Page 1 of Love and Lies

1 Helena

Home is where the heart is.

I’d always found that saying childish—empty words inked as tattoos or printed on corny Valentine’s Day cards because people thought they sounded good, when in reality they were totally meaningless. But after they sent me away, I realized that those words contained a multitude of truths. And now, two and a half years later, as I caught a glimpse of the New York City skyline from the cab window, I felt them speaking to me in some way. I wasn’t about to rush to the nearest tattoo parlor, but it was enough to bring a lump to my throat.

“First time here?” asked the cabdriver, jolting me out of my thoughts.

“No,” I replied. “I was born and raised in New York City. But I’ve been gone awhile.” Half my life—at least that’s what it felt like.

I’d learned the meaning of home in that time. Or what it meant to have to leave, anyway. Along with that strange, tugging sensation in the gut telling you that you weren’t where you were supposed to be. You can’t be happy here—you don’t belong.

His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “So are you happy to be back?”

“Yeah. And then some.” I’d been longing for this day with every fiber of my being—the day I would be allowed to return to New York at last. But I was scared, too. As much as I loved this city, I’d only known it with her in it. Valerie.

What would it be like without her?

The question lingered in my mind as we crossed the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge and drove into Manhattan. I gazed out the window in awe, just like the tourist the cabdriver had taken me for. It was a concrete jungle, and I took in every single building we passed; the people in outfits ranging from sleek to shabby; the hot-dog carts and newsstands. And with every yard, I felt like I was being ripped apart and put back together again at the same time. The wound was unfathomably deep, and would never fully heal. A part of my heart was missing and always would be. But at least the rest of it was back where it belonged.

Two junctions and three sets of lights later, we turned onto Park Avenue. There was less congestion than usual for this time on a Sunday morning, so it was only a couple of minutes before the driver was pulling into a space a few doors down from my destination. I paid with my credit card, then he unloaded my bags, and I thanked him.

“Welcome back to New York City.” He gave me a nod and got back in the car, vanishing a few moments later into the endless stream of yellow cabs.

A glance at my watch told me it was just after ten—perfect timing. Just how I’d planned it. I breathed in the cold February air, grabbed the handle of my suitcase, and headed toward the familiar entrance, its lettered sign above the dark canopy reading 740 PARK AVENUE. As I approached, a young man in a gray blazer and black tie held the door open for me, and a cozy warmth greeted me in the foyer.

“Good morning, miss.” The concierge behind the front desk addressed me with a polite but distant smile.

“Good morning,” I replied. I’d never met him and had no idea what his name was. I used to know everyone who worked in our building. But two and a half years was a long time in a city like New York.

“Who are you here for, please?” He lifted the front desk’s phone handset.

It was an effort not to look surprised. But evidently the concierge was new, and I was a day early—I couldn’t blame him for not being in the loop. Especially as I probably looked very different than expected right now.

“The Westons,” I said pleasantly.

“The Westons? Do you have an appointment?” Distinctly skeptical now, he put the handset down, taking in my scruffy leather jacket and jeans as if he thought I might be concealing a weapon with which to threaten, kidnap, or maybe even whack the venerable Weston family. I was about to suggest this to him, but it wasn’t the place for that kind of humor—there was a police call button behind the desk, the kind they had in banks. And I definitely didn’t want to kick off my fresh start in New York by getting arrested.

So I stuck to the truth. “I’m Helena Weston,” I said. “The daughter.”

“The daughter?” He was still dubious.

“That’s right.” With a sigh, I looked in my bag and pulled out my wallet to show him my New York State driver’s license, complete with its three-year-old photo. I cringed every time I saw it; those bangs really hadn’t been a great idea.

I put the license down on the counter and pointed at my name. “Do I still need an appointment?”

The concierge’s expression changed instantly. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Weston, I had no idea… I was told you weren’t arriving until tomorrow.” And that you’d look different, his startled expression seemed to say. After all, in New York I was known exclusively for designer clothes and five-hundred-dollar haircuts rather than the simple ponytail I wore now.

“Don’t worry about it. Can I go up?”

“Of course,” he said eagerly. “Shall I let them know you’re here?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I want it to be a surprise.”

Concern that I might, in fact, be a professional hit woman and he’d end up on the front page of the tabloids by tomorrow morning at the latest seemed to flash briefly through the concierge’s eyes again. But then he gestured to my suitcase.

“Shall I take care of your luggage?”

“No need. I’ll take it up myself.”