Manhattan's Ruler: The Return of the Trash Son-in-Law

The night Ethan Cole should have died, he was sitting in the passenger seat thinking about how good it felt to finally be wanted by his wife after giving her another chance.

Serena had asked him to come. She had said she needed him, and that alone was enough to make him forget all the three years of insults, three years of cold shoulders at family dinners, and three years of being treated like a man who had wandered into the wrong house and refused to leave.

He watched the Hamptons coastline slide past the window and gave himself, for one foolish moment, the feeling of hope.

"So what kind of investors are we meeting tonight?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "And why are we meeting them at night? Serena, hope you are ......".

Serena didn't even allow him to finish his words before cutting him off angrily.

Serena kept her eyes on the road.

"The kind who don't like a lot of questions before they sit down. Ethan, you know what I love and what I don't love. Please, keep quiet till we reach there".

"That's not really an answer, Serena. At least, give me an...".

"Ethan, please." She exhaled through her nose. "Just let tonight go smoothly, all right? Can you do that for me?"

He nodded and turned back to the window, but the warmth in his chest had already dropped a degree or two.

He had learned, over three years with the Hargroves, that when Serena said "just let it go smoothly," she usually meant "stay quiet and stay out of the way."

Her mother Eleanor had never hidden what she thought of him. He could still hear the woman's voice at last Christmas, sharp and clear over the sound of crystal glasses and a roaring fireplace.

"You are a stain on our family crest, Ethan. You know that, don't you?"

Eleanor had said it with a smile. And Richard, Serena's father, had not even looked up from his wine.

Ethan had sat there and said nothing because Serena's hand had been on his knee under the table, and he had told himself that meant something.

He still believed it meant something, and that was the problem.

The GPS chimed softly. Serena ignored it and made a turn the device had not suggested, pulling them onto a narrow coastal road that Ethan did not recognize. Cliffs rose on the left side, and the Atlantic spread out below them on the right, black water catching no light at all.

"This isn't the route we talked about," Ethan said.

"The restaurant changed. We're going to a private estate now."

"Since when?"

"Since twenty minutes ago." She picked up her phone, read something on the screen, and set it back down without showing him. Her knuckles were already pale against the steering wheel.

Ethan watched her hands. It was the grip of a woman holding herself together.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I said I'm fine." Her voice came out sharp and loud. "Just stop asking me things and let me drive."

He said nothing and looked into the side mirror instead. A pair of headlights sat about a quarter mile behind them, keeping pace.

He had noticed those headlights twelve minutes ago when they left the main road. He had told himself it was nothing. Now, watching Serena check her rearview mirror for the fourth time in two minutes, he stopped telling himself that.

"Serena." His voice was very quiet. "Who is behind us?"

"Nobody. Nobody is behind us."

"There has been a black sedan following us for the last ten miles."

She said nothing. Her jaw worked once, like she was chewing something she wanted to spit out, and then her foot pressed the accelerator and the Range Rover surged forward. Ethan's back pressed into the seat.

"Serena, slow down. What are you doing?"

"I'm driving."

"You're going eighty on a cliff road at night. Slow down and talk to me."

She did not slow down. She picked up more speed instead, and Ethan reached across and put his hand on her arm because he did not know what else to do, and she flinched away from him like his touch burned her skin.

He reached for his seatbelt buckle with his other hand and pressed the release. It did not move. He pressed it again, harder.

The buckle was jammed.

"Serena." He heard the change in his own voice. "Serena, look at me."

She looked at him. And that was the moment he knew. There was no fear in her face at all. Any normal person would have been terrified. Serena Hargrove-Cole looked like a woman finishing a task she had been rehearsing for a long time.

She jerked the wheel hard to the right.

The guardrail caught the front quarter panel and exploded outward in a burst of sparks and torn metal.

The nose of the Range Rover hit the water first.

Ethan's lungs locked up from the temperature. He grabbed the seatbelt buckle with both hands and wrenched it. He felt it bend but not release. The water was in his chest now. He could feel the vehicle tilting, nose-down, sinking fast.

He looked to his left.

Serena was already gone. Through the broken windshield, in the dim light of the sinking headlamps, he could see her.

The cold reached his throat and Ethan pulled at the buckle one final time and felt his strength running out of him the way water ran out of a cupped hand.

He looked up through the shattered glass, through thirty feet of black Atlantic, toward the surface. A pair of headlights sat at the cliff edge above, right where the guardrail had been.

A door opened. A man stepped out and stood at the edge, looking down, and even through the distortion of dark water and fading consciousness, Ethan recognized the silhouette.

Julian Vance. The Hargrove family lawyer.

The man Serena had called "just someone helping with some paperwork."

The last thing Ethan felt was the cold closing over the top of his head, and then there was nothing.

He did not know how much time had passed when the hands found him. He felt them before he understood what they were, rough and strong, dragging him through water and then up and over a hard edge, and then something solid was under his back and there was a sound above him, a man breathing hard, someone counting aloud, and then a weight came down on his chest.

On the seventh compression, Ethan's eyes opened and the sky above him was full of stars. He turned his head and salt water came out of his mouth.

A man crouched over him. He was breathing hard and his hands were shaking slightly and he was staring at Ethan like he had seen something he could not explain.

"Easy." The man's voice was low and rough. "You're on a boat. You're breathing. Just stay still."

Ethan tried to speak and water came out of his mouth.

"Don't try to talk yet." The man sat back on his heels. "I thought you were dead. You should have been dead twelve minutes in that water”.

Ethan blinked, looking at the man's face again.

"Vincent," he said. His voice was barely a sound.

The man leaned in closer, tilted his head, and studied

Ethan's face in the deck light.

"Vincent Cross?" Ethan said.

Vincent stared at him for a long moment without speaking. Then he sat back, pressed one hand over his mouth, looked out at the water and then looked back at Ethan.

"Ethan Cole," Vincent said.

Ethan tried to nod and his ribs sent a white bolt of pain through his whole body and he stopped moving.

"I pulled you out of a sinking car," Vincent said slowly. "I did not know it was you. I just saw the bubbles."

"My seatbelt," Ethan said. "It was jammed."

"Can you get up if I help you?"

"I think so."

"Then come below. You need to get warm and I need to think."

Ethan got his arm under himself and Vincent took him, and they moved through the hatch and down into the low warmth of the cabin. Vincent sat him on a narrow bunk and pulled another blanket out of a chest.

He wrapped it around his shoulders.

Then Vincent sat down across from him and looked him straight in the eye.

"Fifteen years ago, you helped my daughter. If you hadn't helped her then, she would have died. You did it when you had no reason to and you never asked me for a single thing after." He paused and looked at the floor for a moment.

Ethan looked at him. His chest was burning from the broken ribs and his hands were still shaking from the cold.

Vincent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to just above a murmur.

"As far as anyone on this earth is concerned," Vincent said, "Ethan Cole is at the bottom of the Atlantic tonight."

He held Ethan's eyes for a moment.

Ethan said nothing. He sat in the blankets on the bunk of a fishing vessel running dark off the Hamptons coast, with two cracked ribs and salt water still raw in his throat, and he thought about Serena's face before she turned the wheel.