Page 56 of Dying to Meet You
“Can I borrow your phone?” her mother asks. “I want to google Saint Raymond.”
Maybe the coincidence bothers her, too.
“I’ll do it.” Natalie opens a browser and searches for the saint. “Saint Raymond Nonnatus... imprisoned for preaching the gospel. He converted some of his prison guards to Christianity. He’s also the patron saint of childbirth, midwives, children, and pregnant women. His intercession is often sought for safe deliveries and for protecting infants...”
Her mother leans forward. “Really?”
She turns the screen so her mother can see, but she averts her eyes. “I think Nonnatus is Latin fornot born,” her mom says.
Natalie looks at the screen again. She scrolls down. “Yeah. It says he was cut from the womb of his dead mother.”Gross. Suddenly, she’s sick to death of discussing this. “Can we get BaoBao for dinner?”
Her mother massages her own forehead. “Maybe. If you make me one promise.”
Oh God. “What kind of promise?”
“You’ll leave your phone on all the time. Just until the murderer is caught.”
“Okay,” she says quickly. “Whatever.”
Her mother pulls out her own phone. “You want the chicken salad?”
“And the pork and cabbage dumplings.” She scoops her backpack up off the floor and makes her escape.
“You’re welcome!” her mother calls after her.
20
Rowan
Our order isn’t ready, so I wait outside our neighborhood dumpling house and check my email. I glance up when Lickie makes a warning noise.
I’m instantly on my guard, but the person approaching us isn’t scary at all. She’s very pretty, with wide-set eyes and kickass ankle boots. “Excuse me, Rowan?”
It takes me a second to place her, but then I realize where I’ve seen her before—on my front walk. She’s the reporter who said she knew Tim.
I shove my phone into my pocket and choke up on Lickie’s leash. “I’m sorry. I still can’t talk to you.” I turn to go, willing to abandon our dinner to avoid this conversation.
“Wait,” she says. “I know you can’t talk, but can you listen for a minute? I have information that concerns you.”
“I doubt that,” I say, even as my spine tingles.
She leans against the building, eyeing me intently. “Look, I know the police have interviewed you multiple times. You’re still a person of interest in the case.”
I feel sick. “How do you know that?”
“By palling around with the local reporters.” She shrugs. “Sometimes they have friends in the police department. Sometimes they overhear things. And if you’re a flirty, female reporter from out of town, sometimes you hear things, too.”
God. “The police and I don’t have much more to say to each other,” I say stiffly. “It sounds like you already know more than I do.”
“You’re right about that,” she says quietly. Then she looks up and down the street, as if to make sure we can’t be overheard. “But you’re involved in this thing whether you want to be or not. I think Kovak waskilled for a story he was working on. And I’m a journalist, too, Rowan. That’s horrifying to me.”
“But why are you so sure?” A selfish part of me hopes she’s right, though. Because if that’s true, his death has nothing to do with me or my family.
“All his notebooks were taken from his car. The police can’t find them.”
“Yes, that’s weird.” But it’s also flimsy evidence.
Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Here’s the thing—before he died, Tim asked me to run a whole bunch of background checks. He and I sometimes traded favors like that, because he was very skilled at money stuff, and I’m better at criminal stuff.”
