Page 40 of Dying to Meet You
We walk toward the edge of the lawn, and I look around to get my bearings. My gaze snags on Detective Riley. She’s standing on the sidewalk, pad and pen in hand, watching the guests.
She nods again when I spot her.
The memory of our conversation passes over me like a dark cloud.Did you expect to run into him?
I told her no to protect myself, but the lie is eating a hole in my psyche. I wish they’d just arrest someone already and put me out of my misery. I haven’t been this fearful in years. Not since I was twenty-four years old and watching the police handcuff Natalie’s father. They’d pushed him into the back of a police cruiser and upended my life.
Different circumstances, of course, but that night changed me forever. And I know Tim’s death will, too.
***
We pick up sushi on the way home, as promised.
I lose my appetite when we find a stranger standing on our front walk. It’s a woman in her thirties. Pretty, with intense brown eyes.
“Ms. Gallagher?” she says. “Can I have a word? My name is Jules. I’m an investigative journalist.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, not caring how abrupt it sounds. “No comment.”
She doesn’t move, and her intense eyes narrow. “I worked with Tim. I was at the funeral. I want to ask you a few questions.”
We’re basically at a standoff. She’s still blocking the path, but I could follow Natalie’s example and step around her onto the grass.
I’d promised Beatrice that I’d never talk to the press. But I hadn’t realized how difficult it is to be rude to someone asking for help. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to a reporter. You should know, though, that I wouldn’t be much help. I didn’t know him that well.”
“But you could just talk to me on background. That means—”
“I know what it means,” I say crisply. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry. And this is private property.”
I walk past her and into the house. All I need in this world is some sushi and a decent night’s sleep. What Idon’tneed is another chance to describe how Tim had broken up with me a few days before he died.
I lock the door carefully and then peek through the peephole. Apparently, the reporter’s given up—she’s climbing into a blue SUV.
Good.
We eat our take-out dinner, but I barely taste it. “I’m going to put on my pjs and get in bed with a few episodes of... something. And you’re going to walk the dog and study Spanish?”
Natalie rolls her eyes. “Of course I am. Big fun here tonight, yeah?”
“Yup.” I don’t care about big fun. All I want is to roll back to a time when nobody was dead.
I clean up from our meal and head upstairs to change and climb into bed. After propping my laptop on my knees, I decide to check my email before navigating Netflix. Big mistake. There’s a new message from Natalie’s father, Harrison. The subject line reads:We have to talk about Natalie.
He’s wrong. On the day of a funeral, I absolutely do not have to talk to anyone. Least of all my ex-con ex-boyfriend.
I close the tab and open up a search window.Tim Kovak adoption, I type. There are no results.Tim Kovak Magdalene Home. No hits.
The first conversation Tim and I ever had was about the Wincott Mansion, and my discovery of family documents relating to the maternity home. Many of those babies would have been adopted in the Portland area.
But if he had a personal connection to the place, he never said so.
14
Tuesday
I start the workday with a meeting at the lighting consultant’s office. We spend our time discussing the conversion of the mansion’s handmade nineteenth-century gasoliers to energy-saving electric lights, and I learn a lot. This is why I became an architect—to surround myself with beauty and function.
Afterward, I check my messages on the way to the car. Natalie has texted to say her Spanish exam went well, and that she’s off to study for tomorrow’s English test.
