Page 24 of Dying to Meet You
That hadn’t occurred to me. “So we can’t go into the mansion?”
“Not yet. We need to take a good look around, in case the perp dropped anything on the grounds. And when you do go back inside, please let us know if anything is missing. Off the top of your head, is there much worth stealing on the property?”
“Um...” I have to think it over. “That just depends what kind of thief you’re dealing with. The stained glass is all valuable. There are several Tiffany pieces, but they’re hard to fence and it would take special skill to remove them. There’s some old furniture locked into rooms upstairs. But again—you’d have to know the market for a nineteenth-century dining chair.”
She scribbles a note. “Anything else? Electronics?”
I shake my head. “I never leave my computer there. Beatrice—the project manager—does, I think?”
Another scribble.
“Take a look at the contractor’s trailer. It should be locked, although tools are sometimes stolen from a job site.”
“Will do,” she says, rising to her feet. “More soon, okay?”
“Thank you,” I say, elated that the interview is over. “Let me know if I can be of any more help.”
“Oh, I will,” she says. “And if you think of anything else that we should know about Tim, I want to hear from you right away.”
She gives me another one of her cards, then opens my kitchen door to go. I’m already mentally collapsing onto the sofa. Before she departs, she turns to look at me one more time. “After we get Tim’s phone data from the cell phone carrier, we might ask for access to your phone records to help us track his last weeks.”
My heart seizes, and I feel my expression harden.
She just stands there. Watching me.
“Okay,” I manage.
She gives me a smile and finally departs. At the sound of the door closing, I let my eyes fall shut, but my heart won’t stop hammering.
That damn app. If I give her my data, she’ll know I was following him.
If I don’t give her my data, I’ll look guilty.
And I wish I’d never met Tim Kovak.
9
Sunday
I spend the weekend acting like the breakup was still fresh—huddled on the sofa with the dog, or crying in the shower. I keep thinking about Tim’s last moments, facing down the barrel of a gun.
Did heknowit was the end? It’s comforting to think that maybe it happened so fast he didn’t have time to be afraid. I hope so.
Meanwhile, Natalie sticks close, skipping her Saturday yoga class “to study for exams.” But her main occupation seems to be sending me worried looks from the other end of the sofa.
Sunday afternoon I try to resurrect myself. I invite my father for dinner, and I roast a chicken so my daughter will stop looking so worried.
When my dad arrives, he rattles the doorknob, because it’s locked. As I cross the living room to let him in, I realize how stiff my muscles are. I’m still walking around with a heightened sense of fear—as if a murderer might be hiding behind the boxwood shrubs beside my front porch.
I open the door and find my father standing there with a small bouquet in a little galvanized pail. Three pink peonies—my favorite flower.
“Dad,” I gasp. “That was so nice of you.” I don’t think he’s ever brought me flowers before in my life.
“They’re not from me, honey.” He thrusts the flowers at me. “I just found them sitting here on the porch.”
I take the pail and turn it in my hands, but I don’t see a card.
“Who are those from?” Natalie asks as I carry the flowers into the living room, my dad on my heels.
