The inn was within walking distance of the bakery, a little over a mile, but the number of tourist cars and bicycles on the narrow road made the trip take much longer. She didn’t mind. The AC lapped her in comfort. She felt herself reviving like a plant out of the heat.
Jack sent her another dark, assessing glance. “You doing okay? No bad effects?”
She shook her head. “Thanks,” she said again. “I guess I was a little dehydrated.”
“I meant from the vandalism.”
She stared at him, shocked by his understanding.
She’d learned from experience that nobody—not the reporters or radio interviewers or her fellow students or her mother—really wanted to listen to Hostage Girl being insecure. They wanted her to be brave. They wanted her to inspire them. And then they wanted her to get over it, because anything else demanded too much of them.
“I’m fine,” she said, relieved because it was almost true. “I wasn’t even there when it happened.”
She wasn’t the one whose space, whose trust, had been violated. It wasn’t her trauma.
“So you didn’t see anything. Anybody.”
She rolled the wet bottle between her hands. What could she say? How much should she tell him? Not her trauma. Not her secret, either. She wasn’t bound by client confidentiality in this case. But maybe she was bound by friendship? Jane had quite clearly avoided naming her ex as a potential suspect.
“There are people in and out of the bakery all the time. I couldn’t tell you who’s a regular or who’s just visiting or who... or if anyone is likely to cause a problem. You need to ask Jane.”
“Her ex ever drop by? Travis Tillett.”
Lauren bit her lip. Not so much of a secret after all. “Not today.”
Jack just looked at her, the way she would look at a client who was being evasive. She would look and wait and then say,I can’t help you if you don’t let me know exactly what’s going on.
What would help Jane?
Lauren didn’t know Jack well enough to trust him. But she could at least cooperate in his investigation. “He came in on Friday to see Jane. She didn’t want to talk then, but she didn’t want him coming by the house, either. She left with him. She was gone about an hour. An errand at the bank, she said.”
There, Lauren thought, relieved. She’d even managed that last bit—an errand at the bank—without a hitch, as if the words didn’t cause a blip in her heartbeat.
She hadn’t been inside a bank building since the robbery.
Jack didn’t say anything.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“What you said. Talk to Jane.”
That sounded promising. But... “You know, she may not want to talk with you.”
He made a noncommittal noise. Lauren used the same sound when she worked at the family clinic, an acknowledgment token, a signal to the client to continue. It was oddly reassuring to hear it from him. Like discovering they spoke a shared language.
She took a breath and forged ahead. “A lot of women are reluctant to report harassment to the police. Especially in domestic cases.”
He slid her a look. Amused? Annoyed? “You think I don’t know this? I’ve been a cop a long time.”
“I’m sure that makes you a model of sensitivity,” she said politely.
His lips twitched.
Encouraged, she continued. “Maybe Jane thinks she can handle the situation. Maybe she’s afraid of what could happen once the authorities are called in. Once you tell someone, it’s out of your control.”
An image of black-clad figures burst into her brain. Pounding feet. Pandemonium. Voices shouting,Police! Stay down, stay down.
She curled her hands around the bottle, holding it tight, the condensation like cold sweat against her palms.Once the authorities are called in...
