybe there was something on there that someone didn’t want uncovered.

  Or maybe I’m just tired and delirious.

  I toss the pen aside and pick up the dried yellow rose that I found in the main compartment of the lockbox. Celine certainly couldn’t have held on to it to preserve its beauty, I note, rubbing the shriveled brown-tinged petals between my fingers. There’s still a hint of moisture in the base of the flower. It can’t be that old.

  I inspect each item pulled out of the box more closely now. Ticket stubs to a Broadway show of Romeo and Juliet—Celine’s favorite—from years ago. I remember her seeing this with “the love of her life” Bruce. The jackass who broke up with her one day with an “it’s not you, it’s me” excuse. A few weeks later she found out that the “it’s me” part involved a redhead from her History class, which sent her into an emotional spiral.

  It was the one and only time she has ever accepted a luxurious gift from me, in the form of an all-expenses-paid trip to Jamaica for the two of us. The only reason she agreed was because she was wallowing so deeply in misery that she couldn’t think straight. Plus, it was already booked and nonrefundable.

  I flick the ticket stub away with disdain, wondering why she’d keep it. That was Celine, though, ever the sentimentalist; even when the good memories were weighed down by the ugly aftereffects, she wanted to keep the evidence. A true glutton for punishment.

  I find several tickets to memorable auctions, too. Attending the high-profile sales—witnessing the rich wave their money away with a paddle, one lucky winner walking off with a valuable piece of history—was like attending a gold medal game at the Olympics for Celine. Sometimes she’d call me afterward. It’d usually be the middle of the night on my side of the world, and I’d simply listen to her giddy voice, imagine her flushed cheeks, and I’d smile.

  I find another card, from a Manhattan area florist, with a woman’s handwriting in blue ink.

  I still care very much about you. ~ J

  If that doesn’t smell of romance . . . and perhaps heartbreak . . .

  On impulse, I turn my phone back on and punch in the number on the back of the card. A woman answers after the third ring.

  “Hi, you delivered flowers to me recently and I wanted to thank the sender but I’m not entirely sure who they’re from.”

  “Oh, well that’s a little awkward, isn’t it?” The soft-spoken woman chuckles. “Bear with me for a moment while I restart the computer. I was just about to leave for the day. Had the lights off and everything.”

  “I’m sorry.” If I were a more patient person, I would offer to call back tomorrow.

  “That’s quite all right. We’re always happy to help our customers.” She hums softly. “We just opened two months ago and I’m still getting used to this system. So . . . what day did you say they arrived?”

  “That’s the thing. I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Oh?” There’s a hint of suspicion in her voice now, where there was only willingness before.

  I quickly jump in with “I was away on vacation for several weeks and I came home to find them on my doorstep. If you’ll just check for delivery to . . .” I recite Celine’s address.

  “And what is your name again?”

  “Celine Gonzalez.”

  “Well, it says here that you signed for them.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “My neighbor must have signed for me. She was looking after my place while I was gone.”

  “And she left them on your doorstep?” I grit my teeth with the long pause. “I’ll have to speak with the owner before I share any more information. We have privacy laws that we need to adhere to.”

  I heave a sigh. “Look, Celine was actually my best friend. She passed away recently. I’d like to contact the person who sent these flowers to her and make sure they know what happened.”

  There’s another long pause. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” I give her my number, doubting that I’ll hear from her again unless I go down there in person and bully the owner into giving me answers.

  But I have learned one thing. Someone sent flowers to Celine within the last two months. Maybe it was the guy in the picture and maybe the rose in my hand was one of them, which would mean he was someone important to her, and she was someone important to him. And it sounds like maybe he screwed up.

  I curl up with a blanket on the couch, listening to the soothing chorus of tick-tick-ticks from the shelf of clocks above, inhaling a hint of Celine’s lavender perfume on the cushion as my exhausted and naturally suspicious mind spins.

  A missing cell phone.

  Flowers from a guy she never told me about.

  A stack of money.

  A picture of a naked man hidden away in her lockbox, with dramatic proclamations scrawled across the back.

  A girl who I just can’t believe would kill herself.

  What if the police have it wrong?

  When I drift off, my dreams are full of murder.

  CHAPTER 3

  Maggie

  December 1, 2015

  A crackling buzz startles me from a deep sleep and I lock gazes with twelve sets of eyes. Celine’s porcelain dolls have been watching over me all night. I shudder, deciding that they’ll be going into a box immediately after I have my morning coffee.

  Another loud buzz sounds, followed by three shorter ones. It’s the intercom and it’s clearly what woke me up.

  “Hold on,” I grumble, giving my face a rub and my body a stretch before I check the collection of clocks to see that I just logged in fourteen hours of sleep. I can’t remember the last time I slept that long.

  I hold the chunky yellowed “answer” button down, surprised that this archaic system still works and hasn’t been upgraded. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.” A male voice fills Celine’s apartment.

  “Me who?”

  “Hans. I’m here for the appraisal.”

  “What appraisal?”

  “For the eggs!” His irritation hisses through the speaker. “This isn’t funny, Celine. I don’t do LES in the winter, and you know that.”

  Whoever he is, he hasn’t heard the news yet. I could—and probably should—tell him to come back later, or not at all. But maybe he knows something that would be useful to me. Maybe he’s important.

  Maybe Hans is the mystery man.

  “Where am I
going again?” he asks.

  “The stairs are on your left. Apartment 310.” I buzz him in and rush to brush my teeth. At least I’m dressed, albeit in the same frayed jeans and rumpled flannel shirt that I flew to New York City in yesterday.

  I throw the door open just as “Hans” reaches up to knock, and he lets out a squeal of surprise.

  Hans is most certainly not the mystery man. Not unless the mystery man lost all muscle mass and dresses in a peacock-blue suit, complete with a fedora. And is now Asian.

  He takes one quick head-to-toe review of me and then sneers. “You’re not Celine.” Bobbing his head up and down and around me, he asks, “Where is she?”

  I sigh. “Come on in.”

  He pushes past me, dusting the snow off his coat, his boots tracking prints onto the worn parquet floor, his body bringing in a chill with him. With near-black eyes, he scans Celine’s space with fascination, making me wonder if he’s ever been here before.

  I take a deep breath. “The thing is . . .”

  Hans beelines for a shelf and, producing a magnifying glass and white gloves from his pocket, begins inspecting the fancy eggs sitting on stands, his attention riveted, oohing and ahhing to himself.

  “So, how do you know Celine?” I finally ask, more curious than anything.

  “We did our undergrad at NYU together. We’ve been friends for years.” A pause. “How do you know Celine?” Again with that head-to-toe scan, like he completely disapproves of me and can’t figure out what I could possibly have in common with her. Celine always did have an elegant style. One that didn’t include torn jeans and wool work socks.