Page 61 of Dying to Meet You
“Agreed.”
***
At five o’clock, I pack my laptop and leave the library, flicking off the lights as I go. The atrium is still gloomy without the blues and golds coming from the upper window.
Outside, I grab my umbrella off the porch and set off under a steel-gray sky. The gawkers are gone now, and so is the yellow police tape.
As I walk to my car, I crank my head around for an oblique view of the row of dumpsters on the property. The police searched them immediately after Tim died, so I’m assuming the gun was found somewhere else.
In the neighborhood, the article had said. But where?
I climb into the car and start the engine. But my phone rings before I put it in gear. The display saysPortland PD.
My stomach dives. But Beatrice would be proud of me, because I don’t answer the call.
The detective leaves me a voice message, though, and I hit play the moment the notification appears.
Hi, Rowan. This is Detective Riley of the Portland PD. Just calling to let you know that we’re still pursuing electronic data from your phone. If you’re ready to share it with us, please call me back. You seem like a good person who landed in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Gosh, you think?
... And I know we can work together to figure out what happened on the night of Tim’s death. An authorized download of your cell phone data would be a good-faith gesture on your part...
It’s just more of the same pressure, but it fills me with dread. I play back the message again, just to make sure I’ve heard it correctly.
We’re still pursuing the data... she’s said. That means they don’t have it yet.
Does she know I lied? Or is it just a hunch? When I’m lying awake at four a.m., I always think back to the night of Tim’s murder, and I picture myself telling the truth right from the start.I was so confused by the breakup that I spent a few days watching Tim move around Portland on my phone.
There’s really no way to say that so I don’t sound like a hardcore stalker. Which I was. But I’mnota killer. And telling the truth now will only make things worse. The police will waste even more time on me.
Still, it’s selfish logic. Beatrice was right when she said that I can’t afford to be under suspicion of murder.
It’s just too late to change my story now.
Before I set down the phone, I check for a message from Natalie. But there’s nothing. Not even a text to say how her pre-calc exam went today.
Maybe I even deserve it.
I toss the phone aside and put the car in gear. The drive through the neighborhood takes only a few minutes. There are blooming rhododendrons in most of the yards, their leaves slick with rain. When my sodden porch comes into view, I look upward and see two rectangles of light in Natalie’s room.
And I feel instantly calmer. So long as Natalie is safe, then nothing else matters.
***
My daughter’s mood is upbeat when we sit down to dinner. She eats the salmon I’ve made and does the dishes without being asked.
I’m basking in the glow of her helpful demeanor when she hangs up the dish towel and asks to borrow the car. “Just for a couple of hours,” she says.
“Where are you going?”
“Tessa’s. Tomorrow’s exam is a big one,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “American Government.”
Seriously? I haven’t heard more than a few words about this class all semester. And I strongly suspect that “studying with Tessa” has more to do with gossip than memorizing the Bill of Rights.
But you have to pick your battles, so I give her the keys and remind her only twice to drive safely.
According to my favorite app, Natalie arrives at Tessa’s house without delay. But even so, I find myself wandering around at loose ends, too much on my mind. The rain has stopped, and I need exercise. After changing into running clothes and lacing up my shoes, I look down at Lickie, who’s been giving me hopeful glances.
