“Yup. And thank you again, Roger. With all my heart.”
I hobble upstairs, close the drapes in my room, and collapse onto the bed. Unanswerable questions drift across my mind and then, before I can give them any attention, they drift away. Finally, I feel sleep overtake me.
When I awake, sunlight is creeping into the room from the edges of the drapes. Almost instantly the events of last night stampede into my consciousness: the frigid river water rushing up my nose, my lungs ready to burst, the fear that I had only seconds more to live. Both my head and face are throbbing.
I close my eyes again. Erling’s warnings about stress echo in my mind. I can’t let last night overwhelm me. I force myself to breathe deeply and then roll out of bed.
The clock says ten thirty, I discover to my shock. I dress quickly, grabbing jeans and a fresh sweater, and then steel myself for a glimpse in the bathroom mirror. My face looks even worse. The swelling hasn’t subsided, there’s now purple bruising on my left cheek, and I’m sporting half a black eye.
After brushing my teeth and popping three ibuprofen tablets, I head downstairs, where welcoming scents waft from the kitchen. As I enter, I discover Roger setting a platter of french toast on the table.
“Morning, Button. I heard you moving around so I figured it was time for food. How are you feeling?”
“Achy, exhausted, but I’ll live.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to see someone about your face?”
“Thanks, but I think it’s all about icing it and trying not to laugh, which fortunately won’t be hard this week.”
“Help yourself to breakfast.”
I plop into a chair and take in the spread on the table: slices of melon, a bowl of raspberries, a jug of orange juice. “How is it that even in a crisis, you can still cook up a storm? It’s very reassuring.”
“Some might call it fiddling while Rome burns.”
Though I don’t have much appetite, I help myself to a slice of the toast and a spoonful of berries. Roger takes a seat across from me and pours us each a cup of coffee from a French press.
“Did you reach Marion yet?” I ask.
“Yes, she managed to snag a reservation on a two o’clock flight to Newark.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he chokes back a sob.
“Roger, what is it?”
“I have more news. I think I know how Wargo got wind of you going to the cops.”
I hold my breath.
“Remember when I told you I needed to offer Marion an explanation for your visit this past week, and I gave her a totally watered-down version—that you were simply being interviewed for the cold case investigation? Well, when I spoke to her this morning, she admitted that she mentioned it to her brother Adam when he stopped by—she’s a world-class gossip, as I’ve come to learn.”
I stare at him across the table, horrified. “Adam was in school with Wargo, right? You think he’s the one who told him?”
“Not necessarily. She thinks he probably told some other people he knows from school, and it worked its way back to Wargo. He apparently doesn’t live all that far from here, just over the river in Pennsylvania. I have no idea if he still has any contact with Audrey.”
“But even if he’d heard I was being reinterviewed, why would he feel the need to kill me?”
Roger looks away. “I think Marion told her brother more than she’s letting on right now. My guess is that she’d been eavesdropping on my calls to you—and the ones I made to the chief. And she probably told Adam that you had new information that could come out at a trial.”
I shake my head, furious. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
“Also, Adam is probably aware of your address from Marion, and he might have shared that with someone as well.”
“So that’s how Wargo knew where to find me in the city.”
“I’m so ashamed, Button. I want to strangle her.”
So do I, I think.
