Page 58 of Dying to Meet You
Something keeps me from striding away. “You mean... the mansion?”
“He was born there,” she says, her eyes flicking up the street.
I grip the bag tightly, afraid I’ll drop it. The second I’d learned Tim was adopted, I’d wondered about it. “He told you that?”
“His mother did.” She swallows. “I was over there after the funeral, offering to help clean out his place in New York. During our conversation, she mentioned he died outside the building where he was born.”
I have chills. “Did she know he was investigating... something?”
She shakes her head. “And I haven’t told her. But I did tell the police.”
For once I’m relieved to hear that the police are involved. “And what did they say?”
“Not much.” Her mouth twists. “It’s quicker to focus on his ex-girlfriend, right? Especially when my theory sounds crazy—a man got himself killed looking for his birth parents.”
“Because itiscrazy,” I point out. “People find their birth parents all the time. What’s the worst that could happen if Tim’s bio family was discovered? Someone is a little embarrassed?”
“That’s what I need to know,” she says. “And you’re the only one I can think of with access to the Wincotts’ archives. I need you to find the record of his birth—in that ledger you found. I need to see the page from 1979.”
For a moment I only stare at her. “You’re asking me to look up something that might have gotten Tim killed. Do I have that right?”
Her smile turns wry. “You get the photo of the page. I’ll be the one digging up the dirt, Rowan. It’s what I do.”
“But why would Idothat? I’d be risking my job for something that doesn’t have a thing to do with me.” And it never did. Not even from the first day Tim claimed to be so fascinated with me.
“Because the police would love to pin this on you.”
“They can’t,” I insist, even as an icy spike of fear hits my breastbone. “I didn’t have anything to do with his death.”
She shrugs. “A conviction would be a long shot, I admit. But even an arrest would put you all over the news. Might be hard to find jobs after that.”
“You’re just as manipulative as Tim.” I push off the wall, feeling shaky.
“Just get me his birth mother’s name,” she says. “I’ll find her on the sly. It’s the right thing to do, Rowan. Tim deserves justice, and I’m going to get it for him.” She thrusts a sticky note in my direction.
I take it from her. It saysJules, no last name. The phone number has a New York prefix.
This woman is so “sketch,” as my daughter would say. I take the sticky note anyway and tuck it into my pocket. “I don’t know if I can help you.”
“But you’ll think about it?” she asks.
I’ll probably think of nothing else.
21
Wednesday
Wednesday morning is rainy and dark. When my alarm goes off, I give serious thought to calling in sick just to curl up under the comforter and doze. But my job is the only thing in my life that’s still roughly on track, and I need to keep it that way.
I get up and drive Natalie to another final exam before heading to work. I park in the gravel lot, as far away from the spot where Tim died as I can physically be without ramming the car into a tree.
My shoes are wet by the time I hurry onto the mansion’s porch. After shaking off my umbrella, I glance over both shoulders while I key in the new security code. Thankfully, I get it right on the first try. When the light turns green, I push the big door open.
Without morning sunlight shining down through the skylight, the foyer is gloomy.
If this were 1860, I would have been greeted at the front door by the housekeeper. And honestly, I could use a friendly smile as I remove my raincoat and carry it into the reception room to hang it on the coatrack.
Back then, I would’ve placed my calling card on the housekeeper’s silver tray, and she would’ve whisked it off for the judgment of the lady of the house, leaving me to ponder my significance amid the room’s splendor.
