“I assure you, Ms. Reed, that we’re taking the incident very seriously and doing as thorough a job as possible.”
Theincident?
“It’s just... you have to understand,” I say, unable to hide the pleading in my tone, “there’s no way Jamie would have adopted a dog if he wasn’t going to be there for him. Which means someone shot Jamiein cold blood that night—and is still out there. The killer could hurt someone else.”
“I hear your concerns,” he says, clearly trying to sound empathetic now. “And I realize how hard this must be. Would you like to speak with someone in victim services, Ms. Reed? They can be very helpful at a time like this.”
Oh my god, he thinks I’m having serious trouble coping. Part of me wants to press him, but my gut tells me that it could backfire, making him see me as someone whose grief is clouding her judgment.
“I’m okay, thank you,” I say. “I just wanted to make sure you had this information. Why don’t I follow up in a few days?”
“Sure. We appreciate you keeping us informed.”
The call over, I toss the phone on the table, feeling defeated. Maybe I should have gone in person, wearing the “I mean business” pencil skirt I tossed into my roller bag at the last moment. Stupidly, I’d ignored the advice I offer clients: the phone and Zoom might be easy and fast, but if you want to be convincing, it’s often better to show up in person and dressed for the part.
My gaze drifts around the kitchen. Jamie stood in this room only days ago, drinking his espresso and cooking his breakfasts. This is where he was going to make the pomodoro sauce he talked about at the party. And maybe he would have sat at the table while it simmered, planning that trip to Scandinavia in search of his family’s Nordic roots.
Everything I believed about him turns out to be true—that he was a guy who knew how to get back on his horse again, that he would never let a breakup derail him, and that this summer was a fresh start for him. Until someone took his life. The cops might not buy the idea, but I’m finally sure of it.
So now what? I certainly can’t track down the killer myself, whichmeans I’m going to have to find a better way to make the police take this more seriously.
Megan, I think. Maybe she’ll have insight into how to convince Calistro. She’s brilliant with people—I swear, she can read my thoughts across a room, sometimes even before I’ve had them—and part of her work as a therapist is motivating people to take essential steps in life. Besides, I’d promised I’d be in touch. I snatch my phone back and call her.
“I was hoping that was you,” she says in lieu of hello. “How are you feeling today?”
“Slightly discombobulated, actually. I need your advice on how to handle something.”
I tell her about Gillian and Maverick and what it all means, and how my call to the police seemed to fall completely flat. I also confess that though I thought instantly of adopting Maverick, there’s no way I could take on a dog right now, and that breaks my heart.
“You must be reeling,” she says when I finish.
“Reeling, yes, but I need todosomething, Meg. Tell me how to push the cops in the right direction.”
She takes a beat before responding, and I use those moments to catch my breath.
“It sounds like you’ve done all you possibly can for the time being, and you just have to be patient,” she says.
“Patient?Meg, if the detective didn’t take my information seriously, it’s hard to imagine patience will help.”
“He might have been more invested than you realized. Aren’t cops supposed to come across as noncommittal, so they don’t give anything away?”
I’m clearly not conveying how uninterested Calistro sounded. “Maybe, but he sure didn’t seem it. Do you think I expected too muchfrom him—that it might be hard for a stranger to understand how Jamie felt about dogs?”
“Possibly. I know Jamie adored Cody. But I’m also worried you’re putting more stock in this than you should.”
“Are you saying that this doesn’t prove Jamie was murdered?” I ask, finding it hard to keep the frustration out of my voice.
“You could very well be right, Keek. But people who take their own lives don’t necessarily want to die. They’re suffering from deep emotional pain or hopelessness that interferes with their thinking and decision-making. Jamie might have been in such distress that the dog receded from his mind, or he could have convinced himself the dog would be better off without him.”
“Meg,” I say, “if you’d seen Maverick and heard the woman from the shelter talk about how besotted Jamie was, you’d be able to see I’m right. He would never have abandoned that dog, no matter how unhappy he felt.”
“I just don’t want you to get sidelined with this theory about murder and let it interrupt the grieving process.”
Wow, my best friend thinks I could benefit from victim services, too. The last thing I need is any contentiousness between us right now, though, so I decide to wrap up the call before I say something I’ll regret.
“Thanks so much for your input, Meg. Look, I do want to catch up some more, but I’ll have to call you back later, okay?”
“Has something happened?”
