Tyler O'Neill's Redemption

Feel something, she willed her nerve endings, come on, just a little zing.

But there was nothing.

Of course, because she was an idiot, Tyler O’Neill and his broken-down face and heartless grin popped into her mind, and just the thought of him electrified her, put the hair on her arms on end.

That’s what you want? she asked herself ruthlessly. The answer, of course, was no, the by-product of all that fire had been third-degree burns, a life-altering pain.

“Come on, Miguel,” she murmured, giving the boy’s shoulder a shake. Miguel flinched, then came to, clearly disoriented and drowsy, and she helped him to his feet.

Fifteen minutes later, Juliette stopped in front of The Manor, stared through her window at the red door and took a few deep breaths.

“Hey, Ty,” she whispered, practicing her cheerful approach. “You’ll never guess, it’s funny really, but your car almost got stolen last night.”

She pressed her fist to her forehead. “Okay—” she tried straightforward “—look, Ty, we’ve got a situation. Your car is fine and I need you to work with me. I need you—”

I need you.

Her stomach rolled and her skull pounded. Ten years later and she needed him. Frankly, she’d rather take out her gun and blow off her left toe than face Tyler, but Miguel needed her.

She glanced in the rearview mirror to where Miguel slept, his head pressed to the backseat window, his black hair flat against the glass.

“Please, you son of a bitch,” she whispered, “please be reasonable.”

FIRE ANTS WERE EATING Tyler’s brain and it was making him acutely, painfully unreasonable.

Or maybe it was just his father.

“I’m telling you,” Dad said, scrambling eggs without his shirt on. Sunlight coming in through the kitchen window hit his chest hair and put a halo around him.

Ironic. So. Ironic.

“I was staying in Malibu and I grew this beard and everyone thought I was George Clooney. I didn’t pay for a meal for three whole weeks.”

Tyler listened with half an ear, distracted by the fire ants.

“You listening to me, Tyler?”

“Can’t you put on a shirt?” Tyler asked, more concerned about those eggs and his father’s copious chest hair.

Richard dropped the spatula. “What is with you? Ty? You didn’t say two words to me last night.”

“I let you in, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and then you slammed the door to your room like a teenager. What happened to your face?”

“It got punched.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“Fine, then you don’t pretend that arriving here, of all places, is just business as usual.”

Richard crossed his arms over his big chest. Pushing sixty and he still looked good. He could pass for Clooney.

One more scam to add to his repertoire.

“That’s what’s bothering you?”

“I haven’t seen you in eight months! One minute you’re living on my couch the next you’re gone without a word. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead, Dad.”

“I told you I was going to L.A.—”

“No, you didn’t. You said, ‘I miss the ocean.’” Tyler held out his arms in exasperation. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Okay.” Richard nodded, like some kind of grief counselor or something. “I get that you are upset.”

Oh, it was hard not to laugh. Dad got that he was upset. Hilarious.

“But,” Richard continued, “we have things to talk about, son. Things—”

“Gems?” he asked, cutting through the half hour of bullshit his father was ready to shovel out before getting to the point.

Richard gaped, for just a moment, which was akin to anyone else in the world falling down in a dead faint.

“You know about them?” Richard asked, slowly turning the flame off under the eggs.

“I had a little conversation with local law enforcement last night. Apparently Mom was snooping around here last month looking for some stolen gems. The cop said there’d been some suspicious activity around the house lately. Windowsills damaged, bushes trampled.”

Richard pursed his lips. “I’ve lost my touch.”

“Apparently. Why don’t you tell me what you know about these gems?” he asked.

“Seven years ago I was hired to steal the Pacific Diamond, Ruby and Emerald from the Ancient Treasures collection at the Bellagio.”

Tyler whistled through his teeth and Dad smiled, cock of the walk.

“Right, not easy. Luckily, I had a friend who knew the Bellagio like the back of his hand. He’d been sleeping with one of the pit bosses. Joel Woods—”

“Woods? Why do I know that name?”

“Your sister is traveling the world with Joel’s son, Matthew.”

Christ. Tyler put his head in his hands and the fire ants went berserk. Could this get any more complicated?

“Where was I during all of this?” Tyler asked. It seemed hard to believe Dad would have been planning a crime of this magnitude while they’d been living together.

“You were shacked up with that dancer,” Dad said. “With the legs—”

“Jill. Right.” Those had been some heady days. Dad could have joined the monastery and Tyler probably wouldn’t have noticed.