Page 14 of Dying to Meet You
Then she asks me what I saw. What I heard. And she asks me why I approached the car.
“I knew him,” I babble. “I knew his car. I was going to say hello.”
Her forehead furrows. “You knew him,” she repeats. “How?”
“We used to date.” My heart hammers against my chest. “He... He broke it off.” My gaze snaps back to Tim. One of them is touching him. “Did hekillhimself?” I wonder aloud. “That wound was from a gunshot, right?”
That doesn’t really make sense. But nothing else does, either.
“Seems like it,” she says softly. “Look, is there someone I should call for you?”
I close my eyes and consider the question. I decide that the answer is no. “I live just a few blocks away.” Although it feels farther now.
“How about I walk you home?” she asks.
“Um, okay. Thank you.”
***
On the walk home, the cop—Detective Riley, according to her business card—asks me a couple more questions.
How long have I lived in Portland?
Forever, except during college.
How did I meet Tim?
He stopped me in a coffee shop. He’d seen my photo in the news.
How long had we dated?
Since April.
Had Tim ever seemed suicidal?
No way.
Did he own a gun?
I have no idea. If he did, he never mentioned it.
Could she stop by in the morning and ask me some more questions?
Of course.
“Take care of yourself,” she says as I unlock my front door with shaking hands. “Lock your doors.”
I turn to her, spooked. “Why?”
“Because that’s what cops want everyone to do. Makes our jobs easier.”
Inside the house, I collapse onto the couch. When I close my eyes, all I can see is the remains of Tim’s throat. His neck. His jaw. Part of it was missing.
I’m freezing, but I don’t want to get up.
Outside, it begins to rain, big drops smacking against my drafty windows.
He’s going to get wet. He’s just lying there on the ground, in the rain.
