Page 19 of Dying to Meet You
“Almost every weekday for the last six months. Unless I have back-to-back off-site meetings. It’s going to take another year and a half before the project is done.”
She scribbles some notes. “Who’s your employer? Or do you work for yourself?”
“I work for the Wincott Foundation, on a two-year contract.”
Her pen pauses. “And how did that come about?”
“Well, I used to work for a big architectural firm. But I wanted out.”
“How come?” she asks.
“Um...” It feels like a lifetime ago now. “I didn’t like the power structure. The firm was owned by two brothers. I was the only female architect on the team, and they always tried to give me the least interesting work. Things like kitchen renovations, because I had ‘a feel for the domestic.’ ”
She makes a sympathetic face.
“So I started to think about going off on my own. And when Hank Wincott started interviewing architects for the mansion, I went after that job hard. Hank and I went to high school together.”
“That’s a lucky leg up,” she says, lifting her gaze to mine.
“Well, it didn’t hurt. When I told him I wanted to leave my firm and go out on my own, Hank was willing to consider me for the project. He asked me to come on board as an employee until the mansion is finished. I liked the idea of having a steady paycheck for two more years, before I launch my own firm. And I’m on the Wincott Foundation’s health insurance now.”
More scribbling. Unlike Tim, she doesn’t use Moleskines and fountain pens. Her notebook is a cheap spiral version. “Do you think there’s any chance that Tim expected to run into you at the mansion last night?” she asks.
“No way. The hour was strange, and we weren’t in contact.”
Maybe I say this a little too forcefully, but I’m not going to tell her that I knew he was there. That will just make me sound crazy.
“Are you sure?” she presses. “He went to your place of work, which is only a few blocks from your home. He didn’t live in this neighborhood, so it seems like a strange location to choose if he didn’t want to see you.”
I hold out both hands and shrug. “If I’d known how to read his mind, I wouldn’t have been so surprised when he broke up with me.”
“And you?” she asks. “Did you expect to run into him?”
“No.” My pulse whooshes in my ears, and it’s suddenly difficult to control the muscles in my face. “But there he was.”
She watches me carefully. “And you’re certain the two of you didn’t have any more contact? No calls? No emails? No other apps?”
I shake my head, but my good-girl complex is burning me up inside.No other apps?
“Okay, please tell me everything about your walk to the mansion last night. Did you walk from here?”
“Yes.”
“What time was it?”
I consider the question. “After eight. It was getting dark, but it wasn’t dark just yet.”
“What route did you walk?” She pushes her notebook toward me on the table. “Can you show me?”
As I draw the streets and an outline of the mansion, her eyes widen. “Lord, you have an eye.”
“I’m an architect. Drawing is literally my job. This was my path...” I tap the pen on the page and give her a meticulous description of my route.
“Wonderful. Now, did you see anyone else nearby?”
“No. I mean—there are always a few people out walking dogs in the neighborhood. But I didn’t pass anyone on the sidewalk near the mansion.”
She nods thoughtfully. “And did you hear any strange sounds?”
