Page 47 of Dying to Meet You
I shrug, even as my face is reddening. “I looked the next three nights, too.”
“So you saw him parked at the mansion on the night he died? You walked the dog here on purpose?”
I nod guiltily.
“Rowan,” she whispers. “Don’t tell anothersoulwhat you just told me. And don’t let them bully you into giving up your data.”
“Oh, I won’t. Because it’s even worse than that—I unfollowed him on the way to his car. I knew keeping track of him was unhealthy. I was going to stop.” I swallow hard. “But the timing would look suspicious. I must have tapped the unfollow button right around the time when he died.”
The color drains from her face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
This is exactly why I wasn’t forthcoming to the police. “But I didn’t hurt him!”
She leans forward, her gaze pinning me to my seat. “Ofcourseyou didn’t. And his death is not your fault. But that looksbad, Rowan. You need to be more careful.”
“I’m trying.” The image of Natalie’s medallion swims through my vision, and I’m more frightened than I can admit.
She rubs her temples. “So he took those photos, but you don’t know when or why.”
Again, I shake my head. “I barely remember our conversation about them. He didn’t seem particularly fixated.”Or that’s what he wanted me to think. “Hank’s going to fire me if he hears about this, right? It’s bad.”
“We’re not telling the family,” she says in a hushed voice. “This stays between us. Hank would get angry, even though this will all blow over. As soon as they catch the guy, we can all move on.”
“Thank you,” I say stiffly.
“But listen.” She keeps her voice low, but her tone vibrates with intensity. “You need a lawyer. Tim’s death is all over the news, and those cops must be under a lot of pressure to make an arrest. I’m going to give you the names of a couple litigators that Hank has used.” She crosses the office and sits in front of her computer. Her manicure clicks rapidly on the keyboard. “I’m not joking. Put these numbers in your pocket.”
“Okay. But they can’t seriously pin this on me. I’ve never fired a gun. I don’towna gun.”
“Don’t be naïve.” She’s scribbling something on a card. “You’re a white woman who’s never been in trouble. That helps. But a white man is dead, and they need a killer. You need a professional in your corner.” She brings me the card. “Put this in your wallet. If you get another request for an interview, call one of these two.”
“Thanks,” I say, tucking the card away.
Beatrice collapses into a chair. “Is it five o’clock yet? It must be.”
The clock says two thirty. I need to see Natalie. “Seriously, I don’t think I can work right now. I’m too stressed out.”
She eyes me from her seat. “What if we knocked off early? We need a mental-health day. Nobody needs to know.”
“Good idea.” I give her a weak smile and rise from my chair. “Girl pact?”
“Always,” she says.
***
“Natalie?” I call out the moment I get home.
Silence.
She’s still at school, then. Or out with a friend.
Lick Jagger follows as I run through the house and up the narrow stairway to Natalie’s room. I push open the door and survey the wreckage. Clothes and shoes everywhere.
She’d kill me for searching her room like a cop, so I start with the visible surfaces—the tops of the desk, nightstand, and dresser.
No medallion anywhere.
She could be wearing it right now—that’s what I’m hoping. Aside from some books boxed up in our basement, this is the only thing she has of her father’s. It isn’t fancy, though. It’s the sort of thing they sell in Catholic church shops—Saint someone or other, depicted in silver with a palm frond over one arm and a lollipop-shaped religious artifact in the opposite hand.
