“What?”
I tell him about tracking down Kroll and meeting her at the diner—going alone at her insistence—and how she explained that Riley divulged the same story all those Mondays ago. My eyes are trained on Logan. Even in the dimness of the car, I can see that he’s taken aback.
“Christ, that confirms it, then,” he says.
“Are you shocked I contacted her?” I ask. Because he’s still looking stunned.
“Yeah, but not as much as Halligan’s going to be. I’m glad you did it, though. At least we have corroboration now.”
I’m grateful for his response. This would all be so much worse if we didn’t see eye to eye.
Logan slows the car suddenly. “Okay, here we go,” he says. “I almost overshot the place.”
The restaurant, Nino’s, is in a white stucco building set back a little from the road.
“I know, it looks pretty old school,” he tells me as we make our way from the car. “But I swear it’s good. And I know you’re a fan of southern Italian.”
He says it with complete confidence, not like a man who hasn’t been to a restaurant with me in close to a decade and knows almost nothing about my life since then.
Based on the modest exterior, I’m half expecting red-and-white-checkered tablecloths and wine bottles in straw flasks hanging from the wall, but the dimly lit room, with a long wooden bar at the end, is more formal than that. All the tables are set with crisp white linens and have a small, glowing lamp in the center. There’s currently a dozen or so diners, though many look close to finishing their meals.
We’re led to a quiet spot in the back and handed two huge leather-bound menus, the size of something you’d pack for a weekend trip.
“I’m almost too tired to look,” I say after the maître d’ steps away. “Can you Sherlock the menu for us?”
I regret the suggestion as soon as it’s out of my mouth. That was something I used to say when we were married because, after all, Logan knew all the games restaurants played. But if I don’t want him referencing the past, why should I?
“Sure,” he says. He pulls a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and quickly peruses the menu with the glasses perched midway down his nose. He looks as exhausted as I feel.
When the waiter arrives, Logan orders a Caesar salad to share, two chicken piccatas, and two glasses of Chianti classico.
“Sounds good,” I say when we’re alone again.
“You’re not secretly craving some Uruguayan blood sausage and a plate of empanadas?”
I laugh and tell him no, but at the same time I wonder if even coming with him tonight has been a mistake. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t give Logan any reason to think we were friends, that I had no intention of sharing another meal with him, and yet here we are sitting together in a dimly lit restaurant. And looking like a middle-aged couple out on date night, no less. What would Bas say if he saw me now?
I need to course correct after tonight.
“So,” Logan says, letting his body find the back of the chair. “Where does this leave us?”
His question completely throws me. What’s he asking—whether we reallycanbe friends now?
“In terms of what?” I say.
“In terms of Riley. Are you really over your reservations?”
Okay, good. I’ve simply mistaken his meaning.
“How can Inotbe over them?” I say. “Morgan Kroll confirmed every word of the story.”
“So, we’re back to what we believed years ago? That Ruck killed Melanie?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Wait, what’s going on?” he asks.
And for the first time since I spoke to Morgan, I realize that something about the meeting with Riley has continued to pester me. It’s like a shimmer of light on water, tremulous enough for me to see but impossible to grab hold of.
