“You not remembering the winter that we lived in Nolita. Our apartment was always freezing, so after dinner we sometimes used to go to that little bar on the next block and have a brandy.”
I tug a cobalt-blue bottle of sparkling water from the small fridge and allow my memory to scramble, trying to find its way back to Nolita. I certainly remember the apartment, the first we rented together as a couple, which was hopelessly drafty from November until April. I recall the little bistro as well, and the two of us scurrying there in our blackdown coats. Then, as the water fizzes in my glass, I see myselfinsidethe bistro, with a brandy snifter in my hand.
“I remember now,” I say. I return with my glass to the seating area and lower myself into the chair across from Logan. “There was a fireplace, wasn’t there? And then one night we went, and the bistro was closed, right? Closed for good. Without any warning.”
Logan snickers but in a conspiratorial way. “Oh, there were warnings.”
“Such as?”
“I’d been in the restaurant business long enough to know that shrinking portion sizes was a harbinger of bad things ahead.”
“I must have missed that,” I say, and a second later I feel a swell of sadness. There’s an analogy to our marriage somewhere in this discussion, isn’t there? Me clueless that our life together wasn’t what I thought it was—until I saw that smug, entitled young woman take a sip from his glass of wine.
“No, no, you noticed,” he says. “You complained that each time you ordered the fried calamari, there were fewer and fewer in the basket.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” I say, and the most I can manage is a wan smile.
He studies me without comment, his eyes slightly narrowed and the crease between his eyes even deeper. It’s time to extricate myself before things turn truly morose.
“I should let you get back to your brandy,” I say rising, “but since you’re here, I’ll share what I was going to put in a text first thing tomorrow. That guy in communications, Chip? He ended up giving me a ride back tonight and mentioned there was a post this morning on the Albany paper website about Ruck’s two other murders. And the reporter called him asking if Mel’s case might be reopened.”
Logan nods. “Halligan was right, then. But as we agreed, it’s not necessarily a bad thing if a story comes out. It could increase the pressure on the cops to do more. I trust you didn’t offer him any info.”
“None. If we become convinced the police accused the wrong person, then yes, we need to inform the school, but right now there’s no reason to share everything that’s going on ... Well, good night.”
“Good night. And about tomorrow—shall we meet down here?”
I pause, confused. “For what?”
“The meeting with Halligan. Didn’t you get my text?”
“What? No.” I use my free hand to extricate my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. As soon as I tap the screen, I spot it, sent just as I was rushing into the inn.
Halligan wants to see us tomorrow at one. Let’s meet downstairs at 12:15.
My heart jumps. “Is there news?”
“Sounds like it. He says there’s someone important he wants the two of us to hear from, and it’s got to happen tomorrow.”
Chapter 14
“Do you think it’s the behavioral analyst?” I ask. “I didn’t realize he was talking to someone in the area.”
“There’s an FBI office in Albany, so it could be a profiler from there,” Logan says. “Or maybe someone higher up in the state police just wants to meet with us and throw in their two cents.”
“He didn’t drop any hints?”
“Nope. Before I could press, he said he had to take another call.”
“Do you—” I start to ask him to make a guess, to speculate, but catch myself.
Speculating is one of the things that nearly undid me during the original investigation—the constant, exhaustive wondering, feeling certain of something at one moment but not the next. It became addictive back then, and I can’t let myself get caught up in that again.
“What?” Logan asks.
“Nothing. See you at twelve fifteen.”
As I turn to leave, I hear Logan shift in the chair, and instinctively I glance back. He’s staring at me again, but now with a wistful expression.
