Page 79 of Love is Angry

“Okay, look. When does he want an answer?”

“Five o’clock.”

I check the time. 2:16. “When will you reach Rochester?”

“Right around four.”

“So you have an hour to do whatever it is you’re going to do,” I mutter. “Goddammit. Wait—you said he texted you? Shit, take it to the cops! They can’t turn a blind eye to timestamped evidence like that, can they?”

“I think he texted from a burner,” she says defeatedly. “And he never used his name, or yours, or Laura’s. From an outsider’s perspective, these texts could come from anybody.”

Of course. “He’s a bastard,” I tell her. “A smart bastard, but a bastard. All right, look. I don’t want you getting yourself worked up while you’re trying to drive. Meet me at your dad’s place when you get to town.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding relieved. “And then?”

“I don’t know yet,” I tell her. “But we’ll figure it out. Have a little faith in me. It’s going to be okay, I promise. Are you good? Dry eyes, clear head?”

“Close enough,” she says with a wet little laugh.

“Good. Stay safe. I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up, seething. If I thought dad would blow up if he knew I was messing with his past exploits, he’ll explode twice as hard if he catches me mitigating his revenge on Madison.

“Well, then, I’d better not get caught.”

I check the address one last time then close the folder, match the number to a house across the street, and step out of the car. Her place sits on a little swell of hill, set way back from the road with a front yard full of trees and a flight of driftwood stairs leading up from the sidewalk. It seems more like a fortress than a beachside cottage.

I ring the doorbell twice and wait, my back straight as I try to put on a friendly half-smile. My heart is racing. I’ve never done something like this before, digging into a thing that my father wants to keep buried. For the first time in my life, I’m about to ask all the right questions, and I’m not sure that I’m ready to hear the answers. Then the door opens.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Hi, Sibel.”

She frowns. “Rhue. What are you doing here?”

“Yes. Hi. Sorry to show up unannounced like this, but I needed to talk to you and your number wasn’t working.”

“I changed it,” she says, her lip curling. “Changed my address, too. Who told you where to find me, anyway?”

Hell, I can’t tell her that. “Let’s just say I know the right people. How’s that?”

“You sound just like your father,” she says, unable to hide her disgust. “Why can’t you people just leave me alone?”

Sibel slams the door in my face. I take a step back, but as I hear her fumbling with the lock, fury flashes through me. I knock on the door a little harder than necessary.

“Go away!”

“I’m only here to talk, Sibel. Please.”

“Screw this, you’re trespassing. I’m calling the cops!”

Damn it, that’s the last thing either of us needs.

“If you ever cared for my mother, even a little bit, you won’t do that,” I reply firmly. “Please listen to what I have to say before anything else happens. Don’t you think you owe that to her, Sibel?”

Silence answers me. Tension prickles down my spine as that feeling of getting watched, that anxiety of getting caught, redoubles. I glance around, but all I see is a grocery delivery driver unloading their goods and an old man tending to the edges of his lawn. I bet she’s calling the cops right now. I should leave—I can’t help Madison if I’m locked up—damn it, Sibel was my best lead.

Just as I’m turning to leave, she yanks the door open. She has her phone in her hand, but the screen is dark. “Screw you, Rhue, for bringing her up.”

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