“I’d be glad to do that, but you’re also welcome to enjoy it in the parlor,” she tells me. “It’s not a busy week for us, and you’ll probably have the room to yourself.”
“Great, I’ll eat there, then,” I say. “And can I please get a glass of red wine as well?”
“Yes, we have an honesty bar in the parlor. Help yourself to whatever you like and simply sign the book.”
Once I’ve showered, I dress quickly in fresh jeans and a navy turtleneck sweater, partially dry my hair, and pull it still damp into a short ponytail. As soon as I enter the empty parlor, Shelly comes up from behind me with the plate of food, utensils, and a basket of bread and crackers, which she sets on a coffee table. Next, I turn my attentionto the built-in bar. There’s a bottle of Bordeaux already opened, and after signing the log, I pour myself a glass.
Finally, I settle on the couch with my meal. Between bites of bread and cheese, I text Sebastian—who’s an hour ahead of me—telling him I’m at the hotel, miss him already, and will call tomorrow morning when I’m not so drained. He’s probably sitting by the fire right now, reading or working on his laptop. This is the first time I’ve ever been away from the chacra without him for more than a couple of hours. Does it feel as weird—and lonely—for him as it does for me?
Next, I email Jeffrey Handler, a former professor of Melanie’s who’s also chairman of the English department—as well as a published poet—to confirm our appointment for tomorrow morning. As I was looking through Mel’s writing the other day and wishing yet again I had more of it, I wondered if there was any chance I could access additional poems or stories—old classwork of hers—through the school, something I hadn’t thought to do during the years my brain was so addled. Recently an old friend I’m still in a bit of contact with mentioned that the college her youngest child attends stores student classwork on an archive service called Blackboard, and after checking online, I discovered that Carter College uses that, too, and probably even did when Mel was there.
I’ve just finished the email when my phone pings with a return text from Sebastian.
Missing you, my love. Stay strong + call if you need me, no matter when.
I could call himnowactually. But despite the glass of wine I’ve drunk and how eager I am to hear his voice, I’m still too churned up for conversation tonight, for going over the ground that was covered today with Halligan and the horrible fact that the truth might now be up for grabs.
Tomorrow will be better, when I have my bearings back.
And then what happens from there? If the cops end up with serious doubts about Ruck, it will not only crush me emotionally, but it’s bound to also shape-shift my relationship with Sebastian. How’s Bas going to react when he meets a different version of me, someone tortured by uncertainty and perhaps even slightly unglued by it?
In one sense, I’m being silly. When you’re in relationship, you’re supposed to share the bad stuff that happens and let the other person have your back. But as the demise of my former marriage made clear, bad stuff shared can wreck things rather than make them better. I can’t let that happen to Sebastian and me.
And then suddenly a new thought strikes me. I’m making this all aboutme. I don’t want to have doubts about Ruck because they’ll eat away at me, undermining my lovely new life in Uruguay and my relationship with Bas.
I need to think of Mel, however—and about getting justice for her. Which means I have to at least do what Halligan suggested: consider the inconsistencies that turned up. I flew over five thousand miles hoping to reassure myself of Ruck’s guilt, but David Schmidt’s instincts could be right after all. His chilling words ring in my ears again: Ruck wanted credit only for his own evil handiwork, not for someone else’s.
And if Ruck didn’t murder Mel, it means someone else did.
The wood floor creaks, and when I glance up, I see Logan standing in the doorway of the parlor. He’s wearing a suede jacket over jeans, and since his cheeks are flushed, I assume he’s returning rather than leaving. He looks far more tired than he did earlier, as if a whole day and night have passed since I saw him, and he’s been up the entire time.
“Good, you got something to eat,” he says. He offers a wan smile. “Did you opt for the balsamic-glazed prosciutto and melon or your almost-namesake cheese and fruit?”
“The cheese plate,” I say—though what I’m thinking is:Stop acting concerned about my well-being, about how heavy my bag might be, or how tired or hungry I am. That’s not your business anymore. “Did you go out?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d check out this new farm-to-table restaurant in town—because that’s a trend that isn’t going anywhere—though by the time I got there, I didn’t have much appetite.” He takes a few steps into the room, coming closer to me. “That meeting with Halligan really rattled me.”
“Which way are you leaning now?” I ask. Maybe this isn’t the best time or place for this conversation, but I realize now that I can’t put it off.
He massages the back of his neck, drops his arm, then, after a beat, points his chin toward the armchair across from me. “Mind?” he asks.
Good, he’s picked up my cues about boundaries and doesn’t just assume he can sit.
“No, go ahead,” I say.
He closes the gap to the chair and drops down. “It’s hard to know what to think when Halligan doesn’t seem to have a firm idea himself. What about you? Are you still convinced Ruck was lying?”
I let out a pent-up sigh. “No.”
Logan’s eyes widen in surprise. “What made you change your mind?”
“I realized I wasn’t being fair to Mel. I can’t stand the thought of living in a no-man’s-land of uncertainty, but I don’t want to put blinders on, either. And if I—or both of us—resist the idea that Ruck didn’t kill her, it might discourage the cops from doing anything else.”
He nods. “Right, that’s what I’ve been worried about, too. So, what do you propose we do?”
“Put pressure on Halligan.”
“Pressure to keep his foot on the gas?”
