Part Two
~Liz~
Michael knew. The minute he looked at Sophie, I knew he would see what I see every day of my life. Sophie is nothing if not her father's daughter. And her father, of course, is the only man I've ever loved. Max Evans.
Michael and I stood silently as Thierry and Sophie said their goodbyes. She kissed his cheek and he twirled her around, promising to bring her another book the next time he came. Sophie thrives in Thierry's attention, and he gives it freely. He should have a house full of children to shower attention on, but this world is not always fair in what it bestows. Sophie should have a father who loves her without the hesitation that always comes in relationships that might end at any time. Even Thierry, who loves her dearly, has to keep a certain distance in their relationship because at any moment one of us could decide this is going nowhere and leave the other forever. No use getting attached to someone who might not always be there.
"Tomorrow evening, near the cloakroom?" Thierry asked me, and I was jolted out of my thoughts.
"Yes—better be early. Marcus likes to get settled before the orchestra warms up." The next night we were taking a colleague of mine to the opera.
"Of course, ma cherie," Thierry said. He gave me a brief kiss, nodded at Michael, and left the apartment. The moment the door shut, I wished he had stayed.
"Mommy, who's that?"
I looked down to see Sophie's eyes on Michael. He was still staring at her, dumbstruck. I smoothed my daughter's hair with one hand, then shrugged out of my coat. "This is my friend Mr. Guerin," I told her. I don't know why I called him that. Maybe I was trying to distance myself and my daughter from him and what he represented.
But Michael wasn't about to stand for that. He knelt in front of Sophie and held out his hand. "I'm Michael," he said. "I knew your mommy a long time ago. What's your name?"
"Sophie," she answered solemnly, shaking his hand. "Are you from New Mexico?"
"Yes, I am. Where are you from?"
She shrugged, and it broke my heart. Sophie and I have moved around a lot in the past few years. For the first seven years of her life we lived in Boston while I attended college and law school, but then we moved to New York City when I got the job at Christian Dior. We were there less than two years before I packed her up and moved her to a country where we didn't know a single person or even the language. She seems happy here, but I can't help thinking what she's missing. When I was her age, I was Liz Parker from Roswell, New Mexico. My daughter is Sophie Parker from. . .from where? God, she deserves better than that, I thought. I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. "Sophie, baby, is Gruya here? Thierry didn't send her home, did he?"
She shook her head. "No. She's in the kitchen making pierozhki."
"I need to talk to Mr.—I mean Michael. Do you think you could go help Gruya? Ask her to make us some tea and bring it to the library."
Sophie nodded again. "Will you read to me before bed?"
I smiled. Bedtime stories had been a ritual for the two of us since the day Sophie was born. "I promise." I touched her cheek, praying her life and mine weren't about to spin out of control.
"Fairy tales?" she persisted. "In Russian?"
"Your Russian is better than mine," I said with a smile. "Why don't you read them to me?"
"It's better when you read," she told me.
I bent and kissed the top of her head. "Okay, then. Run and help Gruya." She ran for the kitchen, and I waited until she was out of earshot before I turned to Michael again.
His eyes were accusing. "Does Max know?" he demanded.
I shook my head, my throat tight. "No, Max doesn't know. Are you going to tell him?"
Michael didn't answer. "This is why you never came back to Roswell," he said.
"This is one reason," I answered honestly.
"I can't believe this," Michael said, shaking his head.
"I know it must be a shock," I said, hanging up my coat. I reached for Michael's bulky parka and hung it up, too. "I'm sorry you had to find out like that."
"How could you do it, Liz?"
It wasn't anger in his voice—that I was prepared for. I wasn't braced for the sadness in Michael's tone, or the disappointment in his eyes. In an instant I was taken back ten years and I was once again the frightened teenage girl I'd been the summer after I graduated from high school. I felt tears sting my eyes. "It wasn't my choice, Michael," I whispered. "It wasn't my choice at all."
Roswell, New Mexico, March 2002
~Michael~
Everything hit the fan about a week after Max came back from Vermont. Between Max coming back from the dead and Isabel recovering from that gunshot wound, we were all so relieved that we weren't prepared for another crisis. Maybe that was our mistake—not paying enough attention. Or maybe it was something else, something that we should have fixed earlier. Or maybe it wasn't our mistake at all. I've never quite been able to believe that last one.
Max was sitting on my front steps talking to Liz on a cell phone when we heard the news. He and Liz had talked several times a day ever since he'd come back from Vermont, and he was so happy that I couldn't begrudge him the goofy smiles and murmured conversations that seemed to take up half his time. I remember it was a beautiful day and I was outside working on my bike when Maria drove up, tires screeching on the pavement. She jumped out of the car yelling.
"Aren't you guys watching the news?" she demanded, heading up the walkway.
"Does it look like we're watching the news?" I asked, shaking my head. I wiped my hands on a rag and tossed my ratchet back into my tool box. Max barely looked up from his phone call. That was no surprise; when he was talking to Liz, Max was in another world.
"Well, you should be," Maria retorted, walking into my house and turning on the television. She found CNN quickly and pointed at the screen.
"—body of Hollywood producer Cal Langley has been found in his Hollywood mansion. Investigators estimate that Langley has been dead several days. The cause of death has not been determined."
Oh, man. I went to the screen door and pushed it open. "Maxwell, you better get in here." He looked up, clearly not happy that I'd interrupted his phone call.
"Michael, what's the problem? I'm on the phone here."
"I can see that, but this is important." I held the door open and he reluctantly came inside, but did not get off the phone.
"Nothing, Liz," I heard him say. "Just something on T.V." He stood beside the sofa, watching half-heartedly, until a picture of Langley flashed on the screen. Then he straightened, his eyes glued to the television.
"Langley was best known for his highly successful action films," the announcer continued. "There is no word on what will be the fate of his current film, a high-budget military thriller that is less than half complete."
Max's face had gone pale beneath his tan. "Liz, Langley's dead," he said in a stunned voice. He paused, then repeated, "Langley—the other protector. The one in L.A."
"This is impossible," Maria said, her voice shrill. "Langley shouldn't have a dead body. He should be dust—just like Nacedo."
Just like Max, I couldn't help thinking, but I didn't voice it. Instead I turned to Max. "What do we do now?" I asked.
Max was clutching the phone like some sort of lifeline. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know."
~Liz~
I knew something was wrong that first day. It had been three days since Cal Langley's body—or at least the body everyone assumed belonged to Cal Langley—was found, and the press was all over the story. They had canonized Langley in the time since his death, calling him a "visionary" who was "years ahead of his time." Funny how they'd never realized that before he died.
Max had called me every day since we parted in Vermont. We talked for hours in those few days, telling each other anything that popped into our heads. Most days we talked more than once, calling back when we remembered something we couldn't wait until the next day to share. But on that day he hadn't called once. Finally, at seven that night, someone knocked on my door to tell me I had a phone call. Relieved, I went down the hall and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Liz? It's Maria."
My heart sank. "Oh, hi, Maria."
"Liz," she said slowly, "I've got some bad news."
I gripped the phone so tightly my hand ached. "Tell me."
"Max has been arrested for Cal Langley's murder."
The world started to spin, but I wasn't going to faint. "That's impossible. Max would never do anything like that."
"I know—and we know it wasn't even Langley they found. But the police have witnesses saying he and Max had big argument when Max was in L.A., and Isabel said Jesse told her they found Max's fingerprints in the house."
"Well, of course they did—he was in the house last fall," I protested.
"No, recent ones. And they were all around the body." Maria sounded on the verge of hysterics, but I felt strangely light, like I was watching someone else's drama.
"That's impossible. Max was here in Vermont with me, and then back in Roswell with all of you. He's got an alibi."
"Max can't tell anyone he was in Vermont, Liz," Maria said. "No one will believe him anyway—he's got no plane ticket, nothing."
"I'll tell them," I said. "And you will, too, right?"
"Of course I will, Liz, but that's only our word against fingerprints and witnesses in L.A." Maria sighed. "And I don't know how much your word will be worth, considering the two of you held up a convenience store last summer."
"We did not hold up—" I stopped, refusing to get into that argument again. "I'm coming home," I told Maria. "I'm going to go pack and come home."
"They're taking Max to L.A.," Maria said.
"When?" My hands had started to shake. Max was going to be in jail in L.A. My Max, in prison for something he didn't do.
"I don't know. Soon."
"Okay. Then I'm coming home tomorrow. Will you pick me up at the airport?" My mind was already cataloging the things I'd have to do in order to get home as quickly as possible. Call the airline first, then a cab. . .
"Liz, what about your parents?"
Damn. There was no way they'd let me come home for this. In fact, they'd probably want the dean to set guards outside my door to make sure I didn't come home. But I wasn't going to let Max face this by himself. "I'll tell them after I've seen Max," I said. "Don't tell anyone I'm coming—not even Michael and Isabel, okay?"
"Okay, but are you sure this is the best thing to do?" She sounded doubtful.
"Maria, I have to see him," I said simply. It was all I could think of—that tug on my heart that wouldn't be satisfied until I was in Max's arms again.
"I understand." Maria took a deep breath. "Call me with your flight information, okay?"
"I will. Thanks, Maria." I hung up the phone and stood there leaning against the wall. My world had fallen apart again.