Page 89 of Dying to Meet You
“Okay, okay.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and blows out a breath. And my eyes are hot, too.
“Thought I could get to know her,” he says. “I chose the coffee shop, because it was a nice, public place. And Docksiders. I tried to guess what you might be okay with.”
“I didn’t know,” I say, my throat closing up. “She thought I’d say no. And I might have. Guess we’ll never find out.”
He flashes me a sad smile. “Don’t know when I’m getting out of here. Could be Monday—but only if the judge throws out the violation.”
“What did you, uh, allegedly do?”
He looks down at his hands. “Housing is difficult for me. I don’t have much cash, and nobody wants to rent to a felon. I answered a Craigslist ad for a room in a house with a few other guys. One of them is also a felon.”
I blink. “And... ?”
“And one of the conditions of my probation is that I don’t live with felons. That’s standard. But of course, I didn’t ask these guys, because I was better off not knowing.”
“Oh. Shit.”
He swallows. “It’s an obvious ruse to get me into custody, though. They keep asking me questions about the night your boyfriend got shot. I didn’t ever get near the guy, okay? In case you need to hear me say it. It wasn’t me. They also asked me to write out a violent statement with a marker.”
My pulse accelerates. “Four words? Like—he had to die?”
Harrison stares. “That’s right. How’d you know?”
“That note was addressed to me.”
“Jesus Christ.” He puts his hands on his head. He glances up at me, expression panicked. “Are you all right? Did Natalie see it?”
I give my head a slow shake. “It came to the mansion.”
He takes a deep breath. “Shit. Well, that explains why they handed me a sheet of paper and a marker. And that went about like you’d expect—you’ve seen my handwriting.”
Harrison is severely dyslexic and never got any support for it at school. He avoids writing at all costs and used to illustrate our grocery list instead of using words. Cute little apples. A perfect stick of butter. A pig for bacon. I don’t know who killed Tim Kovak, but I’m damn sure that Harrison didn’t write that note.
“I heard about the murder on the news,” he says. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sounds like he was a stand-up guy. I sent you those peonies because I didn’t know what else to say.”
“Um, thank you...” I gulp. “Yeah, it’s... We don’t know why he died. But you should know that the police have a video of you knocking on our front door. I never knew you came to the house.”
“Course I did. I tried.” He runs a hand through the scruff on his chin, and my hand actually twitches with the memory of doing that same thing myself. Touching him used to be second nature to me.
“I wrote you a couple emails, but you didn’t answer. And I went to that mansion where you work...”
“You did?”
He nods, frowning. “Knocked on the door a few weeks ago. Blond chick told me you were out. I left a message, but I don’t think she wrote it down.”
My mouth goes dry. “But how did you know where to find me?”
He tilts his head, and the gesture is so familiar I feel it behind my breastbone. “When I googled you, I found a news article about you working on that place. And your name is in the front yard, hon. On a sign.”
“Oh right.” I let out a short, hysterical laugh. “I forgot.”ROWAN GALLAGHER, ARCHITECT. I put it right next to the contractor’s sign. Hoped people would remember my name for jobs down the road.
“So, yeah, I picked a hell of a night to knock on your front door.”
“It wasthatnight? The night Tim died?”
He nods. “I was on a break between sets.”
