Page 57 of Dying to Meet You
“And?” I can already tell that I won’t like whatever she says next.
“Let me show you some names,” she says in a low voice. “You can tell me if they’re familiar.” She reaches into her pocket for her phone and opens the Notes app.
“I thought I was listening, not answering questions.”
“Just look,” she whispers. “It won’t kill you.”
“Isn’t that what Tim thought, too?” Still, I can’t resist a glance at the list. There are a few names, all women. None are familiar, though. “Sorry. I don’t know any of these people.”
“Okay. How about these?” She taps something on her phone and hands it back.
I read another list of four names—first initial and surname. “Shit,” I whisper as a wave of fear buzzes through me. Because these namesarefamiliar.
“What?”
“These names were all in a photograph that Tim stole off my phone.” From the handwritten birth ledger. “Did he tell you I was his source when he gave you the names?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Lucky guess on my part.”
“Not to speak ill of the dead...” I take a shaky breath. “But I might have been more of a research project than a girlfriend to him.”
Her expression turns empathetic. “I’m thinking you might be right. Because that first list of names I showed you? All those women workedfor Marcus Wincott during the sixties and seventies. Tim wanted to interview them.”
My stomach drops. “Marcus Wincott ran the Portland Magdalene home. At the mansion.”
“Right,” she says quietly. “And Tim told me he was chasing a big story.”
“About the home? Or the Wincott family?”
“He didn’t say, probably because we’re competitors. He thought I might scoop him.” She flashes me a quick smile. “Since he died, I’ve been running every name I just showed you. I don’t have a lot to go on, but I’m convinced that he made someone very angry.”
“Look.” I rub my forehead where an ache is blooming. “It’s not that I’m not curious. And I know Tim was smart. But he never mentioned any of this, and it’s a pretty huge lie of omission. Whatever you’re digging for, I can’t help you. I work for the Wincott family, and I’d like to keep my job.”
“Right. But how much do you really know about that boss of yours? Did you know he wants to run for Senate?”
It’s probably very clear by the expression on my face that I didn’t know that.
“Everyone’s expecting Oliver Bean to announce his retirement before the year is out. That will give Hank almost a whole year to mount a campaign.”
“What are you implying?” My mind whirs. “That Tim found something dodgy about Hank Wincott’s”—what was their relationship?—“Uncle? Great-uncle? And Hank is so fired up about his future campaign that he’d shoot Timin the face?”
“I’m not saying he pulled the trigger.” She glances around again. “And I don’t know what Tim dug up. Not yet, anyway. But somebody wanted him dead, Rowan. Someone shot him and then took his computer, his phone, and all his notebooks.Somebodydid it.”
I feel cold all over.
“I’m still digging into all these names, but the last four are a problem.” She taps on her phone, where the second set of names is still showing. “Without a first name, it’s a big haystack with too many needles.”
The door of the restaurant opens, and a harried server in a black apron comes out with a paper bag. “Gallagher?”
“That’s me.” I show him the order screen on my phone, and he hands over the bag. “Thank you.” I wait until he disappears inside again before I turn to the reporter. “Did you actually follow me here? That’s creepy. It’s almost as creepy as, say, Tim dating me just to get information off my phone.”
She winces. “That’s bad behavior, and honestly, I’m surprised. I always knew him as a stand-up guy. Maybe it was complicated.”
It’s still complicated. “I don’t think I can help you. I don’t know anything, and I’m not allowed to talk to journalists. I need to go feed my kid.”
Lickie noses the bag of food hopefully.
“Wait,” the reporter hisses. “This was personal for him.”
