Page 32 of Dying to Meet You
“Then press pound.”
“Got it.”
We slip outside together, and I look carefully around the backyard. We seem to be alone, but I’m too shaky for surprises.
Beatrice seems less afraid, or at least she’s the better actor. She heads straight into the yard, avoiding even a glance toward the parking lot, where there might still be traces of blood on the ground.
I follow her in silence. The grass is tatty back here, owing to all the contractors’ activity. We approach the tool trailer. It blocks the back portion of the yard, and my footsteps slow as we approach its shadow.
Beatrice turns to look over her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say shakily. But then I remember Lickie’s reaction to the trailer on the night I’d found Tim, how she’d tugged on the leash. My feet grind to a halt.
“Rowan?” Beatrice asks, stopping to look at me.
“I just remembered something. From that night.”
She gapes at me. “Really? Something you saw?”
“No. But I wonder if Lickie did. She practically pulled me off my feet when I was in view of the tool trailer. I forgot until just now.”
Beatrice swivels, taking in our surroundings. It would be so easy for someone to hide behind the trailer or the dumpster. We’d never see them from this angle.
“You think someone was lurking back here?” she asks me.
“Maybe?” I say queasily. “Impossible to say now. And I guess it could have been anyone.”
“Or a squirrel.”
I give her a weak smile. “True.”
Beatrice makes a point of checking behind the trailer as she passes it.
Before I follow her, I pause and look back at the mansion, which looms over us, darkening the property with her angular shadow.What happened? Why did Tim have to die? And why here?
The mansion offers no answers.
We head toward Orange Street, approaching the only grave on the property. It’s an elaborate headstone carved with an angel cradling a baby.MARCUS WINCOTT: 1925–1997.
My skin prickles with awareness when we pass the grave.
I hurry after Beatrice through a stand of mature trees. Last week I thought this part of the property was majestic. Today it seems like another place for someone to hide.
We finally reach the sidewalk and turn wordlessly to the north. The coffee shop is three blocks away. “You sleeping any better?” Beatrice asks eventually.
“Somewhat,” I lie. “Coffee will help.”
But it’s hard to imagine ever sleeping well again.
***
The coffee shop is quiet when we step inside, but my head echoes loudly with memories of Tim.
The burly, tattooed barista waves me over. “Omigod,hiiii!I’msosorry. I just can’tbelieveit. When I saw his photo on the news? I was shocked. Never had a regular get murdered before.”
And now I wish I’d let Beatrice do the coffee run alone. My sluggish brain can’t figure out what to say to this near stranger. “I’m sorry, too. It’s shocking.”
“You must be out of your mind.” He runs a hand through his curly hair and visibly shivers. “It’s just fucked up, you know? The police had better solve this.”
