Page 18 of Dying to Meet You
Last night. Tears threaten again. “Um, the Friday before that. We had dinner and then hung out in his car.”
“And where did all that take place?”
“Dinner at David’s Restaurant.” I feel sweat gather under my arms. “And then we sat in front of the mansion, actually.”
“Thesamemansion?” she clarifies.
“Yes. We used to park on the property a lot. I work there, so it was me who told him that it’s no trouble to park there after hours.”
She blinks. “All right. We’d wondered why his car was there. It’s not public property.”
“I’d wondered, too,” I admit. “Because I’d assumed he’d only go there with me.” I absolutely donotadd that I’d noted his presence by way of an app, though. She doesn’t need to know that.
“So you two parked there before?” she asks. “Did this happen a lot?”
“Maybe... six or seven times, if I had to guess. We dated throughout the spring. On chilly nights, we’d sometimes sit in his car after dinner. He was staying with his parents, and he’d never invited me over there. And I rarely invited him here.” I indicate my kitchen. “I hadn’t introduced my daughter to him yet. I assumed I would eventually, though.”
“But did he ever visit your home?”
“A few times, yes.”
“How many is a few?”
It’s a struggle not to sound irritated at the personal question. “Three? Four?”
The first time Tim came over was when Natalie went on a class trip to Boston. It was understood that he would stay the night, and I’d been anxious beforehand. It was hard to show my almost-forty body—with its stretch marks—to someone new. I was out of practice.
After that, he came over twice more for sex.
Luckily, Detective Riley changes the subject. “Where did you two meet?”
I tell her the story about the news article and his coffee-shop introduction. “After we met, he emailed the next day and invited me out for dinner. We dated for a couple of months.”
“Was it serious?”
“Obviously not to him,” I point out.
“But what did you think?”
I struggle for words that don’t sound egomaniacal. “I thought we had a long future of more of the same. He seemed really into it. More than me, if I’m honest. But I assumed we enjoyed each other’s company enough to keep it up.”
“You weren’t in love with him?” she asks softly.
“Not yet. No.” I shake my head. “But he was a great guy, and I really enjoyed dating him.”
“And how did you feel when he ended it?”
“Angry,” I admit. “And very embarrassed. It made me remember why I don’t date.”
She gives me a quiet smile. “Sing it, sister. So that was it? No further contact?”
“No. He didn’t answer my calls. And maybe it’s for the best. You shouldn’t have to beg someone to pay attention.” I tried that once fifteen years ago. It didn’t go well.
Another wince from the detective. She’s younger than I am. Early thirties, I guess. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. I can’t quite get my head around him dying. It doesn’t seem real.”
“Tell me about your job. Do you go to the mansion every day? Weekdays?”
