"I have proof," he said, taking something out of his back pocket. He unfolded a piece of paper and threw it on the counter.
"What's that?" I asked, looking down at it suspiciously.
"He owns our old house in Greenwich," he said. "He bought it two months ago. I looked it up on the Internet. He bought it through a corporation, but he owns it. It all came back to him."
I frowned, picking up the paper, a printout from the Fairfield County auditor's website. It took me a minute to read through it, but it looked like Stuart was right. I knew for a fact Brogan owned the company that now owned our old property in Greenwich because of the work I'd done for Brogan. I tilted my head in confusion, trying to understand why Brogan would have bought our house and not told me the day we went there.
"It's all part of his master plan," Stuart said, twitching again and rubbing at his neck. "Me, dead, you under his thumb, and him," he gestured his hands around as if he was trying to communicate what he was thinking but was having a hard time getting there, "master of the domain where he once worked as a servant," he finally blurted out.
"He was our gardener, not a servant," I mumbled, casting my gaze to the side, confusion overwhelming me. "And that sounds pretty dramatic, Stu."
"This whole fucking situation is dramatic, Lydie," he said, using a nickname he hadn't used since we were kids. "Machiavellian revenge plots, mobsters, hit men? I didn't make any of that up."
A cold lump of dread was sitting in my belly. "I just need to talk to him," I muttered. "I just need to ask him . . . I'm sure . . ."
Stuart stared at me, a horror-stricken look on his face as he began to back up. "Oh my God," he breathed out in a sudden rasp. "It's already done. You're in love with the devil."
I met his red-rimmed gaze. "He's not a devil, Stu. He's—"
He spun away, his hands on his head as he let out what sounded like a growl of defeat. "I have to get out of here."
I came from around the island, holding my hand out to him. "No, Stu, please, you look so tired. Let me make you some tea, and we can sit down. We can talk about this. And Brogan will be home soon—"
"No, no, no." He shook his head. "They're following me. I need to leave."
"No one's following you."
He scrubbed at his face. "I need some money, Lydie. Just whatever you have. Please. I can't go back to my apartment."
"I . . . I only have about fifty dollars on me." And that was only because Brogan had given me cash to pay for the dinner delivery we'd ordered the night before, but then gotten out of the shower before it arrived. He'd paid and the cash had remained in my wallet.
"Whatever you have, I need it. Now. Right now."
I took a long look at him. He truly looked awful, as if he hadn't showered in days, or slept, or eaten. But there was also a fear in his eyes I'd never seen before. Were people really after him? No, surely not. Surely he was sleep deprived, possibly still drinking . . . "My purse is upstairs," I muttered. "I can make you some food here, though."
"No. I need to go before he comes back. Give me the money." He held out his hand, moving his fingers back and forth. Jesus.
I stared at him a moment longer, not knowing what was best in this situation. "I'll be right back," I finally said, going toward the stairs.
He followed me. "You can come with me."
I shook my head and looked back at him. When we got to the landing, I said, "Where, Stu?"
He scratched at the inside of his elbow, his eyes jumping around the empty hall. "No, you're right. You can't come with me. You'd just be in more danger. But you need to get out of here. Promise me you'll find a way to get out of here and . . ." His words faded away.
I stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to finish, but it didn't seem he was going to, and he obviously wasn't waiting for an answer from me, so I simply turned and went into the guest room where my purse was on the dresser. I dug in my wallet and pulled out the money, two twenties and a ten. I opened my change purse, too, to see if I had a few dollars in quarters. I did and collected those as well. I turned and handed the money to Stuart. "Stuart—"
"Thanks, Lydia, I gotta go," he said, moving past me and out into the hall.
"Wait, Stuart!" He bounded down the steps and was already opening the door by the time I got to the bottom. "Wait, I—"
He turned, pausing, his eyes seeming to clear for just a moment. "I love you, Lydie. Mom and Dad would have been so proud of you." And then he walked out the door, closing it behind him. I stood in the foyer, staring after him for long minutes, rattled and confused.
**********
I went back inside Brogan's apartment and stood staring out the window at the city beyond for a good long while as I considered Stuart’s demeanor and everything he had said.
I felt worried and sickened, scared and confused. There was something wrong with Stuart—either it was paranoia or perhaps drugs, maybe both—but was the paranoia based on something real? Had Brogan told me he paid Stuart's debts and not really done so for some nefarious reason? I shook my head at the very thought. No . . . no. I didn't believe that. I wouldn't. I trusted Brogan. It had been weeks since I’d been knifed, and the threat had been about Stuart. So, if no harm had come to him . . . although . . . why had Brogan lied about buying my family's old estate? He had bought it months ago and that day when we'd gone there together, I'd said something to him about how it had gone up for sale, and he could have bought it himself, and he'd . . . what had he done? He'd said he needed a guesthouse for Eileen. He'd redirected the conversation. But why?